It was a day in early September when I found the object that changed my life.
The sky that morning was absent of clouds, the air having the special, crisp quality so capable of refreshing the soul. I was walking barefoot along the shore, letting my feet sink deep into the sand, and as I walked, I thought of Mara, of how she so loved the sea around her ankles. In the days when we first met, we would walk here often, listening to the gulls and watching the surf, and I would carry her across my back so as to keep her from the dry sand. She hated it, she told me. She hated the coarse grains between her toes and how they would get there even in shoes. You’ll have to carry me, she’d say, and she would giggle, clinging to my neck as I jolted her up and down, aiming for that point where the sand was wet, where I would lower her and she would take off her shoes and socks, to sigh and smile as her feet were accepted by the waves. And she would whisper the same thing each time—the soft boundary of receding waves marks the true path along a shore—mouthing the words as she stared at the horizon. For a brief moment she would remain like that, transfixed, as though longing for some far-off land. Then she would shake it off, and we would walk, taking either direction without care, slipping into the easy talk of lovers.
I thought of all this on that cool September morning, the icy water lapping at my feet, trying to recall the last time she’d walked with me by the waves. I couldn’t, I realised. I couldn't remember the last time we’d laughed, the last time we’d made love, or even the reasons why it had all started breaking apart.
The tide was receding, leaving the sand glittering and untouched. I was alone, and as I meandered without direction I was struck by the sudden sense the ground was just the thinnest crust, that my feet were stepping atop a membrane and could—at any moment—break through to whatever lay beneath, the beach being nothing but a veneer stretched thin across an unforgiving gulf of black. These thoughts, unbidden, came with such intensity that I couldn’t help but slow my pace and look down.
And that was when I saw it.
It was there, half-buried in the sand. It was about the size of a fist, if a little larger, with a sharp upper edge that glinted in the morning light. It looked to be some sort of stone. Obsidian, perhaps, though I didn’t think so; I'd seen enough obsidian in my life to classify such, and in any case what would obsidian be doing on these shores? Its geometry was unusual, with several slanted sides that culminated in its sharp apex. So curious was it that I knelt down to look at it closer, and as I did I was overcome with a strange certainty that this was something both organic and inorganic, a fact I struggled to explain later that day on the phone to Mara, even with the object in front of me on the kitchen table.
Studying the rock there on the beach, I sat down, uncaring of the water that seeped through to my skin. From those first moments, I was drawn to it, sensing but not sensing its subtle pull. At some point I touched it, being careful of its sharp edge but with such a desire to hold it that I could not stop the movement of my own hands. It was light. Unbelievably light. So much so that I almost threw it in the air as I picked it up.
With the stone on my palm, I inspected its surface. Five sides, five edges, all of them smooth save for one—the one I deemed the top, whose edge was sharp as a razor. In places the surface seemed translucent, allowing a view to its inky heart, and I held it up to the sun, wanting to see if light would penetrate all the way through. Yet when I did, I caught something peculiar. Somewhere inside, something rippled, like water when agitated by a thrown stone. My mind, startled, caused my hand to flinch and I let go, dropping it back onto the sand. Frowning, I picked it up and held it once more to the sun, but there was nothing to see; the light limned the edges, each side pale and crystalline, but the centre was the same dark, impenetrable void. There was no movement there, and I found myself wondering whether I had seen anything at all.
*
I heard the chink of glasses and turned from the door, letting the memories of that day dissolve. The old man, frail and bent, poured another batch of steaming tea with his unsteady hands.
“Do you leave, friend?” he asked. The tea was spilling onto the table, and it took a moment for him to notice.
“No,” I said, and I found myself laughing. I had no recollection of standing and moving to the door, nor of how long I had remained there in thought. I glanced through the tattered cloth to the outside world, to where so many locals and tourists mingled under the burning sun, before turning my gaze back inside. Leaving would be impossible. My satchel was still there by the chair, the stone within pulling me back.
To be continued…(here)
This is Part II of And it was lost. You can find Part I here. There’ll be another two (possibly three) parts to this to finish this short thing off. If you missed last week’s post, this is me re-crafting the first short story I ever attempted to write, slicing it up for consumption via SLAKE.
As always, thank you for reading. You are, quite truly, the best.
Def getting some possibly sinister vibes, like this stone and it's swishy swirling interior reminds me of the egg/pods in Alien. I'm scared, Nathan. ;)
Your innate, natural ability to overlap dream with reality is at one of its apexes, here. A memory within a memory, all within a dream? How mysterious. Are you sure you’ll do *only* two or three more parts of this? I sense they could just be scratching the surface. This is a high potential story, to me. So looking forward to getting pulled into the continuation of this! Vivid, delicate, evocative writing, as always, Nathan. Your beautiful voice shines through.