Mary had a headache.
Its shards of pain had been coursing through her all morning, as if some animal were trying to claw its way out of her skull. Even the sharp smell of salt coming in from the sunlit ocean was not enough to clear her senses.
The weather was calm and quiet. Just how she liked it, Mary reassured herself as she felt the coarse rub of rope against her worn hands while dragging the nets in from the sea. They had not caught much. Breakfast would have to wait.
Those kids were back, and only making Mary’s headache worse with their cackles and whispered nothings. They had made their camp by the sea caves that were plastered with warning signs about high tides and rising waters. Every weekend they came down to the beach with their litter and their noise. Mary normally kept out of their sight, but once the nets had been dragged back into her hut, she felt a stab of curiosity. Perhaps the change of scenery would ward off her migraine.
As she walked towards their camp, the Blasted Heath cast its shadow across her path. It was a crooked, crumbling cliff that was slowly falling into the ocean; a comforting presence. Mary had never been up to the towering ridge herself but it was such a landmark of her existence that she felt as if, somehow, it was like an old friend. Her own hut – thrown together from haphazard branches, leaves and mud – was dwarfed by this looming landscape.
It was not far. Before long, Mary could hear the gentle echo of water lapping against the rocks. She descended through a crack at the base of the cliff. It was nice and dark down there. After the barrenness of the wild shore, Mary took comfort in this claustrophobic passage. By nature, Mary was a creature ill-fitted for the outside.
She crawled on.
The cave opened out into a chamber of swirling blues and dazzling beams of light. Mary blinked after so long in the gloom. looking up at a small fault in the ceiling from which sunlight streamed, and then down at the cluster of adolescents who had made this cave their haunt. They were no more than five in number, but their chatter resounded throughout the cavern as they paddled in the small pool at the centre of this refuge.
They can’t be much younger than me, Mary thought as a spike of pain lanced through her head. A part of her longed to join this adventurous group. But even if she could be swayed to do so, Mary found herself firmly rooted to the spot, as if in fear. No… not fear. She found herself overcome by the desire not to disrupt this moment of mindless tranquillity.
Only with this new perspective could she hear how well their chatter fitted the echo of waves against the smooth rocks; how their colourful garbs complemented the dazzling blue of water reflected on smooth cave walls.
She had not yet been noticed. It was pleasant to observe unseen, and it seemed to help with her headache. So, Mary was content to wait and watch.
There was one member of this group however that Mary took an immediate dislike to. He was a youth of misaligned proportions with a swelled, bulky torso framing a gangly set of arms and legs, all topped by a face smothered with freckles. He wore nothing but a hooded green raincoat and a single white scarf. As the tide went out – so much that the pool in the centre of the cave receded entirely back into the rock – he hauled over a large bag and set it down where the water had been. He pulled out various cans and brushes of garish hues before sketching out something upon the untouched floor. Mary squinted. It looked like he was drawing a hunched figure looking up mournfully at the stars.
What did he think he was doing? To Mary’s horror, the hiss of spray-paint began filling the cavern. He was graffitiing some foul message upon the rock, she thought. But why there? Nobody would see whatever he drew once the tide came in; nobody except crabs and seaweed. Perhaps he simply took pleasure in scrawling over the natural environment.
In disgust, Mary squirmed her way back out of the cave, silently fuming. This tight, enclosed space was no longer a comfort. She barely noticed the grazes and scrapes that she suffered in her hurry, until she felt the open air on her skin once more.
A dark bank of clouds had begun drifting across the sky, reducing the sun to a distant glimmer. In the half-light Mary turned around and surveyed her world in all its glory.
There was not much to see, in truth. Mary lived in the shadow of hulking cliffs of grey rock that cast jagged shadows across a coarse spit of shingle and sand. A narrow, winding set of old concrete stairs was the only way to ascend the cliffs, out towards Barrowfield and the limited amenities it had to offer. The stairs were accompanied by a thin sliver of a waterfall diving headlong onto the beach below. Mary tried to stay away from that place as much as she could.
Finally, surrounded on all sides by this looming landscape, Mary’s shack silently swayed in the wind. It was a makeshift shelter that had started out as little more than a number of large branches lashed together, but over time had been built up with materials both primitive and modern. Pieces of scrap metal coexisted with mud plastered over thin wooden frames. Despite its appearance the hut was surprisingly cosy on the inside. Mary kept this in mind as she set out through the gathering wind, towards home.
