#clockwork roses

Polished Read:

Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover, by Ally Carter paired with Clockwork Roses from Starrily

The most annoying thing about my life is that nothing happened, and then I died.

Yeah, I can hear you thinking, Right. How the Hell can I be dead and still be talking to you? Well, truth is, I wasn’t completely dead, not in the strictest sense of the word. I also wasn’t a zombie, or a vampire or any of that new-age crap, mind you, either. I was much as you see me now: short red hair; two eyes, one green and one blue (freak of nature I am); bit short, bit stocky.  Then I died.

Let me tell you, watching that happen was a bitch.  The future, gone!  Ripped away because I’m an idiot who forgot to tie himself down to a boat deck one time and bang! Only thing Casey Duncan is good for is feeding the fishes. The large fishes. With the teeth.

Anyway, the point of all this is that I died. And it was annoying.

  * * * * *

  The old man who ran the charter boat on the east side of the lake was a bit eccentric.

He liked his toast taken with Marmite and kippers; as a result he always had a fishy smell about him. The people down in the village liked to ignore him, referring to him as “Old Man Worthington”, and not one of them knew his first name. They figured he came from somewhere near Glasgow, but no one was really sure.

The tourists loved him and his eccentricities and thought he was a highlight of the town. To them his name was whatever he felt like on that day and they went away from the loch agreeing wholeheartedly that the man had been amazing. They focused less on what he smelt like and more on working with one another to figure out what he had said in that strange, guttural accent.

Casey, the young apprentice shipman, found the changing personas and fishy odour irritating. He put up with it, however, because the man had given him a job in a town where work was hard to find for someone who’d never quite managed to escape to college. “Learning a trade is better than nothing, Lad.” Worthington would say, with a fond, gap-toothed smile and Casey believed him. So he put up with Worthington’s insistence at taking a small yacht out to the middle of a large lake, no matter the weather conditions.

The present weather conditions were almost cyclonic.

 “Oy, Old Man! There’s a good reason the other charter companies are closed today, you know!” Casey shouted over the wind and waves as the little boat heaved across the black surface of the water.  He looked toward the helm of the yacht, trying to make out through the rain two indistinct blobs of colour that were the sea master and their passenger, a tourist who was far too stupid for his own good.

“It’s only a drizzle, Lad. I’ve taken this boat out in far worse.”

 “Aye, when you were flat on your back and dreaming, perhaps!”

Worthington let out a creaky cackle as Casey made his way up the length of the yacht. The mahogany deck was treacherous, slippery and dark with the water that kept sloshing over the railing. The old man turned to address the tourist, running off the usual spiel as if Casey hadn’t spoken.

“Out to see Nessie, are ya, lad?” Even though the passenger was directly beside him, Worthington had to shout to be heard over the roar of the storm. Casey growled and took up the rigging behind the yacht’s old wheel and started to drag down the topsail. “And just what are you doing?” The Shipmaster demanded when he noticed.

“I ain’t gonna be in this storm with the sails up, Old Man. If we’re staying out here, we’ll use the damn motor!” He undid the tacking that held the sail in place, the salt-soaked rope proving difficult to coax loose. Another wave crashed into the boat, sending him staggering.

Worthington returned to ignoring him, but this time it was with an uncertain feeling, like he thought Casey was right but refused to admit it. He returned his focus to the passenger, who was standing and picking at his nails. “So,” Said Worthington, “Did you come ta see Nessie?”

“Possibly.” The tourist supplied. His accent was soft and homeless, and he looked completely average, olive skin, brown hair, brown eyes. Boring. Casey grumbled under his breath about stupid tourists with no bloody weather sense.

The storm was larger than life; larger than any storm Casey could remember and the last place he wanted to be was out in it. He wiped at the hair plastered to his brow, tugged futilely at his waterlogged clothes, and glared at Worthington.

The man pretended not to notice. “Aye! Ya picked a good day to try and catch her; lad.” He grinned at the tourist, “It’s days like today that Nessie likes best.”

