Night Watchers

Night Watchers

Dedicated to

Goog and TJ

Published at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Miles Rothwell

Cover photo by Rich Niewiroski Jr.(Creative Commons license)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

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2

3

4

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7

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10

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22

Other Titles

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1

The rocky outcrop looked bereft of life. At night land and sea were almost indistinguishable. Even the top of the Amok temple was lost in the dark. There was a storm in the distance, but with no thunder, just the distant split of lightning. The sea was restless. Powerful waves pounded thick black plugs of volcanic rock that stood resolute near the shore.

The island itself was unremarkable. Its location was not particularly important in the archipelago. There were no abundant natural resources. There was no strategic importance, as far as anyone could tell. It was not very large compared to the other islands in the vicinity. Its only feature was a long extinct volcano. The black volcanic rock was everywhere giving evidence of a once dramatic eruption, but there were no myths to confirm or deny this.

However the people who lived on the island did have a cultural mythology to draw upon. There was no sense of the existence of a supreme being. Life was lived in the moment and then you died.

Out to sea the sky was ablaze with stars shimmering through the sea spray mist as small hand crafted fishing boats made their way back from their nocturnal trawling. The boats struggled, as they lurched and bounced, under the weight of their bounty. It was the time of year when swordfish, barracuda and tuna were abundant in the passages between the outer islands.

The sound of halyards clinking could be heard as a fisherman kept vigil on his catch. The boat was full, past capacity, and they still had a way to go. He looked at his friend, who was guiding the helmsman into the inlet, trying avoiding the sea wall. There was one area of concern; a reef that plateaued only a few feet below the surface. To avoid it they would have to plough through a small gap between sharp plugs of volcanic rock. There was little wind so progress was slow.

Birds circled above as the boats neared the shore. The helmsman looked ahead and rubbed his tired arms. It had been a long night and he was settling into a post-trawling haze of doing a good night’s work with the prospect of selling plenty of fish.

He stared at the water splashing against the side of the boat. It looked like the ocean was trying to prevent the boat from reaching the shore. His thoughts were drowned out by the constant rhythm of the deep dark beast. The sea spray washed his face as the squawking gulls stayed in sync with the bounce of the boat hitting the surface.

Although tired and trapped by the elements around him, he was content. He could see small clumps of lights on the shore. ‘People waking up,’ he thought.

High above the shoreline a compound of bungalows had been built to accommodate the influx of foreigners who flocked to the area to dive and swim amongst the many coral ledges.

Unseen, but there watching, was the massive structure that dominated the landscape. Even in the dark, the bamboo scaffolding stretched towards the sky. Each day seemed to bring with it some new addition that made it all the more startling and bewildering. None of the boat crew could shed any light on its purpose for it looked nothing like anything any of them had ever seen.

For the locals, anything foreign took on a personality of its’ own. It was their way of dealing with the unknown. Fear and suspicion were soothed by giving the thing from outside a personality or a face, but not a name, for names were sacred, and could only be dispensed by an elder.

Whatever it was that ‘Whitey’ was building was soon forgotten as the moment they needed to be alert was fast approaching so they all half-stood, giving directions to avoid the underwater reef.

The tide was coming in so caution was the key. The helmsman re-positioned his hand on the tiller. He had just enough grip, not too hard, so his wrist and forearm were loose. He was experienced enough to remain calm and had trust in his guides so he started to concentrate on their hands. He watched his friend on the starboard side raise his left hand and with gentle flicks of his fingers direct them away from the rocks, while his friend on the port side used his right hand to do the same, so by watching the two signals at once he plotted a course safely through the gap.

All this was done in silence, as speaking was not considered very important as people were encouraged to keep their thoughts to themselves. This practice was seen as a sign of humility and respect.

The sound of the water lapping against the rocks emphasised the precarious position they were in. Even though they had passed this way many times before, they never underestimated the danger of navigating a full boat around the black plugs of volcanic rock.

Easing past the danger area, the boat was steered under the small mainsail as the onshore breeze picked up and started pushing them across the rise of waves behind the break and parallel to the shore.

They would head north for a little longer before turning into a sheltered inlet where they could run their boats ashore to transfer their catch into large plastic tubs for the local kitchen hands to carry up the slope to the main road where small vans would take the supply of fish to the restaurants along the shore.

Then after checking their nets and securing the boats it would be home to have breakfast before the children went to school and a few drinks of Draka before sleeping till mid-afternoon.

