I kept fowls in a pen on top of the cliff. When the sea was angry the spray would stir the rooster into a tizz. Some nights I was afraid the whole operation, the cottage that is, would be swallowed by the sea and I'd awake in the chilly darkness of the water clinging to splinters of furniture. I had fallen into a solitary way of life. People were hard to come by. Besides, had I met any in the streets, or at the bistro, I wouldn't know which topics to converse on. When one is in such a state it's like being underwater. Every interaction feels awkward. Paying the shopkeeper for the papers. Returning a stranger's gaze. It all feels bothersome and strange. I lived like that on the edge of the cliff. Staring down into the abyss of thought. The poverty of my youth seemed adventurous. Now it was a chore. I spent the winter by the fire. That circle of stone, which contained a season’s worth of ash, absorbed so much of my thinking. I sometimes grew quietly excited but was mostly flat. I read my way through dog-eared volumes of the canon. Going days on tea, bread, and butter. The rest of the house was cold as steel, but in front of the hearth, I could occasionally find myself slipping into something like happiness. I often felt relief as the day came to an end. Like I could breathe again when the darkness came. With it would come the wind. Occasionally I’d fall into a voluptuous sleep. Only to wake in the freezing early hours cold and alone. I'd make my way to the rusted, squealing cot I called a bed, but no matter how many itchy blankets I spread, I could never quite warm up.
When one spends enough time alone certain social conventions fall to the wayside, only for uncouth ones to take their place. For example, I no longer bothered to dress and would quite happily pass the day either nude or with a blanket wrapped around me. I would spontaneously burst into monologues of gibberish and perform them to no one in particular whilst standing on the kitchen table, or perhaps squatting in front of the fire on the carpet. Occasionally I would be overcome by fits of laughter which would continue until tears rolled down my cheeks and my stomach muscles ached. This of course could be indicative of a personality becoming dis-ordered and if I had any neighbours, I might have been more careful, but I did not, so I let myself go on accordingly. I no longer cared for the convention of taking meals three times a day and lived primarily off blackberry jelly. I'd mix a large bowl of it with boiling water in the evening and leave it on the counter to set overnight in the freezing kitchen. In the morning as soon as I awoke, I'd be at it digging into my reflection in the obsidian-coloured jelly which reminded me of a frozen lake. Mornings and evenings were my favourite times in that place. I'd sit naked, knees up, with a cup of tea looking out through the window to the back garden down to the dreary beach and out to the cold angry sea and examine my life and decisions to work out how I'd come to be so completely alone. At that time of day, it did not so much upset as confound me. If I was to feel lonely it would mostly be in the afternoons but at that time the day always felt full of promise even if deep down all I knew I would be doing that day is drinking tea, reading books, and talking to myself. I was 34 years old at this point. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was by worldly standards what you might call a failure. I lived alone abroad with no wife or child. I had no vocation and survived by a small stipend my family provided through pity or worry. Whilst I had many friends spread around the thought of writing them was naturally harrowing. When I examined within myself how I had come to be in this state the answer arose that the things that most strive towards were of no interest to me. The thought of companionship and sharing my life with someone was repulsive. I had too many bizarre habits for a reasonably-minded partner to deal with. Being responsible for a child I imagined to be a terrible burden. I found employment degrading. Thus, considering all these factors I didn't beat myself up. I assured myself I was still relatively young, in that I was not properly old, my faculties were still bright. If I chose at some point to achieve something there would still be time.
Now the queer thing about the fowls was that no matter what I fed them they refused to produce eggs except on one day of the week corresponding to the moon. I would only go check the coop on new, half, 3/4, and full moons. There would be 3 eggs. One per hen. I wondered if it had something to do with the ocean and its tides. Possibly the moon's pushes and pulls had some unseen influence. Though I spent many hours in my briefs standing in the frozen garden contemplating this mystery. I never could quite work it out. I never fancied eggs and would wait until I had a dozen then I would deposit them out the front of the cottage next to the post box with a note that read:
'Free eggs, please leave container.'
