We Float Upon a Painted Sea (36 page)

Bull borrowed a pair of binoculars from one of the sobbing crew members. Through the lenses he could see, amongst the debris and corpses, the strange sight of an old man sitting on a log, by a fire. He was smoking a pipe and drinking from a cup. The Mother Earth came to a halt and dropped anchor. The shore party prepared in silence and when McIntyre arrived he looked at Bull sitting in the cutter. He said,

“You waste no time do you. Ok, the Captain said you can go but I’m responsible for your safety.” He threw Bull a survival pack and a transceiver. Andrew returned with Malcolm’s old leather satchel. He said his goodbyes with a firm handshake and watched as Bull was lowered onto the sea.

A few minutes later they had reached the sandy beach. At first Bull was overwhelmed by the sensation of putting his feet on dry land and then the smell of decomposing bodies overpowered his nasal senses. He walked across the debris strewn beach. His eyes remained fixed on the old man until out of the corner of his eye he noticed a multi-coloured woollen hat. He stopped and picked it up, wiping sand and seaweed from it. He held it to his nose and sniffed it. “Saffron’s Peruvian hand knitted alpaca hat,” he whispered to himself. He approached the old man sitting on the rock who’s expression remained broodingly fixed on the fire. Bull extended his hand but the old man ignored it. Crouching down Bull looked into his grey, wrinkled face and said,

“Are there any survivors? The old man stared intensely at the hat Bull held in his hands and then shook his head slowly. He said,

“I’ve just put some coffee on the fire, would you like some?” Bull’s mind was a torrent of despair and his eyes filled with tears. He heard the crunching sound of dried kelp crushed under boot and then McIntyre arrived, standing beside him with one hand resting on his shoulder. The old man puffed on his pipe and then acknowledged McIntyre with a nod of the head. The old man asked,

“Would you like some coffee ma friend?”

“No, yer alright,” said McIntyre, but you could tell us what happened here.” The old man gazed over their shoulders at the other members of the crew who were turning over bodies around the bay and trying to identify their dead comrades.

“The wave killed them,” replied the old man. “The ship had nae chance. It came at them so fast. They had nae time to get clear. If you’re the rescue party yer too late.” Then the old man noticed the despair on Bull’s face and said,

“I take it they were yer friends?”

“Aye, they were,” replied McIntyre, “but do you mind me asking who you are? I’ve met most people on the island, but not you.”

“I never said I was from this island.” Bull stared pitifully along the length of the bay. He held Saffron’s alpaca hat tightly and then said,

“Please, do you know of any survivors?” The old man had a habit of loosening his false teeth and projecting the tar stained denture outwards on his tongue, then replacing them prior to speaking. This was accompanied by a noticeable sucking and clicking noise which was beginning to irritate McIntyre. He said,

“There were a few survivors but they were badly injured. They died soon after. There’s nae hospital on the island. I did the best I could with the limited supplies I have. I’ve buried as many as I could.” He pointed to the burial mounds in the cemetery behind him and said, “The soil is very thin on these islands and am long in the tooth as you can see. I work slowly these days.” He removed the billycan from the smouldering embers of the fire and poured coffee into a tin cup.

“Has anyone else arrived on the island to help with the clear up?” said McIntyre. The old map sipped his hot coffee before stating,

“There’s been no way to call for help since all the satellite communications went down. I’ve been hoping the Coast Guard would have arrived by now. At first a thought you were them.”

McIntyre was growing frustrated with the old man’s evasiveness, but he controlled his impatience and said,

“Thank you very much for your kindness and we will help with the rest of the bodies. Are you sure there were no more survivors?”

The old man grimaced. “There’s hundreds of old cleits on the island. Maybe when the military vessel arrived, some went to hide in them.”

“What’s a cleit?” said Bull. McIntyre frowned,

“A storage hut made out of stone with a turf roof for drying peat.”

