The Drowned Sailor by Benjamin Parsons
threw me off to go after this new prize. I tell you that man she’s married is only her latest victim, and in securing him she’s ruined these two women along the way!’
A fresh commotion arose at this revelation.
‘Ruined, ruined!’ bewailed Mrs. Manderville, wringing her hands.
‘How could she do it to me? And now James too!’ cried Clare, her hair drenched tragically around her face by the pummelling rain. Meanwhile, bitch, traitor, vampire! was the currency of execrations amongst the crowd.
Just then, a car skidded through the puddles and came to a halt. Guy Laurence jumped out of it, ran up to Clare and took her in his arms.
‘There you are,’ he began, ‘how are you, darling?’
Clare pushed him away in astonishment. ‘Guy! What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to take you home,’ he explained. ‘Ravella said you’d be here.’
‘Ravella!’ she gasped.
‘Yes, she invited me to the wedding— she thought you’d need me, and now I see why! I went looking for you up at the big house, but Ravella told me you’d be here.’
‘Ravella’s at Hurlevor Point!’
‘Yes, they’ve stopped there to collect their luggage before jetting off to—’ —but he was interrupted by a general movement of the crowd, who, as if by some communal assent, decided to intercept the evil genius at Hurlevor Point, and make her answer for her conduct. And doubtless, had there been torches and pitchforks to hand, they would have brandished them with zeal.
Laurence tried to catch Clare again as the march stormed past. ‘Clare! Darling! You haven’t told me how you feel— Ravella always said he was wrong for you, and you see she’s right. Why don’t you let me take you home—’
He was swiftly answered by a punch on the chin from the wretched bride.
So I watched in awe as this mob made its way up the road to Hurlevor Point in one mass, loudly denouncing the cruelties, deceptions and wickedness of Ravella. Thunder rolled round the sky, the sea churned, the rain pelted and the storm broke in earnest.
It occurred to me that I was the only person entirely uninjured by Ravella, and indeed I had no reason to take offence with her personally; so my heart suddenly went out to the intended quarry of this heady rout, and I thought I should warn her of their approach. I quit my damp bollard and nipped under the trees, taking the shore-path up to Hurlevor Point, and arrived at the house a little ahead of the mob, who I could nevertheless hear, tramping along the road through the rain.
I did not stand on ceremony to knock, but darted immediately into the hall, calling out for Ravella at once. At first I thought, for the stillness, that nobody was home, but I was surprised to notice Trevick sat on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, his legs akimbo, his cravat untied and his shirt yanked out at the waist.
I exclaimed, and asked what he was doing; but he did not reply, nor even heed me, since he seemed to be concentrating deeply. In his hand he held a pencil, and in the other an old envelope, which absorbed all his attention.
He was so distracted that I shook him by the shoulder, crying out: ‘Where’s Ravella? There’s a whole crowd on their way up from the village to pick a bone with her— oh, she’s not popular, you’d best get on your way if you want to avoid a scene!’
But he neither acknowledged me nor looked up, continuing to stare dumbly at some words he had scribbled on the back of this envelope, which, peering over his shoulder, I read.
Someone had underlined at the top: ‘On Marriage’, and beneath it I suppose he meant to write a poem; but he had only scrawled a jumble of meaningless words, and even as I watched he added another, in an infant hand: ‘cat’.
But now I could hear the rabble marching across the gravel drive, so I left him to it, calling out: ‘Ravella, Ravella! Where are you? Come down, quickly!’
She appeared at the top of the stairs and leaned over the banister.
‘Oh, Ravella! You should get away, the tide’s turned against you! Clare Belmont and her family, and half a dozen others besides, have all gotten the idea of taking you to task! Go and hide, they’re right behind me!’
In fact, they were at the door, and their chase through the tempest had done nothing to cool their tempers. On the contrary, they had multiplied their grievances at the prospect of venting them on her— and as if to match them, the gale screamed around the house. But in spite of the dangerous racket they made, it was the sound of the waves hurling against the shore that seemed to disturb the new Mrs. Trevick most. At each seething backdraft, and mounting churning, and violent crash against the rocks, she flinched.