There was a road that snaked down past the cottage along the cliffs down to the beach. All manner of people; athletic types, dog walkers, and in the season, tourists would walk by. From the kitchen, if I chose to, I could have seen who took the eggs and take them they did but I wasn't particularly interested and thought that should a passing walker see me naked spying on them from the kitchen it might discourage them. I don't like waste and I needed the eggs gone so I refrained. Once a month I had to go pick up the money my family sent from the post office. I would look forward to it with equal parts excitement and trepidation. The post office was a 4km walk from the cottage. It started on the steep, slick, wet bitumen out the front which snaked up the hill to the outskirts of town. Even in the endless drizzle I would get hot and stuffy and have to take off my pullover by the time I was on the outskirts. The houses on the outer of the town were all grand old things made of limestone that glared in the summer but in winter were damp and dull like the occupants that hid inside. Occasionally I'd see them peering out the window no doubt wondering who this fool walking in the rain was. The town seemed to be almost exclusively populated by the elderly. The men wore vests and caps pulled down over their foreheads. The women; large multi-layered dresses with stockings underneath. They seemed to live forever surviving on gossip and a distrust of outsiders. The centre of the town had a hall, bistro, tobacconist, supermarket and a few shops for the tourists that were mostly closed during the winter. I could have got the money sent directly to the cottage but enjoyed the anticipation in the days leading up to the journey. I imagined making eyes with a woman of great beauty, feeling the magnetism between us or perhaps striking up a stimulating conversation with an interesting stranger whilst I sat with my expresso outside the bistro. Of course, none of this ever happened. I’d inevitably trudge up the hill being careful not to let a stream of nonsense leave my lips. If one of the townspeople heard me, it would surely be embarrassing and cause for suspicion. I’d walk into the post office to be met by a sour man who had decided I was too contemptible to greet. He knew my business and would place the letter on the counter for me to pick up. Though I didn’t show it this annoyed me. Was I such an object of disdain that he could not put it in my hand? I'd leave without saying a word. I would then go to the supermarket and buy enough butter, bread, and jelly to last me a month. The young women who worked at the supermarket would stop their gossip when I walked the aisles. This made me self-conscious. It was true that I had adopted a strange manner of dress. Not unlike a tramp. I wore striped suit pants with a fat woman’s sized flowery blouse with a large thick soldier’s trench coat. I slung a hessian bag over my shoulder that I would carry the goods home with. I wore a tattered black felt hat to keep the rain off. To me dressing was a practicality, I would not be swayed by the fashions of the day. Besides after paying the rent for the cottage, utilities, and food I had very little money. My face always blushed when the women at the cash register asked how my day was. Although she spoke in a foreign tongue, I could understand perfectly fine. I’d pack the goods in the bag, sling it over my shoulder and hastily exit the store, imagining them bursting into giggles as soon as I left. By this point, I was nervy and anxious. I wished to be at home in front of the fire. I did not even entertain the idea of stopping for coffee at the bistro. The wind picked up and cut through my coat as I passed a woman hauling a child by the arm. I pulled down my hat and set off back down the hill as sheets of rain fell. I grew more and more at ease the further I got from the town square. I was on the outskirts when I let out an excited stream of gibberish. I encountered not another soul on the walk home. As I opened the gate to the cottage, I noticed no one had taken the eggs. I was not surprised as the weather was foul. I was soaked by the time I got to the door. I peeled off the sopping garments, wrung them as best I could then hung them in front of the hearth. I unpacked the butter and bread placing some in the refrigerator and some in the freezer. I stacked the jelly packets in the pantry. I fixed myself some tea and sat in my chair in front of a fire I coaxed from the coals. Outside was blowing a gale and the windows rattled in the wind. Looking out the back window purple storm clouds blew in from the ocean and the swell picked up crashing into the cliffs and beach below. The rooster must have been having a time of it I thought as I sipped my tea. Save for the odd crack of the fire the silence thickened as the sun slowly set. I didn’t mind the draft that blew through the place thinking it a nice contrast to the heat of the fire. Eventually, I drifted off into a slumber.
