They came to the clifftop in the morning. Both ways, by the rusty iron stairs from the beach and overland along the ridges of the hills. Dressed in simple rough clothes that could’ve come from a century ago. In some cases, they did.
The sky was blazing with a sharp wind. Out across the sea a swell was building. Cloudtops on top of cloudtops, like a vast siege engine moving north to greet the battered tower. The light was changing, greens and ochres flooding in, and it seemed as though the sea wasn’t just reflecting the light of the sun but had a deep hue of its own.
They were still shopkeepers, surveyors, librarians, cafe owners, couples. Even some with the city jobs that were sucking their souls dry over the long haul. But they were also part of Tempest Bay, and the rhythms of a place that had shaped them like trees.
They brought instruments with them. Old, simple instruments of violent and pragmatic acts. The shovels and crowbars and wheelbarrows and hoes that had been used for decades to shape the land.
They moved happily with some chatter but mostly silence. This wasn’t a grim crowd or a mob. It was people who know the moment has come, the storm is arriving and it’s time to prepare.
They reached the clifftop. Found it deserted. Went one by one into the tower and offered thanks, a nod, an acknowledgement, to the sigil on the wall. In each of their stomachs and body the after-effects of the sea creature they’d all eaten, one way or another, still coursed, and so they saw the image for what it was.
They gathered on the grassy main of the clifftop. Surrounded and inspected the earth of the memory garden. Chattered at the spirals of tilled earth with their knick-knacks and stolen elements from across the town.
Thas’ a good job. Well tended. You’ve got to admire it.
You do, you do.
Almost a shame.
Almost a shame.
Well enough said on that. Time to work.
Tempest Bay over the years had made its own memories. Its own rituals. They were improvised and handed down, not written anywhere, no catechism, no instruction manual. It was just one of the things you knew and did, like leaving the milk bottles out.
Angela Knowles raised the shovel that her great-grandfather had bought on Victoria Street in Wellington before the first world war. Thwumped it down and began digging the earth. They all did. Like battlefield surgeons or rescue workers in the middle of an earthquake they set upon the earth and tore it apart. Took its guts and piled them like soil-built bricks into the wheelbarrows that others had brought overland. Smoothed the wounded hunks of the landscape that remained with their hands, feeling the deep touch of the clifftop beneath, and the near-invisible shudder of the tower as it vibrated in its own different dimension.
Digging away. Getting ready to carry it all back down into town in time for the weather.
A scurry on the far side of the clifftop. Lucia standing there. She saw everyone. Everyone saw her.
Angela Knowles lifted her shovel.