Red Tide Rising 2 by Abid Hasan. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery
The fire which burned full of promise inside the pub filtered through the frosted windows to cast a pale, limited light onto the chairs stacked against the wall. Above, sills were hung with fronds; all around, the terrace was set apart. As Albert leant into the door with his shoulder, bitter in one hand and Daisy’s half-glass of wine in the other, a sudden stronger glow beat the paved steps leading up to the threshold,
Then, the better light went out. No one remained outside. The terrace was empty and nothing moved on top of the cliffs. If there were people on the beach below then Albert could not see them or hear them. Instead, he took in the tintinnabulation of the fading sun and the scintilla of stars upon the offing. The whole scape. He placed the drinks on a nearby table.
He was happier here. At home he had started to struggle. Cooking took far longer than what he remembered. Cleaning didn’t happen at all. He found it impossible to lie down in bed, so slept in an armchair next to the fire. But he woke cold. Brittle. He had taking to smoking again – something which he hadn’t done for nearly sixty years. The warmth consoled the space between his ribcage. Got to places he couldn’t. The mornings were always a particular struggle. They were slow. Demanding. Especially in winter, the air was also heavy. Making it from Upton unto the clifftops had become a trial; necessary, because only there, staring out onto the expanse like a lambent sheet, he could wrap his mind in gentle ablution.
After catching their breath above the breakwater which relaxed its moored bulk towards Crooklets, he and Daisy would make their way across the coarse grass tamped by walking boots and sheep hooves, every now and then mottled by the ochre-white of foam or the beady eyes of sheep dung, and find a bench overlooking the zawn. Their favourite spot.
Few went this way; it was over a mile from Summerleaze Beach and far enough from the restaurants in Widemouth Bay to make it inconspicuous. The zawn also made it difficult to access as it cut deeply into the cliff face below, stranding like copper in the distant mines.
It was quiet, therefore, apart from the roaring of the sea which slowly began to absolve into a song of silence as the waves, rolling, pushed with the steadiness of the past against the presence of the cliffs.
Tonight, the sea was calm and Albert’s heartbeat slowed and settled into the synonymous swell. He was its palindrome.
Albert listened, growing colder, the night air deepening around him. He rubbed his hands together. Still cold. A chill got hold of him.
Albert leant back and gulped at the air, a sharpness gripping the bones of his ribcage.
He patted his trouser pockets, his jacket pockets, and found a lighter and cigar tin. Taking a long mouthful, Albert felt the warmth begin to settle inside of him; a syrupy succour of a familiar aroma he traced to the sweet snow-laden pines of the Mangfall Mountains.
Again at rest, Albert noted that the cigar was indeed Bavarian, a Christmas present from his son, Hans; the taste tangibly late November as if he were following the Kesselbach, holding Daisy’s hand, newlywed and happy as the first shoots of spring.
Yes, they had departed Ingolstadt in the early hours of the morning before the guests awoke, taking the train to Salzburg and reconnecting to Berchtesgaden; a five hour journey which cut across open fields, wooded hilltops, and rivers silent in lays. Telegraph poles flicked past like pages of a book. The burnt-out wreckage of vehicles growing grey and then green.
They arrived at the head of the Königssee where the lake stretched out of sight between the hunches of mountain peaks. Taking hold of Daisy’s hand, Albert squeezed it gently before turning towards the path which lapped the south-eastern side.
‘It’s magnificent’ said Daisy.
‘Careful around this bit,’ said Albert, raising Daisy’s hand. The path gave way in places.
At the bottom of the descent fir trees fawned upon one another, creating a grotto of darkness and musk.
‘Friedrich looked well,’ ventured Daisy.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Even father was impressed.’
‘Friedrich’s got through the worst of it.’
Daisy wrapped her arms around Albert and rested her head upon his shoulder.
‘David still suffers.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘He’s still not talking about it.’
‘I know.’
They descended along the well-worn route.
‘He was there, though,’ said Albert. ‘And he danced. He even danced with Magdalene. She was made up.’
‘He’s happier with children. They don’t ask him questions.’
Albert thought about his younger cousin. Albeit with Daisy’s encouragement, David had asked her to dance. Magdalene would be talking about that for weeks.
‘I enjoyed Friedrich’s speech,’ said Daisy.
‘Friedrich spent months on it. He told me so after dinner,’ said Albert.
‘He really cares about you.’
‘Yes,’ said Albert. ‘Lots of stories. Lots of memories.’
