Lobster laughed again, and spat unthinkingly on the ground.
“I’m not a lesbian!” shouted Cassie.
“Tell that to the rest of the school,” smirked Lobster.
“You forged that love-letter, and you know it!”
Lobster leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “I know,” he smiled simply. “But no one else knows, do they? And anyway, I’m sure you really actually want to go out with Ellie, don’t you?”
Cassie turned on her heel and stalked away, not succeeding in keeping her lower lip steady.
Rush River soared endlessly over the edge of the cliff in front of Cassie and plunged into the gorge, its voice a distant roar of subtle rage. She felt the water flow past her fingers, as she trailed them in the leaping stream. Shimmering like a curtain of tears, the light caught the water, painting a rainbow doorway to another world in the spray. With its bubbling caresses, the water tried to ease the sorrow in her heart. The desperate sunlight glinted on her black-sheened hair as a light drizzle fluttered on her coat. Tears slithered down pale cheeks as the rain eased to a silent spit of water. The clouds dragged across a dismal sky, while the sunset blazed defiant at the injustice of the rain. The setting sun stroked the cliffs with amber fingers. Cassie stood up, and spoke into the chaotic air.
“Looks like it’s time to go home, now,” she sighed into the high, clear air.
Don’t go, whispered the river. Please don’t go. Cassie looked back at the river, and sighed unhappily. She stepped away, trudging down to the valley, and the town on the estuary. The distant town lay like a scattered handful of coal dust with black threads bridging the sparkling veins of the delta. Below her, a small coach rumbled up to the bus stop half way down the marshy hill.
The five miles of bus journey passed altogether too fast. Down in the Fisher’s Copse, the market bubbled with the seething, amiable rivalry between the stallholders. Under the discordant song of the market, the traffic rumbled its distant chorus through the twisty streets. Cassie wove her way through the jumbled order of the market, wishing for a friend. Her burden stepped out to meet her in the usual guise of Thaddius ‘Lobster’ Johnson. Lobster grinned, and cracked his long, vicious knuckles. Maybe the reason for his deep-rooted hatred of Cassie stemmed from his deeper, darker, twisted love for her. She was good-looking, with a normal name, and a whole family. Thaddius had none of these things. As a reason for his discomfort, his name isolated him. It would have been better if it had been spelt properly, but he wished, in his bitter heart, to be just like Cassie. But he wasn’t Cassie, and he was prepared to torment her for his own inevitable inadequacies. His nickname was strange, too. It stemmed from both his name – Thaddius being linked to thermidore, a way of cooking lobster – and his looks, with slicked-back hair that stuck up in two points at the front, and his long, thick, claw-like hands. It was with one of these hands that he waved cruelly to Cassie, pretending to be her friend, merely as another aid to the torment. The light of the dying sun lay heavily on the tableau, as Cassie stood, waiting for the inevitable taunts. She didn’t bother waving back, it wasn’t worth it.
“What’s this, Winters? Not waving back?” he half-laughed. His cronies performed an exemplar example of the typical Crony Snigger. Cassie sighed brokenly, but quietly.
“I’m sorry, Lobster, how thoughtless of me,” she spoke emptily, quietly, her soul too hollow to feel true emotion. Lobster laughed rudely, and patted her snidely on the cheek.
“Get off, will you!” she cried weakly. Lobster laughed again, and seeing that Cassie wasn’t going to be any fun, turned on his heel and left. As one, Lobster’s zombie-like minions turned and shambled away, sending looks over their shoulders and sniggering. The sun sank below the waves, momentarily silhouetting the sailing boats in the bay. The boats flapped their black wings ineffectually, and drifted across the water. The street-lamps winked on, and the light clouds thickened slightly. Out of sympathy, the sky cried warm tears of sadness for Cassie.
Below the bubbling calm in the plunge pool - where the beautiful weeds whisper their love to the tiny animals and the skeletons of forgotten heroes - the moonlight shimmered on a watery grave, and the only sound was the shout of the water as it threw itself over the edge.