A storm was springing up. Soon, Mary thought, she would have to tie the canvas down over her roof to prevent her whole hut from collapsing. At least there was no rain yet. Mid-winter storms such as these could come on quickly, even during the day, but they tended not to last long. At least not at this intensity.
She could hear the blood roaring in her ears. Hunching her shoulders, Mary pressed on, her feet sinking deep into the cold sand. It would past soon. Then she would be safe, and warm, and alone.
But she was not alone yet.
Her headache was back with a new ferocity. Eyes watering from the wind and the pain, Mary looked up to see a sudden flash near the base of the cliff. Not too far away, but in the growing darkness it was difficult to make out much about the source of this light. Filled with a sudden surge of panic, Mary hurried towards the glow.
There was nothing that Mary hated more than being watched. Before she could realise the hypocrisy of this thought, the light was snuffed out. In the afterglow, Mary could only make out a tall figure carrying an old-fashioned metal lantern on a crooked staff. It was looking at her.
But then it was gone, slipping away into the darkness. Mary was alone again.
She shook her head? Had she imagined that – yes, of course, her migraine was clouding her vision. The pain seemed to build with the storm. Hurrying on, Mary was glad to finally return to her hut and feel its coarse boards beneath her hand; the familiar smell of moulding wood. It was barely big enough to stand up in and by this point seemed to be on the edge of collapse.
More than anything, Mary wanted to return to the darkness. Even what little light filtered down through the grey sky was enough to send spears of agony directly into her brain. She found the tarp in its usual place behind the doorway and, with a weary determination, struggled to tie it tightly down over her shelter until it seemed a little more secure.
With this done and the wind screaming in her ears, Mary wasted no time in taking shelter. It was neither warm nor particularly dry, but it was quiet, dark and safe.
She closed her eyes and waited for the pain to stop.
Her sleep was pleasantly dreamless. She was thankful to get a good night’s sleep these days. Pain became a faded memory right up until the moment she opened her eyes to the noon-day sun and her headache became worse than ever.
What luck, she thought. No fish and no relief. If she did not want to go hungry today, she would need to get up and moving.
Struggling to her feet, Mary took a moment to glance around her hut. The storm that had so suddenly swept in only hours before seemed to have passed on over the horizon, leaving only a cold, damp smell in the air. With that out of the way she would be able to see clearly if not for the pain gnawing at the back of her mind.
A simple, single fireplace topped by a crooked iron grate lay at the centre of Mary’s home. Normally a source of both heat and food, today it was filled only with ashes. Mary shook her head in vain, glancing towards the cracked mirror that was lying against the door. It was far too misted and scratched to show much more than Mary’s basic outline but she could picture her reflection easily enough.
She was a tall, spindly young woman with a spongy mess of ginger hair, chipped teeth and watery blue eyes. On a good day her smile was enough to light up the beach, but this was not one of those days.
There was an old bottle of polish lying around. Eventually she would need to clean that mirror; Mary missed the companionship of her reflection. Gritting her teeth, she staggered out into the sunlight.
To her surprise another section of the Blasted Heath had fallen into the ocean, likely eroded by the passing storm. It was only a minor chip off the landscape, but this was the only land she knew.
Mary took this to be a bad omen.
It was simply impossible to keep going with a headache like this she realised. Even now it seemed to be getting worse by the minute.
Perhaps she would find something up in the village? Perhaps. Mary did not like to go up there unless absolutely necessary. Still, even out here a few modern supplies did not hurt. On her few outings to Barrowfield Mary was sure there had been a pharmacy somewhere. A few painkillers, that’s all she needed.
It was not too far. Perhaps the walk would do her good.
There was still a bit of money tucked away inside Mary’s oldest boot. Retrieving this, she looked up at the midday sun to see that it had passed its zenith already. Where had the day gone?
Cast in greyish light, Mary could see the concrete staircase that led onto the moors. She braced herself, took one last look back, and began to walk. The steps were still slippery from the rain and the adjacent cascading waterfall as Mary ascended. She kept a tight grip on the rusted handrail.
At the top of the staircase, Mary could see the Blasted Heath stretched out to the right across a narrow headland. Ahead was a small wooded area before the land dipped into the valley containing the village of Barrowfield. The sound of birdsong was soon accompanied by the gentle rush of fresh water as Mary rounded a bend to catch sight of a small stream forging its way through the undergrowth and eventually cascading over the cliffs themselves. It was little more than a sliver of clear liquid, but Mary was filled with the urge to follow it upstream, along the clifftops towards the headland. The paths were rarely maintained around here. Perhaps this river would serve as a better guide?