2

The night was almost over. It was time to return. To where they didn’t know, they would never know. They weren’t even aware of their own existence.

All that was known was the vigil was always constant. There was no sense or appreciation of good or bad. With little space to manoeuvre, their large bloated frames took a long time to move; their bald heads merging around each other.

One of the smallest was having trouble moving, so a bigger presence was required. It took a while to get the hang of positioning the form around with so little room to move.

With the onset of light they were being drawn into what can only be described as a cave but there was something wrong; this small one was not moving and if something wasn’t done soon then the consequences would be everything that they were in existence to avoid. To say this was causing an indeterminable amount of anxiety would be an understatement.

There were no words, just a hint or a suggestion etched out of pure existence; the structure that kept the night from imploding. There was however, a sound; a vibration with no personality or texture. There was no free will, no demonstrable notion of intent, just a fluctuation of the very essence of stillness.

This noise, however it was perceived, was gaining momentum and rippling through the others, for there were others, who were struggling with the ambiguity that the delay was causing. It would be fair to say that nothing was or could have prepared them for such an occurrence. Anxiety fuelled by uncertainty equals chaos and that was exactly what was about to happen.

The others could resist no more. There were pressing matters at hand. The group must assemble shortly, and by normal standards there was a gap to fill. This was no time to be non-compliant.

The largest one bent down to see the small opening. Without a sound the smallest one looked up, his shiny bald head reflecting the dawn light. The absence of movement was causing frustration.

The possibility of continuing on regardless was immediately dismissed. The older ones who helped escort and mentor were converging to their positions.

Continuity was demanded and assuming the command would encapsulate the entirety of the cause, effects and consequences of their duty, there was a pre-supposition that the collective view would always illicit blind loyalty.

Nevertheless they kept checking to make sure all were ready. They thrust forward and to the collective horror large amounts of them were already converging along the edge. Light was almost upon them

They gathered at the entrance, chewing at the surrounding air. They rushed to meet the steady stream that took up positions along the side of the escarpment and waited for the Sun to rise.

Further into the night others waited patiently until the space they had been holding up started to fade into a bluish grey pre-dawn murk.

Along the edge of the light all seemed ready. They shuttled out of sight as knowledge of anything else was lost until they came back into view.

There was no sense of place or time. Their shapes merged with the others but with no reference to any of them. For all they knew there was nothing else. There were no thoughts, and time was irrelevant.

There was no precedent for a shape not moving and if there had been any perception of consequences they would have seen a small tear of darkness where there should have been light.

3

On the eastern shore not far from the marketplace, marquees were being erected for the ceremony later that day. People washed down the footpaths with rain water collected from the night before.

The small road side temples were attended to by young women dressed in hand made traditional cotton blouses and flowing skirts painstakingly sewed and dyed with a multitude of bright colours. Certain colours signified aspects of their heritage. Green and brown were worn by girls who had made the transition to womanhood, while the yellows, pinks and blues were for girls who still lived at home. Patterns and inscriptions along the hems showcased not only their craftsmanship but also detailed certain historical events etched in time.

Married women wore headwear that matched their flowing colourful robes. Sewing was considered an art form with the most skilled practitioners held in the highest esteem. It was common for young girls to learn the skill as a necessary task to repair clothes and ceremonial flags but for some it was considered their life’s work, honing their skills to create a level of stitch making that was durable, pleasant to look at and if done correctly would create patterns of stitching that were so complicated that they were shown with pride.

Young women were treasured. Their place in village life was paramount for they held the future of the village in their bodies. Young boys when finished with school usually joined the men in the fields or gravitated to the towns along the coast in search of work.

Ceremonies involved the whole village, and it was the young women under the watchful eyes of the older women that kept the roadside temples free of rubbish and vagabonds.

They placed beautiful fragrant flowers on the upper most level of the temples, scrubbed off the bird droppings and made sure the offerings were replenished twice a day.

The temples were made of clay bricks, had no roof and were accessible from an entry always from the east. Inside there was enough room for two or three people or just enough room for an itinerant to curl up and sleep. They were enclosed by two walls with a gap facing west which allowed the Night Watchers to move freely within and out of the structure.

Long shards of incense were placed along the battlements of the temples and offerings of biscuits, oranges and salted peanuts were placed in bowls on the lower levels. In the middle were facial reliefs of past family members, who were eulogised and worshipped as they overlooked all that went on in the villages.

Children rode bicycles along the promenade; laughing and shouting as they passed the small huts purveying