STORM WATCH
By LM Cooke
Published by The Last Line, UK
Copyright © L.M. Cooke 2010
LM Cooke has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Cover Art/ photography by LM Cooke
www.LMCooke.com
Storm Watch first appeared as part of the anthology
Tales from the Asylum: A Steampunk Compilation
Published 2010 by The Last Line, UK
Tales from the Asylum is the first volume of
The Asylum Chronicles
The Asylum
It was built like a fortress; yet no-one questioned why.
It had hundreds of uniformed wardens; almost no-one noticed.
It held strange and dangerous inmates; no-one knew.
Built in the 1870s, yet seeming to endure forever, the Asylum has seen governments rise and fall, has witnessed wars and riots. It has stories to tell, strange twisting stories of past and future. These are just a few of those stories; these are the Asylum Chronicles…
Storm Watch
This corridor is always damp.
It is not that the rest of the building is dry. It is old and very large, and difficult to heat. The walls feel clammy to the touch; in some places, the roof tiles are dislodged and when it rains, water drips noisily into metal buckets placed below the holes. But this particular corridor is much damper than the others. Water streams down the interior; steady trickles of frigid liquid widen gaps and cracks in the plastered walls and ceiling; the exposed brickwork is dissolving into the persistent wet. The smell of mouldering plaster and brick is thick in the air – although another, heavier odour lies under it. Something thicker, denser and more pungent, almost like a taste in the mouth. Like the salty tang of seawater, or of blood.
The thick wooden door barring the cell at the end of the corridor is also afflicted. It is split and rot has set in. For safety’s sake it will need replacing soon, before it stops being any kind of barrier at all. The cell beyond is visible through the tiny, barred window set into the door. The bars, although thickly oxidised, are for the moment still sound.
The cell itself is even wetter than the corridor. The unrelenting stream of water from the ceiling has already left an impression on the stone floor, wearing a series of uneven hollows and depressions into the smooth slabs. Water pools in these hollows, incessantly trickling into them, enlarging them with every droplet. The cloying salt-blood smell is much stronger here.
The occupant of the cell cowers on his bunk, feet drawn up as far from the invading waters as he can, flinching from every droplet that touches him. Intermittently he utters a low moaning sound deep in his chest, a vibrating sigh that lingers in the air. It is a sound of anguish and loss. Between his cries he gasps as if it hurts him to breathe. Certainly the unremitting damp in the atmosphere would trouble the lungs of any who had to breathe it for too long.
Realising that he is observed, he scuttles further back along his bunk, into the shadows where the dim, flickering overhead light cannot penetrate. His skin, so very pale, is nearly obscured in the near-dark. The reflected gleam of the water lends his eyes an odd sheen, almost phosphorescent. He does not seem to blink.
He will not see the light of day again.
*
Once, there was a village on the Eastern coast.
It was a small, pretty village. Like many others, it depended on fishing for its livelihood. The small harbour boasted twenty-six fishing smacks, each able to travel out to the North Sea to fish for herring. The fishermen’s narrow houses lined the steep streets, housed their wives and their children. The sea had provided the village with a prime location for fishing; a natural harbour, channelled out of the surrounding cliffs. On either side and behind the little cove hills rose, black and jagged with rocks. On the hilltops the terrain soon gave way to marshy moorland. The village nestled under rocks and marsh like a sun-lit jewel.
It was difficult to reach, save by boat or by treacherous cliff path. But it allowed the villagers to live life at their own pace, and gave them constant communion with their provider, the sea.
And the sea did provide for them. Although sometimes it also took away.
The previous night, the sea had done a little of both. Late on, strong winds had whipped the ocean into a frenzy, hurling vicious waves over the harbour sides, depositing seaweed, pebbles and diverse debris along its length. When they retreated, the waves stole anything not secured, dragging it back into the clutches of the ocean. The villagers were accustomed to the ocean’s occasional displays of petulance. Sighting the gathering storm clouds, they had lashed down hard the boats in the harbour; but still there were some losses. A few lobster pots not properly tied were now gone. A small dinghy had been tethered with old, fraying rope; the rope strands now lay stretched like seaweed on the harbour, and the boat was nowhere to be seen.
Now, though, the storm was passed, and the sun smiled warm and golden over the mountains onto the village. In the light, it shone, scrubbed and clean. Even the persistent odour of fish seemed lessened; although the smell and the taste of the pungent brine was as strong, if not stronger, than ever.
Later today, some of the fishing smacks from the fleet would be returning, laden with cargo to be shipped around the coast. The fisher wives, Mrs Fairweather amongst them, had swept clean the harbour deck where their husbands’ boats would dock; and checked on the stored ice in the icehouse. When their men returned, they would help to clean and prepare the catch before it was taken for sale. In the meantime, Mrs Fairweather had some free time to see what else the sea had given – or taken – in the previous night’s storm.
