But we must return to that nook and cranny in time; that night and her antecedents, her forerunners. There are forerunners to any moment, because something must always precede this one and Pond Man is as historical as you and I deem ourselves to be; because the only way to look at anything is to look backwards and count the number of significant days. Most of them will be spent at home so you had better decide what that means to you.
Pond Man in front of the fire counting the number of bricks laid out across the hearth. A baker’s dozen. His toes touch the warm hearth and begin to uncurl. His feet, his legs; two thick branches spread out in front of him - I am afraid they will catch fire - but Pond Man opens his mouth and parts his teeth.
Time passes. He nods his head and dreams and the branches spread. Then Pond Man clambers, arms outstretched towards the clouds. He always thought she would come through clouds, his mother after she went missing, because she had disappeared through the trees one late spring morning. There had been a row. Shattered glass. And his mother had stepped through the window.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. His mother taught him that prayer; his mother, a woman with smooth cheeks - he reaches out to touch her face - the colour of eggs her skin.
But this is idle reverie. I want to tell you something of import, of due importance, an event to remember. Something you can chalk up as meaningful. History.
Three years ago for several days this spring Pond Man spent time with his neighbour, Laurence Gallows, the Harbour Master of this small town, fixing up the perimeter of his garden, those frail spaces where outsiders might wander in. But surely this is paranoia on Laurence’s part. He has noticed Pond Man fixing up his fence next door. Indeed, Laurence saw him at work, sweat pouring down his bronzed brow, and thought, I must prepare my defences too. I must train my borders. I must not let in anything I do not deem suitable. Laurence likes to speak formally as a way of asserting his will. It is an affect of his but it does not wash with his wife, or rather, it did not wash with his wife for she is dead.
And now Gallows is in charge of harbour traffic. Only he can determine which vessels come in and out of the port. Declare a vessel safe or not. Inspect the condition of goods, the security of contents and packaging. Deem goods rascally or legal. But this is human traffic; the real predator is the salty brine, the lapping waves, her digging nails, her sharp tongue, her spite. The sea has always been vengeful — my grandmother always told me so. Temper. Temper.
The sea has her moods but I mean one man’s temper over another; or one man’s need or labour. Pond Man is not indentured or subservient and he is not in need. He has merely settled a few weak areas around his land. Around Laurence Gallows' land. Some unresolved spaces; places where borders are fraying; an exposed spot on the ground. (I do not mean to encourage paranoia but a man must reinforce his borders when the weather grants him time).
‘Good Morning,’ he says to Laurence Gallows today. The time of day does not escape Pond Man, and see, the sun is a quarter of her way across the sky.