She had been right; this walk was helping ease her headache. Mary felt younger than she had in a long time as the forest sighed gently around her.
Dappled sunlight –
The smell of salt and sun cream –
A sudden shriek of laughter.
Why now did these memories return to her? Mary was not sure. For now, she was content to walk under cloudless skies, alone with her thoughts.
Cleansed by the sound of the river, Mary now turned to walk down the valley through and through the woods. Before she had made much progress, the dappled sunlight was blocked out by the swaying form of a hunched willow tree that cast its tendril like leaves upon the soggy land below. Beneath this tree sat a solitary figure.
“James, you are an idiot” a scratchy voice emerged from the darkness, “would you really leave an old man up here?”
Squinting in the sunlight, Mary could make out the silhouette of a hunched figure within the cavern. She approached with caution, but the voice sounded more annoyed than angry. Her foot scattered a loose clump of rock.
“Who’s that? James?” The figure rose suddenly, fumbling its way into the sunlight. It was a very old man; the sort that had been young once and never quite accepted their encroaching age. Mary knew that type well. His milky blue eyes were creased with ever enfolding wrinkles that were stretched into a weak smile as the sun hit his weathered features. There was something about this smile that Mary found inexplicably reassuring.
He did not seem to see Mary for who she was. “About time, you had me worried. What are you standing around for? The day won’t wait for us.”
Mary cleared her throat. It had been quite some time since she had needed to practise her already lacklustre social skills.
“My apologies,” she said after a heavy moment “I do not know who James is.”
For a second his face sank in what might have been disappointment before he seemed to force his smile to return.
“Ah, close enough. You’ll do just fine. Do you know what this is?”
She looked down to see what he was wearing; a rather tattered old brown coat and a single white sash that seemed completely out of place with the rest of his attire. Mary had seen such a sash before on some of the few travellers she had past on her infrequent trips to the village. It was a mark of the blind and those that would guide them.
Mary had already taken a dislike to this strange figure with his coarse manner, but simply could not leave a blind old man up here with nobody to guide him. It wouldn’t be proper.
“Where are you trying to go?” she asked quietly.
“Barrowfield of course,” he replied, “where all dreams end.”
She looked at him blankly for a second. He seemed to register something in her silence.
“Don’t you know any folklore? I thought someone of our age would know better.”
At this Mary bristled. “I’ll have you know I’m not past thirty.”
He paused, before seeming to deflate just a little. At the same time, he ambled down from the rocks so that he could see her with whatever dregs of vision he had left.
“I’m sorry. You have a mature voice. If you are heading that way, and it is no trouble, would you mind guiding me down towards the village? I’m a spry old man and will not slow you down.”
She found that last part hard to believe, but Mary was not sure what other choice there was. After a moment she nodded, before realising he could not see her.
“Fine.”
“Splendid. Once I find my son James, I’ll give him a word or two about commitment. He was meant to be meeting me here.”
His smile returned at full force. “Come on. I’ll tell you about the history of the cliffs if you like?”
Reluctantly she agreed, showing him towards the village while realising that she did not know the way very well herself. An already a difficult trek was twice as troublesome with someone that needed to be guided, but in truth Mary did not mind the company as much as she thought she would.
The old man introduced himself as Darius and did not feel the need to say more, at least not about himself. He had limitless words however for all the interesting but inconsequential things he had learnt over the years.
“They called it the dreamcatcher,” he rambled, “back when people believed in such things. It was said to stalk the night with its crooked staff, devouring the dreams of the unwary. Back when I was a young man, we wished not to dream at all. But now I know the truth.”
Mary looked up from navigating a particularly treacherous bog, interested despite herself.
“It was the doctor on the Blasted Heath,” he explained with an air of satisfaction, “on her nightly walks she must have spooked quite a few townsfolk. And to think. Even then, people said we had advanced beyond superstition.”
He paused for a moment to let that sink in, before turning to his guide.
“But what about you? Family, friends? Come on, give me the polite details.”
Mary was still considering this latest revelation. There had been a doctor on the Blasted Heath? She had not imagined anyone could live in so windswept a place. If this old doctor was still alive, perhaps she could give Mary something for her headache? The pain had died down a little while listening to Darius’ mumblings, but she feared it was only a matter of time before it flared up once more. Besides, Mary had never been comfortable with modern medicine.
