What Lies Beneath

Of course, he'd heard the tales before. A vessel, centuries old, bested by a rogue storm, a roaming gang of pirates, a sudden westerly wind...

He didn't believe any of it. People have always talked, and talk is just that. Words whispered by candlelight in shadowed parlours were rarely backed by the harsh reality of daylight. He would never let a shaky rumour stop him from visiting the best beach in Penwith, much less a collection of stories that barely followed any common theme.

His bravery was uncommon among the people of the sleepy village, for most were unable to set aside superstitions so deeply engraved into the fibre of the land. For that reason, few dared to cross the sands, despite the plentiful bounties of the narrow cove. No matter, he thought, for there were no fish as sweet as those from its shady waters.

A dull echo of boot against cobble resounded through the sloping street, and he steadied himself with his hands as a descended. He passed a bench adorned with drooping orchids, slowing to read the inscription. Another death, he mused to himself. No doubt somebody would find a way to tie it into the murky stories of long ago. All the more fish for him, he thought with a smile.

Nearing the end of the road, he trotted towards the taupe sands, feet sinking into the saturated dunes. Dense fog rolled across the bay, coating the horizon with a smoky haze. He wrapped his thick cloak tighter with a shudder, hoping the early morning sun sneaking over the clouds would dispel his miseries before too long.

Creak.

That's odd, he thought to himself, but paid the mysterious sound no further attention. After all, the harbour was not so far away that such a sound was unusual. The gentle lapping of the water's edge set his mind at ease, and he continued picking his way across the sullen landscape.

Snap.

He whipped his head around to the direction of the noise, stopping in his tracks. A decrepit boat stern pierced the fog, slashing into the sand before coming to rest at his feet. Tattered sails fluttered in the wind, their garnet hue contrasting the rotting oak planks.

A slatey grey anchor descended rapidly into the ground, its chain swinging violently from side to side with a shudder. The ship groaned against its tether, writhing in the sea foam before coming to rest against the rocks.

In the distance, gulls squawked menacingly, before circling and descending upon the wreckage. In a flutter of wings they departed, their scaly prizes flopping hopelessly between sharp mustard beaks.

The sight of fish lured him out of his revere, and he remembered his morning's intentions. If this old lump of wood contained fish aplenty, then he'd be damned if he were going to give it up, sinister appearances and all.

With a start, he found himself moving forward, his boots no longer filled with the concrete of fear, rather the helium of foolish hope. As he neared the stricken vessel, a deep pungence infiltrated his nostrils – a sickening sweetness that could only mean one thing. Fish. Fish for days.

He hauled himself onto the decaying relic with a grunt, shifting his weight between his feet as he surveyed the strange intrusion. Upon closer inspection, the vessel featured a copper sextant, of a type not commonly seen upon more modern ships, yet the bolts and nuts of its construction still retained their perfect metallic sheen.

Wondering absent mindedly to himself why someone would equip a boat with such dated tools, he approached the fish storage hold. Apprehension leaving his mind, he descended excitedly into the dimly lit space. This is what he was here for.

At first glance, nothing appeared remiss. Shelves lined the densely packed area, stacked with slimy oblong shapes. Reaching out, he brushed the shapes with his fingertips, taking in their texture. Smooth and fibrous, they pulsed rhythmically under his palms.

Curious, he pondered, wondering which fish species had scales so miniature they formed such a smooth surface. No matter, the more exquisite the specimen, a finer price it would fetch. So unusually smooth...

Clunk.

He jolted with a start, the sharp noise collapsing the silence that had previously eclipsed the cove, a dagger through the heart of quiet. Straining his eyes, he realised that the hatch above had slammed in the wind, enclosing him in the space. His breath quickened, catching in his throat. Pushing his palms against the hatch achieved little, and he flopped down with a sigh, considering his options.

No sooner than he reached the ground, a ghostly glow emanated from between shelves, illuminating the cavity in a pale gold light, and flickering daintily in an unobservable breeze.

Casting his eyes over his newly illuminated surroundings revealed something so unexpected that he felt his stomach churn violently. Fighting to keep his breakfast, he noticed a slight swaying rocking the battered hull gently, somewhat like a mother would a baby.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, willing the new horror his vision had granted him to vanish. Upon opening them, he was once again greeted by the grotesque vision that plagued his mind.

Resting upon the shelves lay several hunks of flamingo pink meat, throbbing fiercely in time with the rhythmic motions of the ocean against the vessel. Thin tendrils snaked sneakily around creaky beams, before nesting themselves within piles of foul offal. Wisps of hair twisted between flesh, forming a nightmarish kaleidoscope of pink, blonde and brown.

It was like nothing he had ever seen before. Like nothing anyone had ever seen before. Of course, he had seen fish guts before, their putrid sweetness never so great than in fish from this beach, but fish was no match for what rested before him.

Lurching powerfully forward, the ship grumbled into motion. He heard a clang of metal, realising that the anchor must have become retracted. Before long, the swell of the ocean carried them away, stealing them into the fog. Silently, it wrapped its hazy arms around the boat, crushing it into a blurred embrace.

A drip, gurgle and splash filled the cramped cabin, followed by an icy blue fluid, swirling around his feet. Panic filled the air, consuming him. He beat his fists against the hatch, against the walls, against the shelves, until crimson merged with indigo, and his hands throbbed with salinity.

After the panic came the calm. He sunk into the water; energy depleted. The flickering light danced fervently until it too was extinguished, swallowed by the insatiable blue. Darkness swept into the waterlogged compartment, sweeping the curtains closed on the repugnant scene.

~-~-~-~

Few dared to enter the ghastly cove, for everyone knew the tales. But fortuity shines on the daring, and never more so in the days after tragedy.

Everyone knew: the days in which the fish of the sea tasted the sweetest, were the days just after a fresh disappearance. Most would grow comfortable with the assertion that it must be something in the water, never daring to question further.

For is it admirable bravery, inexcusable foolishness or bleak desperation that powers the few beyond the bounds of the sands?