The village had no beach as such. But the rocks that footed the cliffs, although treacherous and difficult to reach, often proved a rich source for the sea’s leavings - barrels, wreckage, timber, rope, all manner of things had been found there over the years. Mrs Fairweather was keen to be there early to have first pick of whatever salvage was to be found
She was in her thirties now, and her joints often felt stiffer these days. That notwithstanding, she often beat the other women to the rocks, since she had no children to take care of. At most times she considered her childlessness a curse – and was eternally grateful that Mr Fairweather had not put her off because of it – but today, it was a blessing in that it would give her first choice of any treasures. And indeed, today she was alone as she clambered awkwardly over the rocks, mindful of the water lapping only a few yards away.
A first glance was disappointing. There was no sign of the barrel full of salted beef, or cask of whisky washed overboard, that she had hoped for. This time, the sea had perhaps been disinclined to leave payment for what it had taken the previous night. Still hoping for something, she clambered a little further, over where the rocks were more treacherous still, her skirts tucked up to prevent them dragging and catching.
A glint of something white in the sunlight caught her eye. She scrambled a little closer and the white thing moved as if fluttering in the breeze – perhaps some cloth, maybe wrapping something else more precious. Her eyes were not as sharp as they once had been, and she could not quite m
ake it out. She clambered nearer for a closer look.
She was nearly upon it before she realised that it was not cloth at all. What she had mistaken for fabric fluttering in the breeze was actually a plump white leg, attached to a plump white baby who lay on the rocks before her, as nice as you please. The baby blinked at her with eyes a shade of blue-green almost exactly identical to the sea that roared just a few feet away. It opened its mouth, but no sound came out. It was dripping with brine, its nose and mouth rimmed with salt from the ocean.
The baby – he was a boy, she could see – was soaked with seawater. The white of his limbs was an unnatural pallor; he must be freezing on the rocks despite the warmth of the sun; and he was obviously too weak to cry out. Heaven only knew how he was still breathing, but pneumonia – or worse – was still a strong possibility. He needed her help, and he needed it now.
Mrs Fairweather had never had a child of her own, but she needed no instruction on what to do. The baby, when she picked him up, felt cold and clammy to her touch; he needed food, warmth and shelter. She gathered him into her shawl, bundling him against her body for warmth, and began to pick her way back precariously over the rocks towards home, all thoughts of salted beef and whisky barrels forgotten.
*
The Fairweathers were a popular couple. The village folk had genuinely pitied their childlessness, so when Mrs Fairweather arrived home with her jetsam baby, everyone smiled with her. While the parish vicar did make some enquiries in the surrounding villages about lost children, he did not try too hard to find the boy’s family. If they were looking for him, they would advertise his loss; the absence of such advertisements made it more likely that the parents were dead, probably victims of the very storm that had brought their son to the village. And the Fairweathers were good, god-fearing people. The Lord had rewarded their steadfastness by delivering them a son.
The Fairweathers and the rest of the village felt certain that it was the sea that had delivered the baby to them, rather than any Lord. It was the ocean, after all, upon whom they depended; and she had proven time and time again that she could be generous with one hand even when taking with another. Even so, at the urging of the vicar, they named the boy James, a fitting name for a fisherman.
Despite his difficult start in life, James thrived. True, he was always paler than the other children, and the seawater had damaged his lungs somehow, leaving him with a certain breathlessness, as if he could not get enough air. It seemed not to limit him, though, and as an infant he joined in the other children’s play with aplomb. As he grew older, the sea seemed to smile on him, as if to make up for the terrible start she had given him. When the village children set lobster and crab pots from the harbour, James always found his stuffed to the brim, as if the creatures had been lining up to get in. When he played in the water with the other children, he never blundered into fast underwater currents, or had waves break over his head. When he travelled out on his father’s fishing smack, the water was always calm and pleasant, and their haul far in excess of that of the other boats.
As soon as James was of an age to be accepted, Mr Fairweather employed him as Fifth Hand on the boat. James was a natural seaman, taking to the water as if born to it – which, others sometimes remarked, he almost was. It soon became apparent that to be near the Ambrosia, as Mr Fairweather named his smack, was to guarantee good weather and a fine catch, although none so fine as that of Mr Fairweather himself. The village began to think of James as a good luck charm, beloved of the sea, and an indispensable treasure to a fishing community.
As James grew, he progressed through the ranks on his father’s boat at a lightning pace, becoming Second Hand, second only to his father as Master of the Ambrosia, even before his seventeenth birthday. Mr Fairweather was older now, and it was only the support of his son that enabled him to maintain his status as ship’s Master. It would not be long before he stepped down – and in James, he now had someone to whom he could leave his boat. No one begrudged James his success. He was popular and well-liked throughout the village, and their mascot besides.
It was only natural that in due course he should take a wife from amongst them.
