Between the Walls of Storm: Chapter 1

Contributed by: Trey Blakely, history major

The streets were as hot as a kiln. The swampy warmth of the day never escaped the narrow lanes and high walls of old homes that made up the city. Sticky, cloudless night fell hours ago, swallowing the poorly maintained glass lamps every few dozen feet. This was not a city meant to see the stars.

Built against the ocean, parts of the city flooded monthly, if not weekly. A sickly green film could often be seen on the streets closest to the persistent waters, giving travelers an inspiration of haste from distaste, or unexpected footing for those who stayed. The wealthier residents long-ago adopted the tradition of tarring their homes outside and in, even up to the mantle over the fireplace, to keep the rot away. A strange sight to see, visitors at times brought this fashion to their landlocked homes, only to abandon the trend in speedy disgust. For the rest of the citizenry, especially those closest to the waters, homes were almost always made of stone thoroughly aged black. Within these perpetually damp domiciles were birthed generations of a hardier human, capable of breathing the rotten seaside air, skin hardened by constant salt and spray, backbones grown in a city that has more than once burned down to skeletal remains and been built back.

One of these stalwart citizens, standing watch on the docks as decently as a child after a long day of play, pressed his eyes against the dark green sea. His father had watched the water, and his father before him; yet like so many other traditions in the city these posts were held not with honor, rather they were held with a sense of assumed reason. Someone had to watch the water, he thought to himself as the weight of his bottle tried to slip loose from his fingers. He took a swig to lessen its burden. Might as well be me, might as well enjoy what I can from it. He drank again, careful to measure out the rest of his night nestled between his hand and mouth.

Scratching the skin around his shirt collar, he strained his eyes and blinked away sleep. A light drizzle started to fall around him, giving the waves a fresh sheen. He backed up off the dock, as he knew to do, and took refuge up a small set of stone steps at the mouth of the dock. Sitting on a barrel, he watched the drizzle turn to rain, the rain to a brief torrent, then saw the ocean swallow the dock whole, rising up to the soles of his boots. He gave the brine no thought, as the sea would do what the sea always does. Were it not for a lengthy draw from his bottle, nearing depletion, and a brief fumbling for a cigarette he could have sworn was still in his front pocket, he would have seen the man walking out of the ocean swell. Sopping wet, quiet, and with measured footsteps, the man staggered from the water and past the watchman. The spark of light, hissing in the damp air, illuminated greasy hair shambled under a soaked brimmed hat. The watchman, breathing deep the salty smoke, fixed his gaze back on the horizon and waited for the water to recede again. Nothing to see, but I’m here to watch, he thought to himself. Might as well be me. The drenched man was behind him now, leaning in just enough to hear the tobacco crackle and spit through the embers. Nothing ever happens, but someone has to watch the water. Scratching his neck again, he turned around, glancing at the algae stained stonework behind him. Shaking off uneasiness, he moved his gaze back towards the water, wishing it would recede faster than usual. He takes another drink and ebbed back into his night. The drenched man was already down the alley. Might as well enjoy what I can from it.

Read Chapter 2, Part 1: The Furnace