Bull had finished wiping the tears from his eyes with Saffron’s alpaca hat and with a croaking voice he asked,

“Was there a girl amongst the survivors? She had long black hair, dreadlocks, small, with big dark brown eyes.” The old man grimaced, drew smoke from his pipe and gazed to the hills. He said,

“I haven’t seen anyone of that description.” McIntyre looked towards the trimaran Flower Child beached on the shore. Bull listened to the old man as he gave an account of the giant wave hitting the island.

“This was not on account aye anything natural or caused by the frackin,” continued the old man, “I’ve felt earthquakes before, not here, overseas...” McIntyre interrupted,

“I’m going to check the ship out. I’ll return soon.” Bull and the old man sat in silence as McIntyre walked away.

“Am not too sure about that one,” said the old man pointing his pipe towards
McIntyre. He’s got shaking hands and shifty eyes.” Bull looked curiously towards the distant walking figure of McIntyre.

“I wouldn’t worry about him. I trust him.”

“Look son, I did see someone running from the ship.” Bull sighed and then drew a deep breath as if it were his last. He exclaimed,

“Was it a woman?”

“It’s hard te tell unless you want to have a debate about the peculiar ways of women and how they run.” The old man smiled thinly but he recognised Bull’s anguish. “I don’t want te give ye false hope son, but the figure could have been a woman.” The old man extended his dentures once more and clicked his tongue.

“Did you see in what direction she fled?” asked Bull.

“Like my good looks, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. Anyway, how dae I know ye are who ye say ye are?” The old man stared at the leather satchel slung over Bull’s shoulder.

“Who do you think we are?” said Bull. The old man gazed towards the Mother Earth anchored in the bay and then grounded Fowerchild. He said, “Well you seem too concerned for the plight of these poor folk te be MoDs or Feds.”

“We’re not military, honestly.” The old man looked into Bull’s red swollen eyes and offered him a thin smile. He said,

“There’s been a lot of strange stuff going on lately. It’s difficult knowing who to trust. The island had been abandoned for well over a hundred years until they started fracking for gas out at sea, and then the earthquakes started. And then the military moved back to Hirta and all of a sudden we have tsunamis killing folk. Times are changing and not for the better my friend. Lots of strangers about these days. You’re no fae roon here are ye? What’s yer name son?”

“I’m from Salford, England. My friends call me…” Bull paused and then continued, “Faerrleah O’Connell, my name is Faerrleah O’Connell.” The old man said,

“I’ve been to Salford. Do you know a pub called the Squealing Pig?” Bull was astonished and then sadness took him. Finally, he said, 

“It’s gone. The Pig got washed away in a flood.”

“A pity that, one of the last proper pubs that was.” The old man stood up and poured the rest of his coffee into the sand. He gestured to Bull to follow him and led him inshore and towards the graveyard. They stopped by the row of empty cottages to remove some debris which had been washed in by the wave and was blocking their path. The old man stopped to catch his breath while Bull looked out to the bay. He noticed a black dot on the horizon but decided it was a sea stack in the distance.

McIntyre explored the Flower Child trying to find survivors. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief to block out the overpowering stench of decomposing bodies. He shone his torch on the face of every corpse but there was no sign of the Captain, but when he climbed into the Bridge he found his body slumped over the wheel. And then the sound of gun shots rang out in the bay. McIntyre ducked for cover but on raising his head above the binnacle he could see Marine Corps on the shore rounding up crew members from the Mother Earth. He looked towards the grey smoking fire. Bull and the old man had gone.

McIntyre removed his rucksack and brought out a pair of binoculars. Out in the bay, one of the RV Mother Earth’s speedboats in full throttle, trying to out manoeuvre a high speed military patrol boat, but the Marines Corps opened fire from a mounted heavy machine gun, practically cutting the boat in two. He watched in horror as an enfilade of gunfire peppered the hull of the Mother Earth above the water line. A member of the crew, who was filming the attack, fell in a hail of gunfire. The Mother Earth boarded. Through his lenses he could make out Andrew and some other members of the crew being grouped together and handcuffed. They were escorted onto a patrol boat.

