Tide of Stone Read online

  Tide of Stone

  By

  Kaaron Warren

  Omnium Gatherum

  Los Angeles

  Tide of Stone

  Copyright © 2018 Kaaron Warren

  ISBN-13: 9780615827995

  ISBN-10: 0615827993

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher omniumgatherumedia.com.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Lee Murray editor; Kate Jonez cover design

  First Electronic Edition

  To my parents, for teaching me to think outside the ordinary.

  The Time-Ball Tower of Tempuston houses the worst criminals in history.

  Given the option of the death penalty or eternal life, they chose eternal life.

  They have a long time to regret that choice.

  Phillipa Muskett: The Time Ball Tower Keeper’s Report 2014

  Did you ever have that dream where all your teeth fall out? They say it’s preparation for when you die, so it won’t seem like such a shock.

  There’s something very gentle about death. Not dying itself, but afterwards, when things are calm and empty, when the body is still.

  Perfect photographic subjects.

  I’d miss some, in my year on the Time Ball Tower, on the island, but no matter. Out there, I’d have plenty else to photograph, especially the ancient, immortal prisoners and the tower itself, one hundred and fifty-seven years old, mildewed in places, broken in others.

  I’d have the ocean, the sky, the town itself, all from an almost secretive standpoint, a you’ve forgotten I’m here place.

  Plenty to keep me occupied.

  Still, I made an effort in my last few weeks on dry land to get as many portraits as I could. Just in case.

  It was a busy time, filled with farewells, celebrations, gifts, goodbyes. I’ve started my report early, wanting to record all the things before I forget them. Out there, things will be different.

  We keepers are treated well. I’d miss Tempuston; I loved the town, although I hated it, too. None of us ever really left, no matter how far we went. People tried, mainly women in their early twenties. Sometimes they succeeded, if success can be measured by the fact they never came home again. Some never even called, so severed were the ties.

  I was fortunate to capture Mr. Madden, a couple of days before his death.

  I got up after noon that day as I often did. I liked having the house to myself and ate cheese straight out of the fridge and drank leftover cold coffee. My mother would say warm it up, but I liked it cold. It was bitterer, and I felt the caffeine work in a blood-stripping instant. I’d need it; I had a shift to work in the dementia ward.

  I didn’t mind the job. You had to stay cheery and acting cheery really did cheer you up sometimes. And I quite liked the new start you got with the patients every time you saw them. Even if you let them down, or they snapped at you over something, next time they’re all, “Oh, you pretty young thing!”

  And you could tell them anything. Confess all, get it off your chest, and they wouldn’t remember. They thought you were vibrant because you were upright, and they focused on you intently when they were capable of focus at all.

  I didn’t mind the uniform, either. Crisp, clean, mint green, I wore mine shorter than most. I liked the way my legs looked in it: smooth and brown, even with the awful white flat shoes we had to wear.

  And it’s quiet, mostly. None of them have the voice to be loud anymore.

  I signed in just before one. They were finishing their lunch, old jaws working at soft food, old fingers clutching napkins. Old heads nodding.

  None of them knew the time, but still, at 1:05 everyone held their breath. Not a soul in the town did otherwise. No matter where you were, you listened for the Time Ball to drop, and then the day could continue.

  All of us did it. Once a day, every day, at 1:05. It was part of us. Even away from Tempuston, we did it.

  The Ball dropped.

  “I’m heading out to the Tower in a couple of weeks,” I told Mr. Madden as I settled him and photographed him. “What year were you there?”

  His eyes cleared for a moment.

  “1942. Being out there’ll change your life. You think us lot are bad. Wait’ll you see them.”

  “I don’t think you’re bad. You lot are fun. But I’ve always wondered what the face of pure evil looked like.”

  “No different than anyone else to look at if you don’t know the truth about them. You know who’s over there? Hidden? You’ll have to look.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, a terrible lot. Hitler. Mussolini. Francisco Lopez. They didn’t die at all; they’re over there waiting for you. Don’t go looking for them, though. If you find them…”

  He nodded sagely, but his vision shifted slightly, and I wondered if he was hiding something. Or if he was simply forgetting.

  “Anyone else?” I asked.

  But he was gone, his mouth flapping, pointing at dust motes.

  As kids, we told stories about this. The worst monsters of all time live in the basement over there. You don’t go too far down, or you’ll be eaten alive. We used to say the Grade Five teacher slept out there. She was terrifying. Spittle flew when she spoke, and she hated every child she ever taught.

  She left, mid-year. Had enough of the awful children, people said.

  I cleaned up and walked down to Burnett Barton’s room. He hated when I came smelling of the rest of the ward. It made him envious, wishing for the company of even a dementia ward. But no one wanted him out there. He was better off way at the end of the hall, alone, where people could forget he existed except when they needed him. Sometimes they came seeking advice; sometimes they used him as a wailing wall, a confessional, font of knowledge. His slow, drawn-out speech meant not many had the patience to sit and listen to him finish a sentence, let alone a whole series of them, but still they came. He was so old, the first of our Preserved, and the idea that he wouldn’t die, that he couldn’t, imbued him with a sense of wisdom he may or may not have deserved.