Casey groaned and closed his eyes, yanking the rope with more force than was necessary. Every day was a day that Nessie liked best; best for sunning herself on the cliffside; best for the big fish in the deeps, best for the weed tickling at her belly; best for-

“Best for the storm, Lad.” The old man said, leaning conspiratorially in the tourist’s direction. The passenger was gripping at the boat’s rail, but was still steadfast in refusing to help the two seafarers fight the storm. Worthington gestured up at the clouds. “Aye! The Loch’s a-churning; God’s pissing hisself over the clouds. Easy to steal a man out here and drag ‘im deep; under the cover of the storm. The idiots in town’ll blame the weather, but aye!” Worthington tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “I knows better. Nessie feasts on ‘em and spits up the bones for the sea ta take.”

The tourist eyed him, unimpressed. “You do know if the Loch Ness Monster were real, it would have died long ago.”

“Why say that, Lad? There’s those seaturtles that live for twenty decades!”

Casey rolled his eyes in exasperation as he planted his feet into the side of the boat. Another wave buffeted the small vessel, soaking his already drenched clothing.

“Nessie ain’t no seaturtle!” He yelled over the roaring winds.

“Nay, Lad.” The old man agreed. “She’s a whole lot bigger!” His laughter faltered as the boat careened against a high wave.  “If yer getting those ropes in, you better hurry up about it!”

Casey scowled at him, securing the sail he was working on with a deft hand, before turning to the other. In his irritation he jerked the rope loose faster than he ought and the sail caught on the gale, flapping and snapping above their heads.

“Watch it Lad!” Worthington bellowed, straining hard on the yacht’s wheel. The boat bobbed on the breaking waves, rolling treacherously in the churning soup.

“You watch it!” Casey snapped back, “Standing there chattin’ about Nessie when there’re more important things at hand!” He wrenched the sail back under control as the wind threatened to rip it from his hands.

“Nothing more important on the loch than its monster.” Worthington protested, but the wrinkles around his eyes betrayed a frown. “P’raps we should take her in, though. Afore Nessie decides to come for us!” He gave an exaggerated wink to the tourist; but his knuckles were white on the yacht’s wheel, his ropey arms were taut and straining.

Before Casey could snap back an angry reply, a strangely solid wave slammed into the boat, nearly capsizing the small vessel. Wrenching at the rope, and nearly losing his balance in the process, Casey finally managed to drag down the sail. Securing it proved difficult; the tack was slippery and the rope was drenched with rain water and kept sliding off whenever he tried to tie it down. Growling in frustration, Casey braced himself against the boat and tried again. He snarled at the tourist who was watching with only a mild curiosity.

“Get that sail tied off, boy!” Worthington yelled over the blast of the wind and salt spray. He was pulling the rip-cord of the emergency motor. It was spluttering. “And hurry up about it! One strong wind and you’re gone!”

“I know!” Casey roared back, “I’m trying!” The rope slipped again as the boat rocked and, without warning, suddenly and violently flung the other way. Casey’s feet spilled from under him. He yelled in surprise at the unexpected movement, scrabbled for a foothold against the slippery deck, held on to the sail’s rope for his life. The next blast of wind ripped the sail free and Casey was flung from one side of the vessel to the other, where he thudded against the yacht’s siding. His head exploded with pain when it slammed against a tied-down crate, before the yacht dipped again and he was launched high into the air.

“CASEY!” Worthington screamed in horror, watching as the young man was flung from the yacht, into the dark, frothing waters.

Funny. Casey thought as he fell overboard, I didn’t know he knew my name.

  * * * * *

  Drowning is not a good feeling.

In fact, it’s actually one of the most horrible things that can happen to a person. You’re drenched. You’re freezing. Your lungs are screaming because you’re trying to hold your breath until you can get up to the surface of the water, which is so very far away.

 But holding your breath doesn’t last long because the human body has this involuntary gasp reflex that starts up after a bit and instead of not breathing at all, suddenly your body starts trying to breathe water. Which doesn’t really work. Ever.