McIntyre turned his lens back to the shore and towards where he left his cutter. The GM rescue party were sitting on a large log, guarded by a black suited Marine Corp. He could now detect Bull and the old man. They were walking by the village hall. Two Marines spotted them, and after making hand signals towards each other, they gave chase. Bull assisted the old man through the path leading up the hill, climbing the labyrinth of debris left by the tsunami and unaware of what was unfolding behind him. Then, from behind a dry stone dyke came several figures wearing distinctive green combat suits. At first McIntyre believed them to be more Marines in pursuit of Bull and the old man. They beetled their way stealthily across the ground but at a slower pace. They took up position behind two small cleits. They are Elfs, thought McIntyre. He watched as the Marine Corps were surrounded and then led away at gunpoint. When he looked back to the beach he noticed that the other crew members had been freed.

McIntyre climbed down from the Bridge and left the ship. He ran across the sandy beach, darting behind rocks to take cover and then he headed up the steep hill towards the graveyard. When he arrived, he took a moment to catch his breath. Bull was nowhere to be seen. He followed the path lined with freshly planted dwarf spruce and leading towards the hill.  He came across a clearing and then he climbed an escarpment to get a clearer view of the bay. When he became exposed he dropped to the ground and proceeded on his stomach across the sedges until the sea came back into view. From his binoculars he could see a warship moored alongside the Mother Earth. An attack drone hovered over the bay searching for the Marine Corps who had failed to call in their positions. McIntyre edged back from the cliff face and back towards the path.

He continued climbing the hill until he saw a large cleit the islanders called Tigh an t-sithiche – House of the Fairies. It was much larger than the other cleits and built into the hillside like the entrance to a mine. As he approached he heard voices emanating from within. When he entered the cleit Bull was squatting with two figures going through the contents of Malcolm’s leather satchel. The figure tried to point a gun at McIntyre, but he was too slow. McIntyre took two steps forward, shifting his centre of gravity as he went. He brought his fist down on the butt of the rifle, grabbed it and twisted it free from the figure’s grip. With one sweeping motion, McIntyre was holding the rifle and pointing at the hooded figure who immediately raised both arms in the air.  Bull was kneeling. The other hooded figure ignored McIntyre’s presence. He continued questioning Bull. He said,

“Where did you get this satchel from?” McIntyre interjected,

“I think everyone needs to calm the fuck down here. It’s a bit dark in here.” Much to the hooded figure’s surprise, McIntyre handed back the rifle as he reached inside his rucksack and retrieved a lantern. He switched it on and a yellow light filled the inside of the cleit. He could see clearly that the two figures were dressed in combat uniform, but hoods concealed their faces. The figure offered him the rifle back. McIntyre said, “You keep it laddie, but I hope you like hospital food because you’ll be eating it for a month if you point that thing in my face again.” The other figure repeated his question,

“Where did you get this satchel?” Finally, Bull said,

“It belonged to a waiter from the ship called Malcolm who was on the life raft with me, but he was very badly injured. He didn’t make it.”

“He’s dead?” said the figure. Bull’s heart was now galloping with apprehension. He replied,

“Yes. We had to leave him when we found the lifeboat. There was a storm and the life raft was damaged. We were sinking and we had to make a swim for it. I'm sorry, was he your friend?”

“No. Have you taken anything from it. I need you to be honest, much is at stake, much more than you could even imagine.” Bull swallowed hard and after stabbing a glance at McIntyre, he said,

“Only a photograph of a young girl. I know that sounds creepy, and this might sound unbelievable but the photograph reminded me of someone...”

“Saffron? I believe you were acquainted with her?” Bull's face contorted in painful confusion.

“Yes, its a bit complicated. How did you know?”

“We know everything about you, like being a MoDs Filter.”