Horses Riding in upon the Waves by Des Kelly

Sitting atop dunes looking out across the sea with wild breakers racing in like horses riding in upon the waves, keeping a watch for invaders; wild berserk axe men steering their longboats ashore to pillage, rob and kill.

The wild breeze whips the surface off the sand to send it spiralling like a crazy snake all across the ground; with sea weed patches scattered never to be redefined, spits and spots of rain cascade in the wind, some of it salt and some ill-defined.

Diving beneath the cover of walls built by hard faced men long vanished from the earth, searching out the hollows, collecting pebbles for one last dash & defence towards the approach to Castle keep, splashing through fast flowing water, scattering fat sheep and whooping a warning the boy drops breathless and excited onto the sandy soil.

His mother is taking in washing with the dog at her heels, two cats on lookout perched at the edge of a rain sleeked slate roof. Smoke rising, as it did in centuries past. The boy continues his adventure, searching out cover as he darts from bush to post to broken machinery, crawling the final few yards on his belly. Rising onto hands and knees, to scan the horizon; the enemy lying doggo or scattered by diverse strategy.

“What game are you playing?” Mother asks without turning around.

Her hair is loose and flying about her face. The same face he emulates with his own childish features. He doesn’t answer. She probably wouldn’t understand; he smells baking coming from the kitchen and has a sudden desire to drink copiously.

*

Inside the kitchen his sister continues colouring onto a book containing outlines of ponies as he pauses to watch hyper critically; concentrating so hard her tongue is clamped between her teeth. Everything has been shaded pink, or a tone of lime green he detests. She is consumed by a world where faces are orange, eyes are blue, trees a dense green.

He gulps down a glass of water, glances over at the baking tray loaded with goodies, hoping for a sample when Mum returns. But when she bustles in she yells, ‘too much to do and you kids always wanting something.’

Sometimes he listens, but as often turns away. Given up on asking why they came to this isolated and desolate place, learning to map the topography with a film strip running through his head, he knows every hill and hollow; every defensive position and weak point. Drawing up fresh plans for a line of attack with ambush points, and hidden places they can go to ground.

Waiting now, just waiting for the enemy to show its face.

*

Mother offers a brown biscuit asking if he wants to wait until she’s iced it; he folds it into his mouth while his sister leaves hers on a plate for later but he knows what a great temptation it will be not to steal even when he’s learned better than to touch her stuff. She’s got a piercing scream that gets inside the head and he feels certain she could be employed as an early warning system for when the enemy attack.

He imagines a great army striding out of the stark hills and valleys that provide deep cover in this otherwise empty terrain, and wanders outside with the dog tracking his movements like a shadow.

Rain in the wind; he searches the sweeping landscape with a practised eye, pulling down detail, eager to discover change and alterations to put the family on alert.

*

The farthest point from where he is standing displays a line of semi black trees, marching into dark as night hills. Below these is a road with a series of switch back sections rising and falling, passing beyond the great lake, standing silent without a name or discernible sides, and is itself surrounded by sombre dark Pines.

From the bus he was able to view a tapestry of forbidding forests giving way to plantations of unknown crops; it’s a landscape in which tumble down cottages and isolated farmsteads stand out bleakly, and in which grazing animals raise their heads to stare blankly at the rumbling bus with its ancient lineage.

*

The bus set them down in a tiny settlement; a community time has forgotten, where an ancient post office, an interesting shop and red telephone box serve the otherwise scattered people who reside in an otherwise anonymous village of brick and timber houses.

Mother describes the village as the last outpost of civilisation, but won’t say why they are there. Whenever they travel there, mother appears to perk up, chatting to people they hardly know, asking at the post office if there’s any mail and generally acting in a way he doesn’t understand to ingratiate herself.

All he knows is that he’s allowed to sit on the wall, sucking on sugary confectionery as they await the returning shuttle bus that struggles to complete an uphill journey into the hinterland.
The man driving the bus speaks in what appears to be a foreign tongue but mother does her best to make conversation and always compliments him on a safe journey, promising to see him again even when the driver doesn’t appear to care.

*

Mother spends the majority of her time knitting woollen sweaters for Mr McGregor and sends them via his Sister in Law, a plain faced woman named Alice who finds little use for smiling, but has a fierce tongue when roused. She stands at the kitchen table with tendril like fingertips searching out faults in the finished work before dipping into a pocket of the well-worn Worsted she wears to produce a brown envelope.

Mother’s tries to keep her sweet by serving tea and a slice of home-made cake, but Alice remains indifferent as she nibbles & sips gazing out at sheep as if they’re new and interesting.

Her conversation tends to dwell upon the weather, unless she’s complaining about the damage done by the new Estate Manager since he took over. Alice travels her rounds riding an ancient bicycle with rucksack slung over one shoulder into which she scrunches down the knitwear bought at a ‘pittance’, never says goodbye, and simply makes the same remark in parting. ‘Two weeks’, which as often comes across as more of a threat than a promise to meet again.

*

After she’s gone mother sighs, placing skeins of wool out of reach of animals and small children before checking inside the envelope, sighs again before inserting the money into an old china hen high on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet.

“What shall we have for tea?” Mother asks; the same every time.

“Sausages….” Her son answer’s automatically.

“With chips….” His sister adds, insisting. “With lots of vinegar.”

“No sausages.” Mother says. “There’s fish…”

“With chips…” Her daughter repeats, adding. “With vinegar.”

Mother laughs, displaying chipped teeth from where she fell from the tree of knowledge. Her son doesn’t believe his mother was ever capable of climbing into a tree, but she keeps a straight face whenever she mentions this.

He remains puzzled; his mother refuses to talk about the past, or why they came to this impossible place. All she insists is that he maintain a sharp look out, which he does most days, patrolling the shoreline, and keeping to the high ground.

*

He’s built a pile from driftwood washed ashore and one day Mother promises a bonfire with potatoes roasting beneath the embers. She says they can even dress as shrieking savages wearing war paint and shout and scream for all they’re worth.

He’s determined to be the Chief, collecting feathers that Mother says she’ll sew into a headdress he can wear. His sister insists they’re dirty, because they lack colour and pretty patterns but he doesn’t care what his sister thinks.

Sometimes Mum comes down to join him on the sea shore during his regular patrols, staring out towards a far horizon. She won’t ever say what she’s looking for, but it must be a long way off because she can never find it and afterwards holds his hand as they inspect the defences he’s constructed.

She rarely says much but must be impressed because she calls him her special soldier. He knows he has to remain on the alert; the enemy could arrive any time, and this place is too remote to expect help would arrive in time.

Des Kelly