The mountain

The mountain was on fire. The clouds above it, light, cumulous clouds drawn up by the daily winds, drawn from the montane forests covered in fog, drawn out of the green fields beneath the mountain, were bathed in a golden, red light from the setting sun. The sea in front of the mountain scintillated and shimmered, drew out the static sunset and cast it in a thousand gems on the surface of the water. The vision was as clear as God.

At my feet, dull and cloudy water lapped like a dog. Her hair, gold and blonde and pale at the temples, dragged out into the sand. It seeped with a new and vibrant red red.

I grabbed the oar with the thin blade, and walked above the tideline. I know it begins to stink after a few days, that you need to bury it above the water level, that the gas would cause the sand to shift and make it easier for the grasping night animals to find. But you work with what you have. After half an hour, she had drifted a couple of meters down the beach, in and out of the small collapsing waves. I grabbed her by the ankles and pulled.

Night had fallen. I sat down for a cigarette. The mountain of the other island was almost gone, a dark bluff on the horizon, a hole in the sky. All of the red had gone out of the world, except for a single flaming cigarette. At my feet, I could see the drag marks, like a turtle’s tracks to lay secret eggs.

Cigarette ended, my oar lay beside me. I picked it up, and went to two palm trees on the beach, held it between them at waist-height, and pulled. It snapped like a bone. I took the two sides, tied them together with twine, and grabbed a sharpie from my bag. On the thin, sandy blade, I wrote some small lines.

That world doesn’t exist, she said. I had laughed, mirthless. Now, sitting before her cross, I smiled.

Here lies Suzie; Beloved wife, dutiful lover. And behind me, the tide ripped on, towards the mountain.