Filed To Story: Wild Dark Shore Book PDF Free by Charlotte McConaghy
Rowan
When my mother found out she was dying, she did not book plane tickets to travel the world. She didn’t plan retreats to day spas or buy concert tickets. She didn’t sell her things with abandon and move to a remote location, nor did she contact past loves or old friends. She didn’t write letters to her children. She watched television. I didn’t know what else to do, so I watched it with her. We sat on her couch and we watched every show we could think of and hundreds of movies, and we didn’t say much to each other, and months passed, and then she died.
I gave away my own TV after that. Said it was because I had watched more than any one human should watch in a lifetime, but really it was because I couldn’t stomach it. I would switch it on and I’d be back there, sitting with my mother, sick inside from all the unsaid things and with the noise of it always in the background, even while I slept, even in my dreams. It was panic, that feeling. Panic at the nearness of death, at its thickness upon the air.
I fight that same panic now, in this lighthouse, among strangers. It is hard not to feel trapped. Hard not to let my mind flap at the edges of my body, trying to escape the sinking feeling that something isn’t right. I do not know why he hasn’t contacted anyone for help. And I’m not sure I believe there is no one else on this island and no way off it; I will have to discover the truth of this for myself.
I find a broom and use it to help me walk. I have done almost nothing but lie in bed for a week and now I am off to the pinch and the research base. I don’t care if it’s too soon, I can’t lie still any longer. The girl in whose room I am staying is a little smaller than me, so all her clothes
feel too tight, too short. In her boots, my little toes curl in and soon they are throbbing. But I have the vodka and I sip it as I limp my way across the grassy hill. The first bottle is long since finished but I convinced Orly to steal me another. He told me “There will be a reckoning for this,” which was both amusing and terrifying from a nine-year-old. Each step pulls at my bad side, at the torn skin trying its hardest to knit back together, and by the time I have made it to the edge of the headland I can feel fresh blood trickling down my leg.
I lift my layers to reveal that the bandage around my hips has soaked through; the stiches in a particularly tender wound have come open. I straighten and consider my options. From here, I can see the pinch. Way down at the bottom of this mountainous rise. Down by the sea. There doesn’t look to be any clear path to it, just a series of steep drops and mounds of thick tussock to traverse around. I could go back. Ask Dom to help fix the stitches. Ask him again why he hasn’t sent out an SOS.
Instead I grit my teeth and keep going. Stubbornness, maybe, but also fear.
What the fuck was I thinking when I got on that boat.
The descent is painful; my knees and ankles don’t like it. Soon I am panting with the effort, swigging the vodka, keeping on. When the wind hits I have to pause. The force of it is mind-blowing, it must be traveling at well over a hundred kilometers an hour. Moving against it is too difficult and very dangerous-several times I am nearly swept right off the hill-so I curl myself into the protected side of a mound to wait for it to slow. I watch the lumpy grasses dance, their edges flashing from silver to green and back again like a light show. The sound is a deep, hollow roar. Gulls of different sizes fly overhead, their wings catching the pockets. I can see dark shag-type birds and something smaller, more darting. I sit for a long time and I think I catch sight of an albatross wheeling past, its white wings much wider than those of the other birds, its flight a graceful glide without a single flap.
The wind eases and I continue on. I reach a natural slope that takes me down to the pinch, where the various buildings of the research base are scattered.
I am on flatter ground now, and there are foot-worn pathways snaking through the tall mounds. Snuffles and grunts come from either side of me, and I am astonished to see heads poking up from behind the grass: seals are lying hidden among it, close enough for me to touch if I wanted to. I am stunned at their size, and their colors, too, ranging from the grays I think of seals being to different shades of tan and mustard yellow. Their bodies are enormous and heavy; I have no idea how they flop themselves out of the sea and across this lumpy ground. Their eyes are liquid and bottomless and I stop to stare.
“Hello,” I say to one of them, and it gives a deep, rumbling gurgle that makes me jump. I decide to give them as wide a berth as I can on the narrow paths.
I emerge from the tussock mounds and see that the last leg of the walk will take me across the beach.
A long expanse of black silty sand is strewn with what the sea has rejected. Bright red-orange kelp, tubular and alien looking. Bleached white bones and teeth, so big I know they must belong not only to the seals but to whales, too. The ocean is very rough and loud in my ears.
My eyes scan for any boats I might use to sail home, but even if I were to spot any it’s foolish to think I could captain one over a tumultuous ocean. I am far from a sailor and what’s more, I have been terrified of the sea since long before Yen’s boat wrecked.
I turn away and take in the island instead. Tall green mountains, their tops shrouded in gray mist. Rocky cliffs. There is a prehistoric feel to it. An overwhelming sense of the ancient, of time, and of something chilling. It is the bones, I think, and the bloodiness of the kelp, the black sand, it’s the colors and the isolation and the outlandishness of the animals, the mist, I feel overwhelmed by the place, and despite its beauty I am frightened.