“Well, um,” she floundered, “I have a sister. Although we do not talk much anymore.”
“Often the way with family,” Darius replied, trying to nod sagely but looking rather foolish, “what did she do to upset you?”
Mary stopped for a moment. “She did nothing. That was all me.”
A subtle tension hung in the air. Thankfully, it was not lost on Darius. He decided not to push the subject.
At long last the ground was yielding beneath their feet into a more forgiving downhill journey towards the village, away from the heaving ocean. Mary could not recall the last time her ears had been free from the relentless crash of waves; her skin safe from biting sands on the wind.
Barrowfield itself squatted like some great toad at the bottom of a swamp-ridden valley. Not many people lived in this part of the world but those that did mostly lived in the village, which was far more tolerable that the windswept coastline. Even fewer people decided to make their way up towards the headland on which the Blasted Heath sprawled, but those few that did often stopped at Barrowfield like pilgrims taking shelter from the elements before continuing on into the wild.
As the land dipped slowly down towards the village, Mary felt rigid tarmac beneath her feet. She looked down to see that they had wandered onto a small country road that snaked through the brush down through the valley. Judging by the tiny spurs of grass jutting out from cracks in the tarmac, this road was all but abandoned. Still, it would suffice.
“Are we there yet?” Darius’ voice broke the silence, “I can’t smell the sea anymore.”
Mary realised that she could not smell it either. Instead, her nostrils were assaulted by all manner of unfamiliar scents; pollen, distant cattle and paint.
Paint?
“Not yet,” she replied, searching for the source of this artificial smell. It seemed so out of place. Where would paint even be used around here, she wondered, if there were no flat surfaces to paint upon? All except for…
She looked down once again to see, just up ahead, a slather of silver paint upon the tarmac. It seemed as if someone had been busy. Mary skirted around to get a better look, bringing Darius along with her.
“Hang on just a second. What is it?”
“Let me see,” Mary quieted him. It seemed to depict a bulbous moon shining above a perfectly peaceful ocean in which a ring of fish served as the lunar body’s mirror image. The painting was without scuff or mark; it couldn’t have been more than a day old.
While she examined this Darius seemed to grow all the more restless, not unlike an inpatient dog. He tapped the hard ground with his boot, feeling its subtle slope and the tufts of weeds breaking out from beneath the tarmac.
“Perhaps a better question,” he asked, “would be where are we?”
“We’re not far from town, on an abandoned road leading down into the valley.”
“Abandoned?” Darius stopped his shifting for a moment, “Oh, thank goodness. I think I know the road you mean. Old Gravesend we used to call it.”
Now she took the time to look around, something did seem a little off about this place. A little unnerving. Darius continued when she did not reply, his blank eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
“This is a dangerous road. Wouldn’t pass any safety standards these days. A lot of people died out here on stormy summer nights. But you must have stopped for a reason; did you spot one of those rusted car wrecks?”
“Oh no,” Mary shook her head instinctively, “nothing like that. Someone has simply painted a picture on the road.”
Darius seemed almost disappointed. “Is that all? Why would somebody paint anything out here, nobody will see it?”
For a minute longer Mary studied the picture. There was something raw and mysterious about it that she found herself liking. Something strangely familiar. To his credit, Darius let her have this moment.
“All right, let’s get going,” she said eventually, “not far now.”
The wind was picking up. But unlike the ferocious storm that had swept over the shore that morning, this seemed gentler, like the aftermath of a terrible wave. Before long a steady drizzle of rain began to fall, painting the landscape in grey hues. Mary found it comforting to feel the persistent patter and thud of raindrops against her exposed neck while the winds of change whistled in her ears.
Far above, the grey clouds broke to reveal a solitary spear of sunlight that pierced the gloom, revealing a cluster of buildings at the base of the valley. Like this, Barrowfield could almost be called beautiful before the cracked concrete walls struggling for room alongside ancient moulded thatch could be made out. Indeed, it was a village of the ages struggling for dominance. Many times, it had been rebuilt and remodelled with a modern sheen so much so that the original village was almost entirely destroyed.
“You have asked me plenty of questions,” Mary said while looking out over this strange view, “but you never told me why you wanted to come here.”
Darius paused. “It’s tradition really. Me and my son have been walking up here since he was a boy. As I lost my sight it got harder of course, but we made do. Those walks meant a lot to me, even if I never told him.”
