And the wind blew

Intended for children ages 11 to 12 years old.

The cliffs around this part of the coastline are tall and white. Waves constantly chew away at the chalk leaving rubble on the thin shingle beach like crumbs on a plate of dad's favourite cheese.

I liked to walk along the cliff top, as mum would often say, to clear out the cobwebs. I needed to escape the unspoken and menacing tension at home. It felt like I was in a no-mans-land in the middle of some uneasy truce in my parent's own private war. I couldn't help feeling that they were only staying together because of me, and to discover new and inventive ways of hurting each other. So, whenever I could, I came out to walk through the grass and scrub to where the land ended and the sea's domain started.

Venturing closer to the cliffs, away from where the Painted Lady and Red Admiral butterflies waltzed together, to where the black-tipped gulls swooped and dived. Drawn irresistibly ever close to the fragile edge by some submerged Sea-God. As I stood with my toes at the end of the world, looking down at the rhythmic pounding of the waves on the shore, I felt the sea's untamed presence all around.

Even up here I could taste and smell the moist, salty breath of the sea. I heard it rushing past my ears howling and groaning and felt it grabbing at my clothes. The gulls circled around, catching updrafts to surge up the cliff. Laughing and screeching at me, all manic and wild-eyed.

I kicked a stone and watched as it tumbled in a steep arc towards the foam and wondered what it would be like to fall from this height. How long would it take? Would time flash by or go in slow motion? The pounding in my ears almost drowned out the gusts of air and screaming gulls. What if you changed your mind halfway down?

I stepped back from the edge and turned away from the mocking birds to look towards the cottage. Sturdy flint-grey stonework under the slate roof gave it a stubborn, squat, appearance as it crouched, hunkering down, its face towards the sea in defiance. The paint on the window frames and front door was weathered and scarred by the elements.

A girl sat on a bench in front of the cottage. She waved and I nodded back. Like me she was slight and blond, though where my hair was fiercely scraped and tied back and hers flowed freely around her pale shoulders. A tartan rug was across her legs and I noticed that under the tasselled hem shiny callipers imprisoned her legs. I must have been staring because, when she caught my eye again, she smiled a sad, embarrassed, smile. I turned my head away in shame.

A sea of grasses dotted with small islands of coarse bushes surrounded the house. The breeze played on them like the waves on the sea behind me. Stronger gusts sent grassy breakers crashing against the cottage. They broke upon the girl, sending her rug flapping. Slowly she spread her arms wide, her fingers testing the air like the white wingtips of a fledgling albatross eager to break its earthly bonds. She leaned her long thin neck back and let the breeze toss her hair about into a shimmering golden halo. Closing her eyes she smiled, and flew.

I felt my heart skip a beat and turned back to face the sea.

I closed my eyes to the sea's stinging breath that coated me in a salty rind and sent tears rolling towards my ears. Escaped strands of my hair whipped at my face. I opened my mouth to taste my lips and my breath was sucked out with a moan. I felt light-headed with exhilaration, as if I was being lifted like a kite on a string. I spread my arms wide and let the wind take me, stretching the last earthly restraints that grasped at my legs like flailing hands, until at last...

…I was free!

I soared upward. Away from the hard land, angry sea and on into the bright sky above.

The seagulls cried with surprise and excitement and the wind blew.

(700 words)


© Mark Ashton 2004