tupilak (part two)
(Part One)
The beach, of course, was littered from the storm. Piles of kelp as tall as a ten year old loomed over vast drifts of crab claws, shark egg casings, bits of clamshell, and cones of redwood and eucalyptus. Two logs, each reminiscent of first growth wonders, hulked across the sand at least two hundred yards from the river mouth.
As Ben sulked and walked, walked and sulked, the tide went out. And out. A minus tide was shaping up before him and the beach was filling up with beach combers. Ben stalked away on the steep, rocky bit that never normally showed, getting to the next cove where there was normally no beach. Prudent people looked at their watches and their tide books before gingerly venturing into the cove, but Ben just grtumbled on. And that was how he came to find the cache of bones nestled in the rocks.
It was not the bones of only one creature, that was clear. Ben didn't know much about animal anatomy, but he knew a femur when he saw one, and he saw several, all different sizes and weights. He also saw a number of digits, jawbones, orbits, and ribs. "An art project," he told himself, but the murderous chortle that danced around his skull had little to do with artistic expression. He took off his jacket and laid it on a concave rock near to the cache. He piled bones on the jacket, not noticing the others leaving the cove, or the shouts that he ought to leave the cove now because the tide was coming in.
By the time he thought he had as many as he could carry, dark water was swirling around his ankles and the wind off the sea had started its insistent push against his eardrum. The narrow bridge to Cowell's was gone. He was almost trapped. Was trapped: the cliff was not high but it was soft, and notorious for giving way when people tried to climb it. Ben knew this. Normally he'd never attempt it. Some friends of his had attempted to climb down it in search of a supposedly safe seat for watching the fireworks down on Seabright Beach. He had declined the adventure, feeling smug later when he saw the walking splint on Gary, the organizer of the attempt.
But this was different. The alternative was to try to swim around to Cowell's. That was no alternative at all, seeing that the water was coming in lively as young horses, kicking at the cliffs and dashing objects before them.
He made a quick survey of the cliff. There was in fact some riprap against the cliff. The great artifical rocks were smooth, but they were more reliable than the rotting native mudstone. So, carefully, hand over hand, an inch at a time, slipping more than once, he made his way up the riprap. It was not far, but the water was rising below him and the wind was rising above him and he knew a certain number of people lost their lives every year doing something just like this. Only once did he nearly drop his bundle of bones, and that was at the top of the riprap, where he had to leap over a crevice that went all the way down -- thirty feet, maybe -- and grab on to the brow of the cliff. He felt the weight of his bundle free itself, and he could not look for it but had to grab it unseeing with his right hand while his left sought for a hold, any hold, on the cliff.
But he made it: there he was, now, six feet from the barrier that ran all along the cliff. He wasn't secure enough yet to stand up so he crawled through the mud and burgeoning weeds to the barrier. Then he stood up half way under the curve of the barrier and pulled himself over, carefully dropping his bundle onn the other side before he landed.
"Safe," he muttered, but the itching of his thumb and little finger reminded him he wasn't safe, that he hadn't been safe since the moment he saw the bones, and would probably never be safe again the rest of his life.
For now, though, he was only thinking that he should have picked up a mass of kelp as well.
The beach, of course, was littered from the storm. Piles of kelp as tall as a ten year old loomed over vast drifts of crab claws, shark egg casings, bits of clamshell, and cones of redwood and eucalyptus. Two logs, each reminiscent of first growth wonders, hulked across the sand at least two hundred yards from the river mouth.
As Ben sulked and walked, walked and sulked, the tide went out. And out. A minus tide was shaping up before him and the beach was filling up with beach combers. Ben stalked away on the steep, rocky bit that never normally showed, getting to the next cove where there was normally no beach. Prudent people looked at their watches and their tide books before gingerly venturing into the cove, but Ben just grtumbled on. And that was how he came to find the cache of bones nestled in the rocks.
It was not the bones of only one creature, that was clear. Ben didn't know much about animal anatomy, but he knew a femur when he saw one, and he saw several, all different sizes and weights. He also saw a number of digits, jawbones, orbits, and ribs. "An art project," he told himself, but the murderous chortle that danced around his skull had little to do with artistic expression. He took off his jacket and laid it on a concave rock near to the cache. He piled bones on the jacket, not noticing the others leaving the cove, or the shouts that he ought to leave the cove now because the tide was coming in.
By the time he thought he had as many as he could carry, dark water was swirling around his ankles and the wind off the sea had started its insistent push against his eardrum. The narrow bridge to Cowell's was gone. He was almost trapped. Was trapped: the cliff was not high but it was soft, and notorious for giving way when people tried to climb it. Ben knew this. Normally he'd never attempt it. Some friends of his had attempted to climb down it in search of a supposedly safe seat for watching the fireworks down on Seabright Beach. He had declined the adventure, feeling smug later when he saw the walking splint on Gary, the organizer of the attempt.
But this was different. The alternative was to try to swim around to Cowell's. That was no alternative at all, seeing that the water was coming in lively as young horses, kicking at the cliffs and dashing objects before them.
He made a quick survey of the cliff. There was in fact some riprap against the cliff. The great artifical rocks were smooth, but they were more reliable than the rotting native mudstone. So, carefully, hand over hand, an inch at a time, slipping more than once, he made his way up the riprap. It was not far, but the water was rising below him and the wind was rising above him and he knew a certain number of people lost their lives every year doing something just like this. Only once did he nearly drop his bundle of bones, and that was at the top of the riprap, where he had to leap over a crevice that went all the way down -- thirty feet, maybe -- and grab on to the brow of the cliff. He felt the weight of his bundle free itself, and he could not look for it but had to grab it unseeing with his right hand while his left sought for a hold, any hold, on the cliff.
But he made it: there he was, now, six feet from the barrier that ran all along the cliff. He wasn't secure enough yet to stand up so he crawled through the mud and burgeoning weeds to the barrier. Then he stood up half way under the curve of the barrier and pulled himself over, carefully dropping his bundle onn the other side before he landed.
"Safe," he muttered, but the itching of his thumb and little finger reminded him he wasn't safe, that he hadn't been safe since the moment he saw the bones, and would probably never be safe again the rest of his life.
For now, though, he was only thinking that he should have picked up a mass of kelp as well.