He grimaced a little before giving Mary a small smile. “Thanks for taking me up here. You did well in his place.”
Mary was not sure what to say in response. She was glad that Darius could not see her confusion. So, in the end, they stood together in silence.
The rain grew fierce and angular, whipped by the wind into a brief frenzy. It would pass soon but they agreed without needing to exchange a word that they should hurry down to the village, to shelter.
Throughout all this Mary’s headache had subsided. In fact, she had almost forgotten about it entirely, however once they wound their way into Barrowfield itself, she could feel it beginning to worm its way back into her mind.
Barrowfield had no grand entrance. Instead, it seemed to rise up from the valley itself in the form of looming, often lopsided structures that arose out of the rainfall. The only form of welcome that Barrowfield had to offer came, quite fittingly, in the form of a monument. It was a grey slab of weathered granite with a marble trim that might once have appeared fresh and hopeful. Upon the slab half a dozen names were engraved above a small space in which flowers could be placed. The space was empty as they walked up to inspect this strange monolith.
“A blasted affair,” Darius said when Mary pointed it out, “a few decades ago there was a terrible summer; lots of storms, caught some people off guard. This is where they remember those that died.”
He paused for a moment, biting his lip. “That’s the funny thing. They always honour those that have died, but never those left in the aftermath.”
Standing before this pitiful rock, Mary could not help but feel sorry for the old man. “Did you know someone that died?”
“Not directly. Would you believe that I was once married? Long enough to have a child. But… my wife lost a lot in that terrible summer, so much that she gave up on the world. She grew distant and we lost contact. I don’t know exactly what happened to her; probably ended up in an asylum. She was always so good with James when he was a child, far better than I ever was.”
Mary found herself speechless. After all, what better response could she give but silence and sympathy? Still, it seemed wrong to leave the silence unfilled. Eventually she mustered up the courage to speak.
“I am sorry.”
“Oh, don’t worry. That was a very long time ago. Let us not linger here,” Darius said, making an effort to change the subject, “I know it may not look like much in this weather, but Barrowfield can be an all-right place. You should see Margaret’s café, she makes the best cakes, I was planning to go there once the weather cleared up. My son should show up eventually and Margaret can keep me company in the meantime.”
He looked in her direction, with surprisingly accuracy. For a moment it seemed as if his sight had returned. “You’re welcome to come join us if you like.”
To her surprise, Mary was tempted by this offer. But… there was too much that needed doing. She came up here for a reason. It would not do to get distracted; it would not do at all.
With this in mind, she politely refused his offer.
“Well, thank you again,” Darius replied with that oddly reassuring smile, “it was a splendid walk.”
Mary smiled back thinly and thanked him in return. It had not been so bad.
After taking Darius to the aforementioned café, he no longer needed guiding. In this weather it seemed as if half of the village had taken shelter there, most of whom recognised the old man and helped him find a seat. Mary decided not to stay for long.
So, she was alone again.
Her headache was only getting worse. It reminded Mary of her reason for coming here; now, where was that pharmacy? She could remember it was somewhere around here. Thankfully, the rain was easing up as quickly as it had arrived, soon reduced to a gentle downfall. It was suddenly peaceful and quiet.
In this atmosphere Mary found her prize. Barrowfield was built around a haphazard, now waterlogged square which had all the basic amenities the village needed. Just behind this square down a small alleyway she found an old-fashioned shop built from moulded wood and red, crumbling bricks with a worn stone archway around its locked door. It looked more like an alchemist’s lair than any modern pharmacy.
The place was quiet and seemed empty. Whoever owned it was likely out to lunch. Oddly, Mary was not hungry. She never had much of an appetite. As it was, the archway provided some shelter from the rain and she was tired of walking, so Mary was content to wait for whoever owned this place to return.
Time passed in something like peace. The rain around her gradually dwindled into nothing as she stared out through the narrow alleyway out into the village centre that was slowly coming to life.
Darius was right, this place was not so bad up close. Now that the rain had stopped, she could see people leaving their homes and shelters, greeting neighbours or simply passing through, absorbed by their thoughts. Out on the beach all alone, Mary had missed some of the subtle human behaviours she could now observe at a safe distance. Did these distant figures really think in the same way that she did? If she were to peer into their minds, Mary wondered if she would find something comprehensible to her, or some alien gibberish. Perhaps she was the only one that was truly alive and those shambling bodies out in the square were mere shells putting on the parts of human life.