  The room was bright and glary with sunlight. He lay on top of his bedclothes, dressed in soft tracksuit pants and a long-sleeved shirt whose cuffs reached his fingertips. I was the only one who bought him new clothes. I found them in the children’s section, usually. He was once a big man, but decades had shrunk him. His eyes were yellow, his hair pale strands. His fingernails grew quickly, and I was the only one who could bear to cut them. His ears leaked green earwax, so we kept them stopped up with cotton wool. He was mostly deaf, anyway.

  Burnett had a long thin neck. It didn’t look like a swan’s though. It looked like a petrified piece of rubber piping.

  I tried to drape a sheet over his legs, but he breathed out, ehhh, and I knew he wanted me to stop fidgeting.

  Burnett Barton did not like bedclothes. The weight hurt him, he said, although the doctors were sure he could feel nothing.

  Truth is all that matters, but of course one person’s truth may differ from another’s.

  Nurses were supposed to take care of the medical stuff. But it was mostly me. They all made it clear I was just an aide, but they left a lot of the Burnett work to me. I did a lot more, too, above and beyond. I’d been visiting him since I was a kid, because who he was, what he was, fascinated me.

  “Do you want to do some work today, Burnett?” I asked. I lifted my notepad. “We could get
some words down on your book, if you’re in a nostalgic mood.” I reached out to hold his hand. Stroke his arm. I’d be in the Time Ball Tower soon, if things went as planned, and it was good to acclimatize to touching bodies like his. His skin was dry, flaccid, and it hung off his bones as if he carried no flesh at all. I squeezed tighter and felt no veins, no muscle, no tone at all.

  “Here,” I said. I put a pencil under his fingers (one of his favorites, sharpened to a dangerous point). Sometimes it helped to inspire him.

  I poured a glass of water for myself. With a dash of vodka. If it worked for Dad, it worked for me and forget about lessons learnt or whatever. I pulled out my camera and snapped some shots of Burnett from different angles. I had photos going back fifteen years and one day I’d collate them all, looking for changes.

  As he spoke, I tidied his bed, placed his hands on his chest, ate some chocolate and gazed at the spider webs in the corner of the room.

  I dusted the clocks that ticked on every surface.

  “Read—to—me.”

  He hadn’t spoken for days, so his voice was scratchy and slower than ever.

  “How about this one?” I held up an early volume, the one that laid out the history of his old village. I’d helped him with it, typing it up, printing it out. I’d done it a number of times, because he kept changing his mind.

  In one version, something helped him climb out of the sunken church.

  A giant tree, he says sometimes. At others, he talks of a crucifix, bending in the middle to make it easier to climb out. In some versions, he helped children. Saved a dozen lives, carrying them all like a strongman at the circus. But that lie made him cry because it was so far from the truth. Burnett did this often. Confused the story of his town. Burnt? Drowned? Who knew?

  “God—guided—us—through—the—collapse—of—the—earth.”

  “I thought it was a flood.”

  “The—flood—led—to—the—ground—turning—into—a—sinkhole. You’ve—seen—that?—It—happens—all—the—time.”

  Yet one side of his face, across both shoulders, both palms and his right arm were all badly scarred from burning. He’d muttered once, “From when my village died in a fire.”

  I hadn’t asked again. I was young, that first time, and still believed I could ask any question and have it answered.

  He said, “All we have is our story telling. All that’s left to us is our voices.” He said this often.

  

  The ward shuffled and snored. Many of the residents were up and wandering, but there were no staff to be seen, except my friend Renata, who was going into Mr. Madden’s room. She loves the nightshift. I love it, too. The quiet. You’re mostly left alone. And the patients are quite sweet when they’re asleep. I imagined this was a favorite time for patients who stayed awake, too. Moments of freedom.

  I figured I’d talk to Renata later. We could grab a coffee and some fruit salad, catch up on the gossip. Bitch about our mothers.

  Renata was born a day after me and we were close as kids, before we realized how far apart our families sat politically. We still hung out a bit, partly because we both worked on the dementia ward, partly because of all we shared.

  Night had fallen, and the glow of stars gave a depth to Burnett’s room that it didn’t have during the day. The windows were high in the wall, eaved, so they barely let in the sunlight.

  Burnett sat in the near-dark. It was never completely dark in his room. He had no curtains, and his eyes reflected moonlight. “Are you awake?” I said.

  “Read the tortoise story to me.

  He always wanted this one from his own work of history.

  1810CE

  In this village, there were people who could turn into tortoises. Tortoises are slow moving. Slow growing. Slow thinking. You could say this of the people of Little Cormoran.

  Only one tortoise man lived by 1810. His name is no longer remembered. He would transform himself to get out of school or duties on the farm or at work. As a tortoise, he’d walk so slowly through the village that by the time he got to his destination the work was done. A lazy man and thick-skinned, he didn’t care what people said or thought about him.