Albert chuckled to himself.
‘He really cares about you,’ repeated Daisy. Albert didn’t respond. ‘He remembers a lot from your childhood.’
Albert drew Daisy towards him, hugged her, but didn’t say anything.
‘I didn’t know you were part of the Youth Movement.’
‘Yes,’ said Albert. ‘I was, until all the scouting groups were closed.’
‘Still,’ said Daisy, ‘Friedrich remembered lots. He’s proud of you.’
‘Yes, I know.’
They continued down a slope and followed a track forged by the perforations of hiking boots.
It had only been three years, Albert kept reminding himself: three years, and just one year since they had met. And now they were married. He though it strange and yet comforting that he had been able to find happiness. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Albert mused that happiness was a miracle of life.
‘You should open up to your brother more.’
Albert looked ahead.
‘He misses you, now that you’ve moved to England. He thinks I’ve stolen his big brother,’ said Daisy.
‘I speak with him.’
‘He is proud of you.’
They took a path carved into the mountainside, ancient and woven through the white-capped mountaintops. Hardy yellow and blue flowers spun a low-lying tune across the earth, soliloquising the month. Albert closed his eyes: an inner unravelling of the hank of harmonies; he could now pick out the birds, the different voices of the wind through gorges and valleys, the soft crunch of his and Daisy’s boots upon the hoarfrost and the osculation of their breaths.
The strain was delicate, however. It was slight, like a dream, but all the more real for its mellifluousness.
‘Can you hear it?’
‘The rivers?’
‘Yes, but the mountains and the lakes and the trees as well?’
Daisy stopped to look around.
‘I’m not sure what I’m meant to hear?
‘It’s this, it’s now,’ said Albert. ‘It’s everywhere, all around like the air but passing through it. It’s beautiful.’
Daisy moved closer to Albert and lay her head upon his arm.
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, yet, somehow, it’s comforting.’
They continued to climb until they met the gentle course of the Kesselbach, which they then took as their guide.
Before long they arrived at the eastern shore of the Hirschau peninsula. Standing upon a ridge which overlooked a small settlement on the opposite bank, they saw that at the southernmost tip of this cluster of buildings, in front of the sublime heights of the Watzmann massif, St. Bartholomew’s church rose like a delicate red berry grown into the white basket of the bowl-shaped valley.
In front the Königssee, into which the Kesselbach flowed, lay frozen and impassable.
‘Friedrich was right about this place,’ said Daisy, ‘it’s magnificent. I think –’ she began, before cutting herself off. Turning to face Albert who was looking away, she smiled to herself and whispered, ‘Yes, he would have liked to have seen this. Perhaps we should’ve waited a little longer; left after breakfast.’
‘You know why we left,’ said Albert, looking at Daisy. ‘The train to Hamburg leaves tonight at eight. We cannot miss it.’
Daisy nestled her nose into Albert’s chest. ‘I know,’ came her muffled reply. ‘Still, he would have liked to have seen this.’
They stood at the lips of the frozen lake, intractable, for a moment; staring across the ice and distance, Daisy resting her head upon the pillow of her husband’s warmth and love.
Albert began to stroke her head, humming a half-remembered song from his childhood. He knew there were words as well but these he could no longer remember; only the refrain, spanning time like life, remained dancing within his head, filling it with music and memory.
He stared at the lake. ‘I don’t think we can cross, Daisy,’ he said, letting go of a skein of hair which caught the piny breeze briefly before settling upon her shoulder.
‘Let’s go down to the lake. It might be thawing.’
Albert looked at his watch: it was already one o’clock.
Sensing Albert’s hesitation, Daisy smiled. ‘At worst we can’t pass, at best we might find a path along the shoreline. We might be able to follow this to the Königsbach and up to Hochbahnweg. We’d make it back to Berchtesgaden in two hours, maybe three.’
Daisy led the way, pulling Albert by the hand towards the smell of pines where the Kesselbach met the Königssee – strong and sweet even though the shingle, which stretched for perhaps fifteen feet up towards the mountains, was free of trees and shrubs.
From where they were now stood, the small settlement had disappeared behind the long arm of a ridge sloping like a sleeve into the niveous water. Albert could just make out the church in the shadow of the Watzmann massif; the adumbration bruising its bacate roof. To either side the Königssee lay flat, white, and bright as the horizon.
Daisy walked up to the lake and carefully tapped the surface with the heel of her shoe.