For a while, Mary was consumed by these thoughts born from solitude. It was a good distraction from her migraine, at least until she was rudely interrupted by one of those specimens in the square coming down the alleyway to greet her.
It was a gangly young man with a swelled torso and thin, lanky limbs, not unlike a fish. He wore a single ill-fitting white sash over a green raincoat, the hood of which was still pulled up tight even though the rain had stopped. On top of this he carried what looked to be a number of awkward wooden frames tied to his back. At that moment she recognised him from the morning in that sun-dappled cave.
“Excuse me,” he said quietly, “you have been sitting there for quite a while. I was wondering if you are all right?”
Up close he seemed pleasant enough. If not for the calming smell of freshly fallen rain and, while she wouldn’t want to admit it, a good mood that the walk had brought on, Mary might have been irritated by his presence: this arrogant youth who thought he could plaster some profane scribble upon her beach. Even as things were, the thought of this made Mary narrow her eyes at the young man.
“Thank you for your concern,” she replied, “but I am waiting for the pharmacist to return.”
He seemed confused. “This place has been abandoned for years. I’m sorry, were you looking for medicine?”
Oh? Mary could have sworn that she had come here once. Perhaps her memories were getting jumbled, as was not uncommon for her.
Mary stood up and gave the young man a tired look, before glancing down at the sash around his torso.
“What is your name?” she asked suddenly.
“Um, James. James Ander-“
“James, you are an idiot.”
He seemed more surprised than offended, not to mention a little amused.
“No, I am an artist. Look.”
Reaching into the deep pockets of his raincoat, James pulled out a single silver spray can of paint, while gesturing to the wooden frames on his back. They were all of different sizes and shapes but shared a simple elegance.
“Could a painter be an idiot?” he continued, “An intellectual, I might add. Today is the big day. I’m doing the big three.”
Mary could not help but be a little amused. The boy had a disarming confidence about him.
“What do you mean?”
“The Hermit, the Moon and the Tower, at the base, middle and top of the Blasted Heath,” he said with a smile, “three paintings I’ve been planning to make for a long while”
Not sure what to think about this, Mary pressed on: “Why there? Nobody goes up to those cliffs.”
“Almost nobody. My paintings won’t be so special if they are easy to find. There is not enough wonder left in the world, so I thought I would create some of my own. All that is left for me to paint is the Tower.”
He seemed inanely proud of this vandalism.
“They’re tarot cards, you see,” he whittered on unfettered, “the hermit stands for clarity or, when flipped, confusion – “
Something clicked in Mary’s brain. “I think I’ve seen that damn thing down by the sea caves. That was you? For goodness’ sake.”
“That’s just the start. Have you seen the moon? It stands for mystery, for illusion!”
As he was explaining these meanings it felt almost as if Mary knew what he was telling her already. Perhaps she had read a half-forgotten book about tarot cards many years ago. Once again, she was reminded of the silver painting she had spied upon the road leading into Barrowfield.
Despite herself, she felt the tug of curiosity.
“And the tower,” she asked, “what of that?”
He grinned gleefully at her. “That is a sign of calamity. What better symbol for the Blasted Heath, don’t you think?”
There was something entrancing to her about this talk of omens and portents. Still, a mischievous voice somewhere near the core of Mary’s being urged her to take him down a peg. After all, what right did he have being so self-assured?
“Shouldn’t you have been guiding your father?”
James’ face fell.
“Oh,” he said after a moment, “oh dear. I thought that was tomorrow. He… ah.”
James looked around, as if for reassurance. At last, Mary took pity on him.
“I saw your grandfather not long ago. He’s at the café; you must go to him.”
“Of course. Yes, but, well,” the hesitation was evident in his eyes, and then a hint of hope, “it would be a shame not to complete the big three after all this trouble. Perhaps you could?”
Out of all the things he could have said, Mary was not expecting that. “What?”
“Yeah. Look,” he took one of the frames from his back. Now she got a better look at it, Mary could see the shape of a spindly spire ringed by starlight cut into the wood, “the pattern is already laid out. All you’d have to do is fill it in.”
“I do not know you,” Mary protested.
He smiled tolerantly. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.”
This boy was starting to get on her nerves. Before she could protest further, he had already heaped both the frame and a can of silver spray paint into her hands.