I put my head down and hurry for the base, soon forced to wade through shin-deep water. I don’t think it’s high tide; the time is wrong. It’s as Raff said: this island is no longer safe.
It’s an immense relief to close the container door behind me and shut out the wind. I’m in the messroom. Tables are laid out in neat
lines, chairs sitting upside down atop them. I put one on the floor and sit wearily, meaning to rest for only a moment but sitting in a daze for some long, unknowable amount of time. The room is homely, with photos all over the walls. I can almost see the researchers eating at these tables, can hear their voices chatting, the scrape of the chairs, the clang of the cutlery on plates, the general din of a makeshift family at mealtime. Without all of that the room feels like a hollow place. The kitchen is attached and has the look of any commercial kitchen, or maybe one on an army base. I drag myself upright to inspect the storeroom, which still contains a fair amount of dry food, but the big fridge has been cleared out and switched off. In fact there’s no power at all. I follow an enclosed tunnel to another container, this one the hospital. Low camp beds line one wall. It’s been left stocked, so I scrounge around for as many pain meds as I can identify, plus disinfectant, more bandages, and antibiotics for infections.
I sit on one of the beds and struggle out of my top layers. I’m freezing, but I have to do something about the wound on my hip. I unroll the bloodied bandage and peel off the plaster. The half-moon-shaped wound is oozing dark blood. I wipe it clean and use butterfly clips to press the edges back together, then apply a clean plaster and a new bandage to hold it all in place. I doubt that will be enough-it’ll probably need proper stitches again-but it’s the best I can do for now. I take the opportunity to change my other bandages for fresh ones and it helps me to feel less disgusting.
With my clothes back on, I move out into the wind, traversing a short stretch of muddy ground to a different set of containers. The first is a science lab. There are cupboards full of jars and bottles, all neatly labeled. Fridges that hang open, their contents presumably compromised by now. Sinks and workbenches and beakers and microscopes. It is so chaotic and crowded-like a lost and found-that I have no idea how they kept track of what was actually in here. Next I find the sleeping quarters. Inside there are beds but no personal items. There is water around my feet, splashing as I walk. The entire base feels like it could float away at any moment.
In a common area is a wall of photos. I cross to it and peer at the
faces. Some of the photos are candid, group shots of smiling team members and staff, photos with the wildlife, a few in the mess hall celebrating Christmas, the New Year’s party. But there are also headshots with names and roles. I read each one, recognizing some. Searching for one in particular. I find him at the end, where he ought to be.
Hank Jones, senior botanist of the Shearwater Island Global Seed Bank, terrestrial ecologist, and research base team leader. A man in his forties, with warm brown eyes, a slightly crooked nose, and a smiling mouth. I’m having a hard time imagining why the team leader of this base would leave before a project was wrapped up, but there is no getting around it: he isn’t here. No one is here.
I pocket the photo and move on.
Night falls. I can’t make that climb in the dark. (I’m not sure I can make it at all, I’ve got myself into a mess here.) Without a working heater in the base, I can feel the temperature dropping. I eat from the storeroom, cold tins of beans and spaghetti, and then I climb into one of the abandoned beds in the sleeping quarters, pulling blankets on top of me.
I don’t sleep. I listen to the ocean lapping at the feet of the bed, imagine it rising up and over me, sliding down my throat and into my lungs. For a moment today I’d had thoughts of moving myself down here until someone from the mainland comes to get me, but now I realize the lighthouse is a fucking resort compared to this place. The sea has claimed the base and there’s no taking it back.
He finds me in the morning. I am pulling on his daughter’s boots when Dominic bursts into the mess hall. He spots me and looks relieved but doesn’t say anything. Instead he goes to the kitchen and makes us both a bowl of oats in long-life milk. We sit in silence and eat it. My jaw starts to ache.
“You find what you came for?” he asks me when we are done.
“No.”
“Thought we’d lied to you.”
“No.” Not exactly. “If everyone had to evacuate then what are you still doing here?”
“Did Orly tell you about the seeds?”
“I can’t get him to stop telling me about the seeds.”
Dom’s mouth quirks. “Did he tell you about the
vault?”
“A bit.”
“I’m gonna guess he didn’t mention it’s being shut down. He’s not happy about it. We’re packing up the seeds. Some of them. When we go, they go too.”
“Where?”
“Smaller seed bank on the mainland.”
I study him. He seems guileless. “And you’re doing this without any supervision?”
He sits back in his chair, his limbs altogether too long for it. “You don’t reckon my kids and I are capable of packing a few boxes?”
“Orly said this is one of the world’s last banks and it has numerous extinct species.”
“Yep, and it’s still just packing boxes.”