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part one
part two
The wind blew harder and harder: the rain fell harder and harder: till it was slicing horizontally through the premature twilight. Ben, soaked past the skin to his bones, wearing only a shirt because his sodden jacket was protecting the bones of dead creatures, made his way as best as he could along the footpath. Usually crowded with walkers, skaters, cyclists, stroller joggers, dogwalkers, jugglers, and surfer voyeurs, the footpath was empty. The waves rattled at the barrier. The ground beneath his feet trembled with the force. This cliff had lost twenty feet in one storm, not so long ago: Ben thought it quite possible that it would do so again today, despite the piles of riprap piled along the coves.
Where was he going? He really didn't know. Not home. Not for this . . . art project. He just kept walking. The storm seemed to be driving the bad mood out of him. What was left was strangely exhilirating. Like the rush from surfing, but he was barely moving against the wild water up here and he'd never try to catch one of those waves down there.
Somehow he had gotten far: past the Lighthouse, past Its Beach, past Mitchell's Cove, past the shuddering blowhole and right up to the end of the footpath looking over Natural Bridges Beach. He wasn't going there. He turned inland here, and with the wind at his back and the wall of water pushing him, he knew where he was going. Antonelli's Pond. It would be deserted and nobody would be there. Maybe a biologist. He could hide from a biologist.
He had nothing to hide. Had he?
Even with the cleansing rain the pond had its requisite rotting willow smell. Good, Ben thought: the earth here would be very potent.
Where were these ideas coming from?
Another good thing about the willows is that they gave him a little protection from the rain. But he was so wet and cold now that it made little difference. Shivering, he examined his pile of bones. Did it matter if they were put together correctly? He thought not: the pictures he had seen the night before seemed to have the bones connected any old way. Of course the pictures he had seen the night before had been carvings, not amalgamations. ANyway, he knew what to do.
He was shaking so hard he could barely get his thumb and little finger together as he was supposed to. He picked up a long pointy bone and worked it into a hole in a pelvis (a rodent? a bird?) It stayed much better than he expected.
It was getting dark. Ben had a bright little flashlight in his pocket. He didn't stop.
part two
The wind blew harder and harder: the rain fell harder and harder: till it was slicing horizontally through the premature twilight. Ben, soaked past the skin to his bones, wearing only a shirt because his sodden jacket was protecting the bones of dead creatures, made his way as best as he could along the footpath. Usually crowded with walkers, skaters, cyclists, stroller joggers, dogwalkers, jugglers, and surfer voyeurs, the footpath was empty. The waves rattled at the barrier. The ground beneath his feet trembled with the force. This cliff had lost twenty feet in one storm, not so long ago: Ben thought it quite possible that it would do so again today, despite the piles of riprap piled along the coves.
Where was he going? He really didn't know. Not home. Not for this . . . art project. He just kept walking. The storm seemed to be driving the bad mood out of him. What was left was strangely exhilirating. Like the rush from surfing, but he was barely moving against the wild water up here and he'd never try to catch one of those waves down there.
Somehow he had gotten far: past the Lighthouse, past Its Beach, past Mitchell's Cove, past the shuddering blowhole and right up to the end of the footpath looking over Natural Bridges Beach. He wasn't going there. He turned inland here, and with the wind at his back and the wall of water pushing him, he knew where he was going. Antonelli's Pond. It would be deserted and nobody would be there. Maybe a biologist. He could hide from a biologist.
He had nothing to hide. Had he?
Even with the cleansing rain the pond had its requisite rotting willow smell. Good, Ben thought: the earth here would be very potent.
Where were these ideas coming from?
Another good thing about the willows is that they gave him a little protection from the rain. But he was so wet and cold now that it made little difference. Shivering, he examined his pile of bones. Did it matter if they were put together correctly? He thought not: the pictures he had seen the night before seemed to have the bones connected any old way. Of course the pictures he had seen the night before had been carvings, not amalgamations. ANyway, he knew what to do.
He was shaking so hard he could barely get his thumb and little finger together as he was supposed to. He picked up a long pointy bone and worked it into a hole in a pelvis (a rodent? a bird?) It stayed much better than he expected.
It was getting dark. Ben had a bright little flashlight in his pocket. He didn't stop.
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