Of Glens and Ghosts

Of Glens and Ghosts - Chapter Five

Chapter Five

"The Ghosts in the Sand"

(Nicole's POV)

The sounds of crashing waves and flying, grey herons softly calling to their lovers filled my ears—swelling through the salty, gritty air and into the corners of my mind—to a place as hauntingly unfamiliar to me as the ocean is to a seasoned marine biologist. It almost sounded as if the herons were speaking to me, begging me to wake up and open my eyes by crying out, as if they had missed me earlier. 'It was a preposterous idea,' I concluded. 'Silly me for even thinking that a heron was making those voices. Birds such as herons cannot talk in fluent English.' And so, my eyes continued to remain as shut as they could be. After all, how could I possibly be missed by a bird when I am clearly human? But the voices continued to become louder and more vocal—calling out to me as though the herons were in the very core of my soul. 'Please—go away from my mind—I don't know where I am or who you are!' I yelled, thinking out loud in hopes that it would make the noises stop and the grittiness in the air leave me to rest in peace. And then, out of the blue, a voice that was so close, and so clear that I felt I could reach out in front of me to touch its face quietly whispered, 'Nicole, it is time to wake up.'

My eyes snapped open, stinging from the humid, rolling sea breeze. Coarse grains of white sand fell lightly from my fingers as I shielded my vision from the bright, grey clouds, billowing in the skies above the banks of an empty, deserted beach. I looked around at the canopy of trees above my head that blew in with the cold, limpid tides that foamed in small pools around my feet. "Tristian!" I called, cupping my hands around my mouth. "Where are you? Where are we? Where is anyone?" No response came. I tried again, and again, and again—shouting from almost all directions until my lungs gave out—with no sign of Tristian or anyone else around. Sighing, I trudged onwards for what felt like as many hours as there were grains of sand on the bank, sinking and rising softly with each step—until I found it.

Just ten steps in front of me stood an immaculate sculpture made from smooth sand and had been pressed together firmly into a female figure. Her long, balmy hair flowed with youth like the ocean waves—and yet they appeared to look as weathered and old as a sunken warship on the sea's floor. She stared deep into my eyes with every ounce of gentle determination as I wished for myself to receive, as though she knew more about me than I knew myself. Her hand stretched out towards my ears, as if the statue was reaching for something behind me. I couldn't stand it anymore, I just had to know who put her here, and if this sculpture somehow held the answers to my problems buried within her. "Who are you? Where did you come from?" I asked, reaching out to touch her face. 'Are you the one who called me from out of sleep?' All of a sudden, I felt something touch my foot. It was a large, conch seashell with a purple exterior, which had a strange inscription on it that I could not quite understand. I placed it within her outstretched palm, but again, no answers came.

Rain began to patter across the waves, creating little damp dots on the sandy ground. "Why can't I just find out who I—who you are supposed to be?" I cried at the statue, kicking the sand from under my feet as I shook with frustration. "I've done my best to figure my life out and fit into the world—but now I'm by myself in a new, strange land where there are weird talking birds and ominous, sandy sculptures! And yet I'm still expected to have all of the answers and be myself like an adult as well as be myself which is already difficult, and yet I'm stuck here with you and unable to understand ANYTHING!" I shouted, with my misty eyes now storming with agitation. I felt like I was losing my mind while yelling at this random statue. I looked back into her beige irises with desperation in my heart. As the rain fell on us like hardened teardrops during the first spring storm, the sculpture began to deteriorate rapidly in the violent wind. "Hey—where are you going? I cannot do this by myself!—Come back!" I cried, grabbing hold of its head to try and salvage its remains. But it was too late, for what was once a face of strength in the storm had now slipped through my fingers as quickly as the rolling of the tides. I fell down to my knees, feeling like I had broken into two pieces, finally letting the dusk take me anywhere but here.