‘It hasn’t thawed at all,’ said Daisy incredulously. ‘Look.’
She took a step onto the frozen surface and tapped the heel of her shoe again to prove her point.
‘Daisy, you shouldn’t stand on it. It’s not safe.’
‘It’s solid.’
‘I don’t care. Come back.’
Daisy beckoned towards her husband with her left hand whilst her legs, pulled towards the church of St. Bartholomew as if by ecclesiastical magnetism, began to take another step.
‘Careful. Just be careful. Please,’ said Albert.
Daisy looked at her husband.
Though the surface was covered with a top surface of ice, Albert knew that winter had not been cold as previous years and many waterways and rivers in southern Germany continued to flow unfrozen.
Albert remembered the rivers he had passed on the train. They had seemed motionless; he knew they were not.
‘Daisy, come back. You shouldn’t be doing this.’
‘It’s frozen. It’s safe,’ said Daisy.
She took another step, but the surface shuddered like a spine caught by a shiver.
Albert heard the noise too, faint and furtive. ‘It’s not safe,’ he whispered to himself, afraid that his voice might break the ice.
Daisy took a smaller step to the side, rather than forwards, placing the tip of her shoe down first, then the flat and finally the heel. A click like a lighters’ metal grinder was followed by the water, waking, grumbling.
‘Don’t go any further. Come back. You’ll make it back. Slowly. Just keep going slowly.’
Daisy listened, turning immediately.
Concentrating upon the fulmination which, loud as thunder, clapped beneath her feet, she hurried towards Albert.
When the noise suddenly stopped, Daisy looked up. A crack followed from her foot: the ice fracturing. A thin line travelled towards Albert who had stepped onto the lake.
‘Take my hand. Quickly,’ shouted Albert.
Daisy raised herself from where she had fallen. The sudden movement widened the soft, wet palate of the water and pulled her down.
Albert ran towards her, thrusting out a hand, but the cracked surface cried and collapsed.
*
Albert looked up.
The door of the pub had smacked against its frame and Barry was walking towards him.
‘Evening, Albert.’
‘Landlord,’ said Albert, wiping his eyes.
Barry stood next to Albert, reclining one arm upon the fence and looking out onto the gloaming, exhaling contentedly.
‘Beautiful night, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
The dark was dampened by a drizzle which had fallen surreptitiously from the night sky. Albert held out a hand, palm open, feeling the water run between his thumb and index finger.
‘Catherine and I are shutting up shop for the evening, Albert. Would you be leaving soon as well?’
Albert slowly closed his hand into a fist, squeezing the water onto the blackened turf below.
‘Yes, just waiting for Daisy to come out.’
‘I see,’ said Barry.
‘She’s just gone to the toilet. She’ll be out soon.’
Barry turned towards the road where a car was driving past. He watched the headlights weave across the clifftops.
‘People heading home after dinner,’ he said.
‘Yes, it’s probably that time already.’
The door of the pub opened and Albert turned his head to look. ‘Ah –’ he said, as Catherine stood in the doorframe, apron folded across her forearm.
Barry nodded and Catherine returned inside.
The lights of the pub were turned off. Darkness reclaimed the terrace and the sea shuddered within a conch shell.
‘We’re off Albert. The pub will be shut but you’re welcome to stay.’
‘Yes, that’ll be fine. Just waiting for Daisy to come out.’
Barry sighed and put his hand on top of Albert’s, feeling the skin steady from his touch.
Behind them Catherine had locked the doors to the pub, the clinking of keys unheard by the men as they watched the silver slivers of starlight striating the black breakers upon the shore. The bay had fallen into complete sleep, the waves washing day away.
Catherine gave Barry a kiss on the cheek, then Albert, and disappeared down the steps into the carpark.
‘Are you seeing family tonight?’ asked Barry.
‘Me?’ asked Albert, woken again from his reverie by the sound of a human voice. ‘Oh, not tonight. Just me and Daisy.’
‘Well, ok then, Albert. I’ll be off.’
Silence settled between them from which Barry, with a great effort, hauled himself.
‘Merry Christmas, Albert.’
‘Merry Christmas Barry, to you and your wife, from me and mine.’
Barry patted Albert on the back and left him alone.
Joshua Schouten de Jel is currently completing his PhD studies at Plymouth University. When he has a smidgen of time between work and research, he enjoys writing poetry and short stories and has had pieces published in Aesthetic Magazine, Octavius Magazine, and Popshot Magazine.