*
The wedding day dawned bright and sunny. James and his father had returned the day before after several weeks at sea; the smack needed to be restocked and repaired, and would rejoin the fleet in a few more weeks. It was the ideal time to schedule a wedding.
Eliza, his bride to be, had spent the weeks he was away industriously. Her own mother and Mrs Fairweather both had helped her to create her wedding gown. It was sewn from inexpensive fabric, but she had embroidered it with seashells and seahorses, and trimmed it with finely braided cord. She created a headdress from salvaged shells, and crocheted a fine lace shawl. Later in life, the sea air and salt winds would coarsen her body and weather her face, but today she was a vision of loveliness in the sunshine, the light picking out highlights in her chestnut brown hair, reflecting amber tones in her warm brown eyes.
James looked very handsome, if very pale and solemn in his best clothes, his dark hair slicked down around his face as if wet. His eyes were as grey as the sea behind him as he waited nervously at the church for his bride. Briefly a shadow clouded his face; but it was just the sun disappearing behind a large, dark cloud. Out to sea, little waves grew white caps as the wind picked up speed.
As Eliza walked down the aisle, a larger, darker cloud obliterated the sun completely, and the flag on the church spire began to whip furiously around the flagpole. On the horizon the sky was grey, nearly indiscernible from the equally grey, churning water below it. The sea heaved, rose and fell like the panting of a monstrous beast, while ever-quickening winds whipped the waters up into greater and greater frenzies, flooding the village with the scent and taste of brine. When James and Eliza exchanged their vows, their words were barely audible over the gale that howled around the church; and the instant the service was over, the villagers rushed outside to shutter houses and make fast the boats against the fury of this storm that had come out of nowhere.
Later, they agreed that the storm marked a turning point. The balmy days and calm seas that they had enjoyed for so long were abruptly few and far between. More likely was it that the trawler fleet would run into a sudden squall that blew up out of a clear sky and ruined masts and rigging. At other times they might be becalmed on windless seas for days on end. Herring would run all around, everywhere but into their nets. Boats were lost to sudden storms and giant waves that rose from calm seas without warning. The ocean turned greedy, snatching at objects with watery fingers, refusing to give anything back in return.
The fleet were forced further and further out to sea, for longer and longer periods, in order to make their quotas and thus their living. The men’s faces wore the proof of their hardship like masks; haggard, weather-beaten visages, their eyes dark-circled, they grew gaunt through overwork and malnourishment. Gone were the days when all the houses in the village had fish spread over their frontages to dry. Even if the sun ever put in sufficient appearance to dry the fish, the catch was now barely enough to feed the villagers themselves, never mind export any to the market.
*
Mr Fairweather had equipped his fishing smack with an icebox. It allowed him to put to sea as a single boater, without the fleet, and fish on his own, increasing his chances of making a living from the now seemingly depleted waters. As the winter drew in and the fleet disbanded, he took to the water with his small crew, hoping to regain some of the luck of his earlier trips.
It began better than most of the recent voyages. The waters seemed calm enough. A biting wind blew in from the North, but winter was on its way and the men had expected that it would be cold. Skin soon chapped in the bitter air, and salt water burned in open sores; but this was life for a fisherman, and so they continued about their business. And at first it seemed to pay off, as the nets began to swell with fish. The men began to excha
nge smiles through their frozen lips.
Then the wind changed.
Still a bitter northerly, the heavy breeze began to carry on it an odour, a tang of sea salt and ozone and fish, stronger than the usual odour of the sea, heavy in the nostrils and tangible on the tongue. It grew colder, and the sky, previously clear, grew darker, much darker. Clouds bloomed overhead, spreading like disease, close and lowering, ripe with the thick, salty odour. The rapidly quickening wind dispersed the mist that tried to form, but the waves, whipped into towering, white-capped peaks, spat so much spray and foam that visibility was almost nothing. The Master ordered sails furled and masts secured, as the hands worked to preserve their catch, their craft and their own lives, all three.
Around them, the sea rose and fell. Strange noises echoed, wind and water combining to give voice to unearthly, unrecognisable sounds. Long, dark shadows slipped through the crashing waves; occasionally the tall dorsal fin of one of the huge, trailing sharks, creatures never usually seen in these cold waters, broke the surface. All the while the salt smell grew in the men’s nostrils. Coupled with the ozone in the air they could not tell whether the iron taste in their mouths was brine or blood.
The waves grew higher, and the boat more beleaguered. Fifth Hand, Mr Barraclough was an unusually experienced man for a position that was more traditionally filled by boys on their first voyages. He had been a Second Hand, until ironically, an accident robbed him of three fingers on his left hand and left him unable to climb rigging or tie knots as he ought, relegating him in the fishing fleet. It was his poor knot tying that did for him, as the line with which he had tethered himself to the railing worked loose. The wind caught him and blew him overboard and he was gone, lost to the churning sea below.