“If you want medicine, head to the Heath,” he explained quickly while depositing the items, “the old doctor still lives up there. She does not talk much, but she’s your best bet. Unless you plan on travelling to the city. And, well, if you’re heading up there, it wouldn’t be too much trouble to paint this little tower, would it?”
She could not tell if he was being genuine or not.
“Good luck. I’d better hurry back to Darius. Just… please, think about it, all right?”
For an instant, a flash of honest pleading came into his eyes. Mary was glad for this; it gave her the chance to ground herself, to regain control. She might have found it in her to turn him down if, as soon as he had come, James began ambling back out into the street, giving her a final thumbs-up on his way out. He seemed to be in a hurry, although not as much of a hurry as he ought to have been, Mary thought bitterly. There was no stopping him now.
She looked down at the wooden frame in her hands and then up at the decrepit pharmacy. Was she really going to deface the natural world? Not that there was much beauty to speak of up on the Heath. Still… there was an urge welling at the core of her being, an urge telling her to carry out James’ request. Completely the trio of paintings just seemed right in a way should could not explain. It almost felt like some familiar instinct was guiding Mary to betray her principals and play the vandal.
In any case, there was nowhere left to go but up, up towards the cliffs once more. Mary would decide when she got up there.
The weather was on the verge of turning. It could not seem to make up its mind between letting in some more sunlight or resuming its stormy tantrum. Not wanting to be trapped by another volley of rain, Mary got stiffly to her feet and began walking back towards the cliffs; towards the sea. Barrowfield was like a maze at first but, after an hour or so, Mary had escaped back out into the greenery.
Once the last buildings had disappeared from view, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was heading towards normalcy, to the beach and the rolling cliffs. Although not before one last plunge into the unfamiliar. For all its proximity she had never been atop the Blasted Heath, nor had she felt any desire to explore it. There was something uncomfortable about that place which made her skin crawl. Almost as if it were not truly a part of the world around it.
Cresting the valley Mary emerged through the forest and, at last, out onto the cliffs. Without company the barrenness of the shoreline became more obvious than ever, especially on top of the cliffs where the howling wind was the only source of conversation. She hurried on, not wishing to linger here for longer than she had to.
The Blasted Heath itself jutted out from the landscape in a tumult of rock and collapsing clay, creating a treacherous and angular surface. Now that Mary was up there, it seemed almost as if some great catastrophe had unleashed the elements on this unnatural scrap of land.
But, peaking over a twisted crag, Mary spotted a thin trail of smoke rising slowly into the air. That must be where the old doctor’s house. As she began making her way towards it, Mary could not help but notice how clear and grey the sky had become; how silent everything was. There was no other life up here. Even the distant crash of waves was muted in the gloom. Far away, the sun began to set on a cold, fragile world.
It was getting late.
The path to the smoke trail was not an easy one. Mary had to slide down a small slope of loose rock, frantically pushing herself away from the sheer cliff edge that was always a stone’s throw away. At this point she must have been almost directly above that serene sea cave she had discovered only that morning.
Coming to a sudden stop, Mary found herself in a narrow crack in the rock where the top of the Heath had split almost in two. She could see a hint of grass thrashing wildly in the wind up on the other side of the divide. The only way up was to climb. Before she did so, however, Mary realised that she had been presented with a perfect opportunity. The steep slope in front of her could serve as an excellent canvas.
This seemed right. Although she could not explain it, Mary felt like she should – she must – finish what James started. Reaching to her back, Mary took hold of James’ frame which she had strapped roughly around herself. It was light but awkward in shape. Once this was done, she had no qualms abandoning it here.
Shaking the spray-can in one hand while keeping the frame in place with the other, Mary began to fill in the painting as best she could. It was rough and splotchy around the edges compared to James’ work, but after a few minutes it was done.
The calamitous tower loomed at the top of Mary’s world.
Well, almost.
Tracing the painting’s tall, thin shape upwards, Mary spotted a flicker of movement at the top of the slope. At the same time, she heard the muted clink of a metal lantern swinging on a crooked staff. She could have sworn that, for an instant, there was somebody glaring down at her from above.
Then the world was silent once more.
Mary composed herself. She knew now that this could no longer be a feverish dream.
“Doctor of the Blasted Heath,” she called out, her voice wavering, “show yourself.”
But there came no reply.