  But he carried a heaviness in his chest that he complained about, boring the other villagers, making them lose any sympathy they may have had for him.

  He never married. He never saw a doctor, even when the growth on his chest became obvious to all, pressing out in an unpleasant bulge.

  He was four hundred years old when he was murdered. A disgruntled employer, perhaps? They’d slashed his throat. Cut his wrists. Opened his chest. Made him bleed from many places. He crawled around and around the village, dragging himself along in his tortoise form.

  “My stone,” he said. “My heart.”

  It took five days for him to die. At last, he crawled in among the seven stones, and they could not get him out for the longest of times.”

  Burnett had a small tortoise in a terrarium on a shelf above his head. I was tempted to set it free; it barely had room to move and I hated looking at it. I’d asked him about it, why he kept it when he couldn’t see it, couldn’t touch it, and it was surely unhappy. “I know he’s there, even though I can’t see him. He belongs to me completely. That is the way to prove love.”

  “He’s not as old as the man in your story, is he?” I said. “What do you mean when you say, ‘My stone. My heart.’ What’s that about?”

  Burnett closed his eyes. “Every—old—tortoise—has—one.” He clutched at his heart.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Stone—sits—heavy—some—days.”

  “What stone?”

  His tongue protruded, and I dropped some water on it.

  “Stone?” he said.

  “The stone you just mentioned.”

  “I—knew—your—grandmother—when—she—was—a—young—girl,” Burnett Barton said. “She—reminded—me—of—Harriet.”

  Harriet was my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.

  “Such—a—beauty.—A—darling,” he said. “I—adored—her, —and—I—proved—it.”

  I didn’t want to ask him how he proved it. I didn’t want to think about my parents having sex, let alone something as old as he was.

  “Ehhh,” he said again. He pointed at his bedside table, but I wasn’t touching that. He had disgusting things in there.

  “Which thing?”

  “Ehh,” he said, pointing. “Harriet—gave—me—that.—Undying—love.”

  It was a supermarket scented candle, not more than five years old. There was no way Harriet, who’d disappeared a hundred and forty-something years ago, could have given it to him. His desire to believe their love was eternal overrode any sensible thought.

  “Every—man—should—be—loved—like—that,” he said, lifting a finger to point at his heart.

  There were opaque drops in the corners of his eyes and I recognized them as tears. He wasn’t capable of real tears, so it was like watching a memory of crying. As if he imagined doing it so powerfully that it almost happened. Maybe his heart wasn’t made of stone, after all.

  If I let the droplets sit there for an hour or so, they’d be solid enough for me to collect.

  His lip curled slightly over his toothless gums and I wondered what he was thinking.

  I said, “Did you actually marry Harriet? On paper or…in the biblical sense?’

  His lip curled further. “A—gentleman—never—tells.”

  Regardless of how he worded it, I didn’t think Harriet had liked him much.

  I placed the candle on his chest and lifted his hand to rest on it. He tilted his head slightly and sniffed the candle. It was cypress, woody and spicy, but the scent was faint.

  I snapped another quick shot of him. One of my projects was capturing emotion; here was nostalgia, a heartache for something that never really was.

  I took a sip of water.

  He coughed in irritation.

  “What
did she think of you?” I asked.

  “I—slipped—into—her—good—books—by—displaying—good—deeds.”

  “And concealing the bad ones?”

  “I—did—none.”

  I was unconvinced by this.

  “She—never—forgave—me—for—the—tower.—She—used—to—say,—‘Still—and—all,—we—should—not—have—done—what—we—did.—God—will—decide—what—will—become—of—us.’—Ironic—given—her—abandonment—of—us.

  “She—used—to—chitter—chitter,—like—an—insect.—Such—an—annoying—sound.—Did—I—ever—miss—hearing—that?—I—did—not.—All—the—ladies—are—gone.—Only—me.—Eternal.—But—she—is—mine—forever—nonetheless.”

  “Does the treatment hurt? Is it really that painful?” I had asked Burnett this many times. It was always on my mind.

  “I—don’t—remember.—Yes.—Your—body—separates—from—itself—or—so—it—feels.”

  On his bedside table was a small framed quote. He waved his arm (tried to wave his arm) at it.

  I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. John 10:28

  “You know they’re talking about Heaven, right? Not life on Earth?”

  But his eyes were closed. His notes said, There is a prescription for long life. Sleep. Salt. Breathe well.

  “Is that it?” I asked him every time I could. We all knew there was more to it than that.

  His eyelids slid open and closed. He nodded.

  I wasn’t sure that was true, but even his lies helped me prepare for a year on the rocks.

  “No—one—should—outlive—as—many—as—I—have.—I’ll—outlive—you,—too,” he said to me. Was he boasting, or envious?

  I set alight some incense. The smell of him was subtle, but after a while it became overpowering. I hummed to take my mind off it, and he closed his eyes, waved his fingers slowly, meaning, be quiet.