Frontier Shrubbery
By sean mcnulty
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There was land ahead. Or maybe there wasn’t. Littlewood was not unused to mirages at sea: sometimes the origin was whiskey, but other times he had seen optical phenomena that could be explained by a general understanding of physics. Grimur’s talk of an island that wasn’t there, then was, then wasn’t had him now suspicious about the emerging scenery. He saw trees. What looked like rather gaunt – yet very tall – trees. And this was hard to believe being as most land out here was that wide tundra, bare and treeless. Then he remembered the tree line. He had seen it once in Norway. Frontier shrubbery. But never this far north. If they were in fact trees, or if they weren’t, or a Fata Morgana, or if it wasn’t, it was plain that he was not the only one to witness it, as the others were looking at whatever it was or wasn’t too. He noticed they had their ears cocked also. That Stinson one now had them all listening for his voice of God.
Soon the faaa-caww that had snared the others made it to Littlewood’s ears and he too was unable to restrain his curiosity. Knowing Dolores was in some distress as she chugged along, he felt bad about putting her in autohelm, but he did so anyway, promising her a nip of whiskey later, before going off to join the others on deck.
Faaa-caww
Yes, the whisper was more human than before, and it gave the Captain chills. It was not a pretty sound. But beguiling it certainly was. Maybe it was those sirens he was always listening out for. Like so many seamen before him, the solitary life activated numerous reveries, one of which involved being seduced at sea by legendary stunners – naked, but for cascades of flaxen hair. No matter what misfortune came of it, no man of the sea would have fled from such a cracker in the middle of all this.
‘All this way for a funeral,’ said Masterson, when Littlewood was close. ‘You need your head checked, Captain.’ It was the first time since their confrontation that any words had passed between Masterson and Littlewood.
‘I think I agree.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Katrine. ‘I’m off-duty.’
‘I don’t think his head needs to be checked at all,’ said Geissel. ‘For by one sacrifice he has made perfect forever those who are being made holy.’
‘What have I sacrificed?’
‘Your ship. Your time. Your patience – in all likelihood.’
‘Ah sure, I’ve never been a patient man, Father Geissel. And hold no candle up to Christ.’
‘Let’s not talk of sacrifice,’ said Masterson. ‘I’m not ready to tender my resignation just yet.’
As they got closer to the island, the ice floe became less frequent, and the water less treacherous, almost as though a path had been laid out in front of them. A pathway to what exactly? It rattled one and all that the land approaching them bore none of the hallmarks of Walter’s descriptions. It was rough and busted up. Like the Burren in County Clare, except bleaker, more burrowed. The rock-edge appeared to be separating – as though it was trying to get away from itself. To escape somehow. A silver sheet of mist lay over the crippled land like the veil over Mrs. Juhl’s noble face. There were glaciated hills, the blue hills they had seen from afar, but not the wondrous and colossal formations hyped up by Walter’s projections. The whole place looked like one of geology’s failed attempts, left to fend for itself in the world’s wilds, and now they had come upon it at the moment of its absolute surrender. It had a dying sort of look, everything blueish-grey, the colours a painter might employ to declare deep melancholy.
‘There can be no life there,’ said Masterson. ‘Not a soul would survive in a place so grim.’
‘Well, someone did,’ said Katrine. ‘There would be no me if not.’
‘Not even God’s there: I’d hazard a bet.’
‘God is everywhere,’ said Stinson. ‘Even there.’
‘Grimur said they believed God was there alright,’ added Littlewood. ‘That he kept the place to himself. He said they called it God’s inviolable land.’
‘This place?’ Have you heard of the Vatican? The pope lies in a golden bathtub. God’s is made of the cosmic foundations. That beats gold. Why would he hold up in this frayed midden?’
‘Well, I’ve seen worse-looking graveyards back home,’ said Geissel.
‘You must be joking. Worse than this? Colourless slab such as it is.’
‘There is colour: look!’
Geissel pointed to a vivid spot within the miserable grey. There were many, as it turned out. Red eyes were watching them from the island as they made their approach. These eyes belonged to the long-standing things they had figured for trees.
They were not trees.
And it was no tree line.
As they got closer and the mist grew thinner, the long-standing things revealed themselves to be flowers in strange bloom. Spread out across the land. Sunflowers, in fact. As tall as trees. And yellow as the morning sun.
‘Those are big flowers,’ said Katrine.
‘God must be here then,’ said Masterson. ‘Only He could afford flowers that unreasonable.’
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I love the idea of
I love the idea of unreasonable flowers
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