Cassie stood dejected outside the school gates. At the far end of the playing field, kept in check by a high fence, the river slithered optimistically close to the school, as if looking for friends. The fence was in a state of sullen disrepair; parts of it were completely missing. Cassie wandered in through the gates, looking around for Lobster, and anyone else who might wish to torment her. She glanced at her timetable. Ah, good, history first thing. Cassie flicked her hair away from her face, and glanced around again. History would be good, as always. Mr Shaw knew how to bring history to life. In his hands, the work would be riveting, unfortunately, anyone who dared hint otherwise would find themselves falling fast. Mr Shaw was something of a local historian. Cassie trudged lightly down to the riverbank, alone. The water laughed and bubbled, without a care in the world.
“’Ullo,” growled Lobster. Cassie slouched defeatedly. “How about a kiss, then?”
“No way!” Cassie’s mouth sparked off before she could engage her brain.
“That’s impolite, that is,” Lobster smirked, gloating at his new excuse for violence. “Now, kneel and apologise.”
“No!”
“Kneel,” repeated Lobster patiently.
“No!”
In answer, Lobster placed one hand on Cassie’s head, and forced her down. The mud grasped gently at her defeated knees.
“You bastard!” burst out a new voice. ”That’s barbaric!”
“Oh?” grinned Lobster. “You want some too?”
The newcomer swung his left fist, dragging it through the protesting air. Lobster’s eyes tracked it hungrily. One hand snaked out to grasp the wrist. Lashing out, the nameless boy’s foot smashed into Lobster’s knee with a quiet crunch. The right fist shot forwards, and collided with his nose. After that, it was like a dam bursting. The newcomer rained blow after blow into Lobster’s stomach. Lobster was a full head taller than him. Fists, knees, elbows and head. Anything that could be used as a weapon was being brought to bear against Lobster. Lobster’s ineffectual attempts at staying the damage soon stopped. There was nothing to do but cover his head, and pray for this new fury to end. The newcomer stopped suddenly, and stood, panting.
“Get lost,” he spat. Lobster ran. Cassie stared, open-mouthed.
“Who are you?” she whispered. The boy winked, and turned away. Cassie shook her head as she performed likewise. When she looked back, the reeds by the empty riverbank laughed silently at her surprise.
Early morning crept in, and sprinkled his dew on the front lawns. On the moors, a group of hikers struck camp, and headed towards Fisher’s Copse. The strong wind whipped the trees, and slashed wildly at the sea, driving an ocean of angry iron to beat its head repeatedly against the seawall. The rain spat into the wind, sending rare, randomised droplets whizzing through the air; small, wet sniper bullets seeking out eyes, ears, and noses. The wind was driving hard enough to rip the cover off of the coal-bunker, and send it capering gleefully across the garden, before pinning it to the shed. Against the fury of the wind, Cassie made it to school. She struggled her way down to the riverbank, against the gale, looking for the boy.
“Hello, Cassie,” grated a familiar voice. “So,” laughed Lobster, “where’s lover-boy?”
Cassie sighed, and turned to face him. “I don’t know,” she said flatly.
“Right here,” called out a voice behind Cassie. “And my name’s not ‘lover-boy’. It’s Harry Lee.”
Lobster spat, blushing in anger and unaccepted embarrassment. Slipping a stone out of his pocket, he flung it carefully at Harry, who caught it out of the air.
“Strike one,” he grinned. The stone hummed through the air, and pummelled, against the wind, into Lobster’s shoulder. Lobster flinched, and backed away. Producing a small knife, he opened out the blade. Not noticing this development, Harry rushed towards him. A quicksilver snake flickered up, and sunk its fang into Harry’s stomach. Unheeding, the fist lashed out, smacking into Lobster’s jaw. Lobster staggered backwards, staring at Harry, who stood, chest heaving.
“What? Are you too scared to come back for another try,” growled Harry. Lobster pointed at the incongruous red handle sticking out of Harry’s bloodless uniform. He looked down, and laughed mirthlessly. Lobster turned and ran. Hurrying over, Cassie grabbed the handle, and pulled it free. There was no mark to suggest that there had ever been a wound. He put his arms around her, and they stood, hair whipping in the wind, in a cold embrace.
“Didn’t he stab you?” Cassie’s nerves prickled as Harry smiled thinly.