Eventually she forced herself to make the climb. Gripping slate that crumbled beneath her fingers, it took Mary several attempts to clamber up onto the grass. There was no sign of any doctor. However, getting to her feet, Mary could finally see the source of the smoke. It was a small cube of clinical, white-washed wood and sterile plastic beams. In truth it looked less like a house and more like some kind of temporary work space that was only now starting to crumble. The white paint was flecked and, in some places, stripped off entirely by the wind’s barrage.
Mary’s migraine had become worse than ever. She pushed forward towards the house.
I watched as she fought her way through the heath towards my flimsy door. My old, wrinkled hand gripped the crooked staff from which a dark lantern hung limply.
It had been such a long time.
But you came home in the end. Dear sister, my little Mary, do you see now that this story has been for you?
I wasted no time in answering your knock when you reached my door. It felt good to talk to you again. I had never seen you look so frightened. So, naturally, I invited you in for a cup of tea and explained everything.
Doctor Mary Greybranch. That is your name and I told you as such.
Mary, your mind had been stuck in the past. Stuck on that day:
Dappled sunlight –
The smell of salt and sun cream –
A sudden shriek of laughter.
You told this to me; one of your few shattered memories. We were only young back then. Back when mother took us to this wonderful beach that nobody visited. It was our special place, our special secret. Everything seemed perfect in the sunlight. You had just become a mother yourself back then and welcomed the opportunity to escape out to the beach for a moment of peace. That may have been the last day you did not feel alone. Before the accident and that terrible summer.
You did not come to mother’s funeral. At first, I was angry, but when I could not find you, I became afraid. Your poor husband seemed calm but I could see his inner panic, raving and riving inside of him. Still, he always had a reassuring smile and the clearest blue eyes that seemed to make everything better, if only for a while.
It was many years later that I found you upon this Blasted Heath, in a place of your own. Doctor Greybranch, you had been busy. But you did not come here to be a doctor. You came up here to be alone.
By that time, it was too late. You were a jabbering wreck lost to madness. I am glad, at least, that by clocking yourself in your own fantasy you have been able to regain some shadow of sanity. You built a hut on the beach and became a hermit; a new person.
I did not want to leave you here unwatched, so I stayed here in your old cabin and kept an eye on you. You had garnered quite the local reputation for yourself. Apparently on sleepless nights you would wander the cliffs with a crooked staff in hand bearing a lantern to light the way. I found use in this myself. Eventually, the village people began to mistake me for the doctor on the moors. It seems that you were quite the successful healer of local ailments, so I tried my best to replicate your notes and help those that came to me.
All until the day you came to me, looking to cure your headache no less.
As I explained this to you, Mary, I became increasingly worried about your reaction. You kept clutching your temples while rocking back and forth. That migraine you had been suffering from all day, it was no freak incident. At least I don’t think it was. Your illusions of life were beginning to break down even then and that was cracking your mind in two. In all the times I had imagined this playing out in my head, I had never considered that you would have such a physical reaction to the truth. It was only later that I learnt just how much you had deluded yourself.
My poor, poor sister.
The revelation must have been too much for you. Before I could do anything, you had got up and fled the house. I chased after you, calling your name as you stumbled your way across the Blasted Heath, back down the concrete stairs to that damned beach. Thank goodness you did not hurt yourself on the way down.
Once we reached your hut, I let you be for a moment. I needed a moment myself truth be told. Now that we have come full circle, I am reminded of the many times I had watched you, out of sight, making sure you were safe on this dreadful beach. From time to time, you even spotted me out of the corner of your eye. I was never more than two steps behind.
But for once I could not tell what you were doing in that hut. Did you sit and rock yourself in silence? Or, perhaps, you finally got round to polishing that dusty mirror of yours.
Mary, you are not who you think you are. You are not a wild-eyed, sun-bleached young woman fresh off the beach with her family. That has not been you for a very long time.
But you are a kind woman, a good woman, who once cared about her family more than anything. I remember when you and your husband were just getting started. It seemed like you would be unbreakable together, especially once your son was born. You always got along so well with him. I remember you teaching him your silly deck of portents when he was very young.
You are my little sister, and I was always look out for you.
It has been so long. I am afraid of losing you again.
Mary, won’t you come off that beach?
Your day of solitude is over. But even then, you were never truly alone. I have written this story so that you can see how close I always was even when it seemed that there was nobody else in the world. I’ve written it on dusty parchment and sealed it with a bow. I’ll leave it just by your door so you can read it, all right?
Mary, won’t you come home?
Mary?