On top of that, there was the storm. Which means that on top of drowning, I was also being tossed by the waves to the point where I didn’t know which way was up anymore. And there’s these red spots appearing on your eyes from lack of oxygen - while you’re trying to breathe the water and throw it up at the same time.

Of course, the terror of it all makes every sensation so much clearer, making all the watery nuances of this hell even more excruciating. So yeah, drowning is a pretty terrible way to die.

But then, so’s being eaten by a monster.

  * * * * *

  When Casey hit the rocks at the base of one of the Loch’s cliffs, he still had enough sense left to hold on. He dug his fingernails into the slimy crevasse as the waves first pushed him up the rocks and then tried to suck him back into the swell.  His arms shook with exertion and cold, but he managed to pull himself higher up the rocks, using the upwards swell of the waves to propel him to higher handholds, until finally he was out of their grip.

He crawled up the rock face until he reached a small, flat outcrop where he flopped down onto the black rocks. He gulped in the icy air, taking several heaving breaths before his stomach rebelled. With a splash, he emptied it of all of the water he’d swallowed, then rolled away from the resulting puddle. He groaned.

He did a quick inventory of his body. For all it felt like he’d passed through a meat grinder, he hadn’t broken any bones. However, he’d have some spectacular bruises and there was a long gash along his right arm which he was pretty sure would scar. It should have been stinging from the salt water, but as numb from the cold as he was, Casey couldn’t feel it. It was still raining, and while they were a sodden, icy mess, he still had all of his clothes except for the large thermal jacket he’d lost in the swell. He shivered and thought for a moment. Wet clothes sapped body heat, he knew. He should strip naked and ball up small to save his reserves. He couldn’t find the energy.

He was sprawled over the rocks, limbs fully extended, watching the sky. The storm was breaking up and the grey-purple clouds that had been so fierce now looked like they were paintings. The rain was a gentle patter against his face as he allowed himself a moment of self pity – he was aching, shivering and he’d survived the damn storm to die of hypothermia on a cliff where no one would ever find him. Just his luck!

Then he heard the roar.

He sat up nervously; the sound was almost another clap of thunder, or the howling of the wind and he eventually dismissed it. Then, through the waves below he thought he saw a shadow that didn’t make sense. He looked at it, eyes only half focusing, teeth chattering.  A slap of water, like a large fish jumping, made him look down at the waves below him. Nothing but the remnants of a ripple. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Casey, you’re getting delirious.” 

He wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered with the cold. He sighed, and after a few minutes where nothing happened, the fear ebbed away.

Suddenly, the water in front of him split with a cacophonous sound and a creature reared out of the lake. Long-necked and bestial, with a head that was sleek and scaled and full of teeth the length of his forearm, it looked down at him with cold, beady eyes; black, but with an opalescent sheen to them. It had to be something out of the Jurassic, all rough grey scales, paper-thin webbing folded under its neck and splayed upwards from between its eye ridges like a parrot’s crest. Even through the cold, Casey’s sudden terror lent him the strength to scamper backwards, away from the terrible thing. It roared, a scream of metal on metal, showing off a grey, slippery tongue and blasting him with the smell of fish thousands of times worse than Worthington’s breath.

“That definitely ain't no seaturtle.” Casey breathed, in wonder and terror as the creature eyed him, tongue dripping saliva. It gave a sudden, gushing snort, blowing Casey’s hair back off his face. 

That was the moment Casey Duncan snapped. The terror and the cold and the pain were all too much and he collapsed on himself in hopeless, delirious giggles. As the creature lunged at him, all the young man could do was laugh.

  * * * * *

  I’d like to say I died in a dignified manner.

What else was I to do when towering over me was a beast from the forgotten depths? A creature that shouldn’t have even existed was in front of me and I didn’t burst into tears, I didn’t wet my pants - I laughed. Sure, I laughed like a deranged mental patient, but I dare you to face down something like that and not cry like a baby. I need it on a t-shirt: ‘I laughed in the face of danger! And then got eaten!’ After all, I did. I laughed in the face of imminent death. I’m kind of proud of that.

The big problem of course was I was dead, or about to be, so I couldn’t tell the story to anyone.