“It, uh, it must have caught in my shirt,” his eyes darted for a second. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”
“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered. They broke apart, and Cassie started to climb the field to the school building. Looking back, and the deserted river waved its goodbye with fans of rippling, silver water, like a living skin, covered in scales.
A blazing sun rose from the warm sea, illuminating the harbour in an inferno of shifting fire, sprinkled with fishing boats setting to sea. Ferries glittered on the horizon, a pair of discarded diamonds. The moor wind swept across the distant tents; where the hikers were getting up, ready to face the unforgiving day. The canvas hugged the tent poles, and the light shimmered off of the concealed pegs. Cassie stood atop the cliffs at the north end of the valley, where the waterfall arced down into the gorge, the river’s throat. The morning stars winked out, to be replaced by twinkling cars.
“Hello,” greeted Harry. Cassie turned around, and saw him sitting on the marshy ground.
“Where shall we go?” she asked, her words breaking the surface of the silence like silver fish.
The source of the river bubbled and joked, scampering over the marshy, boggy ground, seeking solace in small, hidden backwaters.
“Funny, isn’t it,” remarked Harry. “It’s like a journey. It starts here, where the water laughs and giggles, neither knowing nor caring what lies in store for it. It dances, playing among the reeds. Come,” he motioned to Cassie.
They ran along the riverbank, Harry in front, leading her by the hand. The sun was high in the morning sky. Rush River slithered meditatively along its bed like a lazy teenager.
“You see,” he cried, his spirit aflame. “It’s grown thoughtful here. The water flows steadily, thoughtfully. It drags along, keeping its thoughts to itself.”
They stood, staring down into the open throat of the gorge, watching as the water hurled itself over the precipice. The sun was high overhead, climbing a mountain of its own.
“And here,” shouted Harry over the roar of the waterfall. “It shouts in excitement, savouring the thrill of a one-way trip to the beyond. It knows what’s coming in the end, but it doesn’t care. It flows anyway, defying the inevitable.”
“How can you tell?” asked Cassie.
“You can see the sea from up here, so can the river. It watches the horizon itself.”
The river chuckled over the stones, babbling over the rocks, flowing ever onwards. The sun was lancing down on them from its lofty descent.
“Here, the river laughs and talks about the waterfall, and its future in the sea. And there,” he stared longingly into the distance, seeking the horizon and the river delta. “There, the river leaves the land. It dies. It’s no longer a river. But in some form, it’ll come back. In some way, it’s free,” his gaze grasped desperately at the elusive delta, and its small fishing town. He turned around, to see Cassie staring intently at him, hanging on his every word. Her unshod feet caressed the affectionate water, and her bare arm was draped around a large rock.
“Why are you hugging Young Dragon, Cassie?” he frowned.
“Young Dragon?” gasped Cassie, jerking away from the rock. Her necklace swung gently around her pale neck.
“Yeah. All the rocks have names. That one, Young Dragon, is so named for two reasons. Firstly, he looks like a dragon sitting on his haunches, tail curled around, nose in the air, snout partly open. Underneath there is a natural gas deposit. The rocks are rife with it around here. The gas sometimes issues from his snout, and can catch fire, making him look like a dragon.”
Cassie stared at Young Dragon, who sat still, appearing cute and thoughtful.
“Do you want to meet Old Man Brock, the Razorbacks, and Old Stoneface?” asked Harry.
“Yeah, OK,” smiled Cassie, standing up. Harry led the way over to the wall of the gorge.
“This is Old Stoneface,” laughed Harry, “he’s completely natural, nothing carved. After all, Young Dragon was partly natural, but some of the finer features were carved, though not many. Old Stoneface looks clearer-cut, but he’s definitely natural.”
Old Stoneface frowned out of the cliff, staring at the world with his lip curled, and one eye half-closed. He appeared about to snarl, or shout, or threaten to call the police.
“See Old Man Brock, he’s not natural,” chuckled Harry, ushering Cassie over to another rock. This one was carved in the shape of a badger. He was rearing up on his hind legs, with his mouth closed, and a mild frown covering his face. One front paw was held higher than the other.
“Welcome to my world,” he whispered gently, followed by a secret kiss on the lips, as gentle as a ray of blazing sunlight.