When I awoke the day was streaming in through the window. Outside the storm had disappeared and been replaced by endless clear blue skies. The garden shimmered in the morning sun. Bird song carried on the breeze, and I could hear the fowls in their pen. I was surprised I did not stir in the early hours and figured I must have been tired from the walk into town. I got up and having forgotten to make jelly fixed myself some tea and toast. I seemed imbued with a curious energy. Perhaps it was the weather. I was used to waking up to a wintry gloom. I contemplated whether it would be so strange if I were to leave my sanctuary and perhaps walk down to the beach at the base of the cliffs. The storm had churned the ocean into a chocolaty brown and although it did not seem warm enough to swim, a walk along the ocean's edge might be a delight I supposed. In times like this, I almost wished I had a dog to walk but I needed no excuse for the excursion. It was perfectly reasonable for a man to walk on the beach on such a glorious day. I finished my tea and walked into the bedroom to find a pair of trunks. I slipped them on and did up the drawstring. I looked at my pale, skinny legs and laughed. I had lost a lot of weight over the winter and the shorts hung off my bony hips. I slipped on a plain shirt and fished out a pair of leather flip-flops from under the bed. Outside was like a spring day. A spider had fixed a web in the branches of a plum tree and insects buzzed and jumped amongst the overgrown green grass. It was a rather ethereal and bucolic scene. I let the momentum of the day carry me down the hill. My flip-flops scraped on the gravel of the sidewalk and flicked against the bottom of my heels as I walked. The beach seemed deserted from my viewpoint on the knoll. I made my way down the hill being careful not to slip on the muddy path. I kicked off the flip-flops and stepped onto the sand which was still damp from the rain of the previous night. The beach felt cool on the bottom of my feet as I walked on the loose grainy sand. I moved towards the water's edge where the sand was firmer. Waves broke and washed up onto the sand before retreating into the ocean. I walked like that not thinking about much at all. My mind was unburdened, and I felt peaceful. I walked toward the far end of the cove and figured I'd turn around and make my way home once I reached it. I looked out to sea, and something caught my eye. At first, I couldn’t make it out. It looked like a bag of black fabric floating in the surf. I stopped and brought my hand up to my brow to block out the glare and get a better look. I felt a shrill panic rise inside me. The fabric was attached to a body lying face down in the water. I looked around for help. The beach was empty. I removed my shirt and ran into the waves. The icy cold of the water felt as if it was burning my skin and the salt stung in my eyes. I waded in up to my neck. The body was still a few meters away. I pushed off the sand and swum towards it. The waves washed over me, and I struggled for breath. The current carried me towards it. As I got closer, I saw it was that of a man. I grabbed the hair and pulled the head out of the water. The face was lifeless and a shade of blue. I put my elbow under the chin to keep the head above water and began dragging the body back towards shore. With some luck, the current seemed to change and move toward the shore. The waves washed over me, and I struggled to stay afloat. I searched for the sand with my feet in desperation. I wave broke over me and I spluttered for air. I was about to give up when my toes touched the sand below. I kicked off it and heaved the man towards shore. The water receded before a wave tossed us towards shore. I was now waist-deep. The man's body was bloated with seawater, and it took all my strength to drag him into the shallows. The shallower the water the heavier he became. I got him out of the water onto the concrete like wet sand of the shore. I collapsed backwards onto the sand exhausted and unsure what to do next. The man seemed cold and dead. His eyes were like the fish at the market. I wanted to run up the beach home back to the silence and comfort of the cottage. Something told me I could not live with the cowardice. There was only one thing to do. I crouched over the man took a deep breath and put my lips on his. His chest rose and fell as I breathed into him. I rhythmically pumped his chest with my palms. Something inside me wanted him to live. I went on like that for the longest time with no response. I was beaten and wanted to stop. I wondered how long I should keep at it. Suddenly the man spluttered and spat sea water all over my face. His eyes opened wide in fear and for a moment met with mine. He sat bolt upright and made a horrible noise, half murmur and half scream. I backpaddled terrified in the sand. I found my feet, turned, and sprinted back up the beach toward the cottage not daring to look back.