Side-stepping her husband she descended to the hall, darting an anxious glance through the back windows as she did so. There, the grim seascape was portrayed vividly: the granite smudge of the headlands through the mist and spray, the ink-black clouds rearing heavily over the sea, redounding with thunder and shocking the scene with flickers of electricity. The thick rain lancing against the panes blurred the vista of the raging ocean, the sudden swells and gulfs, the lips and curves of white foam, the deep trenches of water and glances of exposed rocks, jagged under the sway and turmoil.
She stood, poised in apprehension, as the front door burst open and the whole host spilled in, cluttering the hall with taunts and noise. Ravella’s former friends, lovers, companions and all their attendants engulfed me as they swept towards her, loudly voicing their charges.
At that moment the back door, opposite the crowd’s entrance and giving onto the sea, shuddered in its frame beneath a shower of stout blows— it flew wide, and a great, looming man advanced determinedly, without abate, his whole body streaming water and entangled with sprays of weed and traces of shingle, his face white and colourless, his eyes black and vehement— and he fixed his gaze on Ravella, who returned it equally as he stormed forward— and so the drowned sailor bore Ravella, triumphant, into the sea.
The end
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. It’s from my book The Sleight of Heart and Other Stories. Find more stories and illustrations at www.benjaminial.com.
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A fresh commotion arose at this revelation.
‘Ruined, ruined!’ bewailed Mrs. Manderville, wringing her hands.
‘How could she do it to me? And now James too!’ cried Clare, her hair drenched tragically around her face by the pummelling rain. Meanwhile, bitch, traitor, vampire! was the currency of execrations amongst the crowd.
Just then, a car skidded through the puddles and came to a halt. Guy Laurence jumped out of it, ran up to Clare and took her in his arms.
‘There you are,’ he began, ‘how are you, darling?’
Clare pushed him away in astonishment. ‘Guy! What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to take you home,’ he explained. ‘Ravella said you’d be here.’
‘Ravella!’ she gasped.
‘Yes, she invited me to the wedding— she thought you’d need me, and now I see why! I went looking for you up at the big house, but Ravella told me you’d be here.’
‘Ravella’s at Hurlevor Point!’
‘Yes, they’ve stopped there to collect their luggage before jetting off to—’ —but he was interrupted by a general movement of the crowd, who, as if by some communal assent, decided to intercept the evil genius at Hurlevor Point, and make her answer for her conduct. And doubtless, had there been torches and pitchforks to hand, they would have brandished them with zeal.
Laurence tried to catch Clare again as the march stormed past. ‘Clare! Darling! You haven’t told me how you feel— Ravella always said he was wrong for you, and you see she’s right. Why don’t you let me take you home—’
He was swiftly answered by a punch on the chin from the wretched bride.
So I watched in awe as this mob made its way up the road to Hurlevor Point in one mass, loudly denouncing the cruelties, deceptions and wickedness of Ravella. Thunder rolled round the sky, the sea churned, the rain pelted and the storm broke in earnest.
It occurred to me that I was the only person entirely uninjured by Ravella, and indeed I had no reason to take offence with her personally; so my heart suddenly went out to the intended quarry of this heady rout, and I thought I should warn her of their approach. I quit my damp bollard and nipped under the trees, taking the shore-path up to Hurlevor Point, and arrived at the house a little ahead of the mob, who I could nevertheless hear, tramping along the road through the rain.
I did not stand on ceremony to knock, but darted immediately into the hall, calling out for Ravella at once. At first I thought, for the stillness, that nobody was home, but I was surprised to notice Trevick sat on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, his legs akimbo, his cravat untied and his shirt yanked out at the waist.
I exclaimed, and asked what he was doing; but he did not reply, nor even heed me, since he seemed to be concentrating deeply. In his hand he held a pencil, and in the other an old envelope, which absorbed all his attention.
He was so distracted that I shook him by the shoulder, crying out: ‘Where’s Ravella? There’s a whole crowd on their way up from the village to pick a bone with her— oh, she’s not popular, you’d best get on your way if you want to avoid a scene!’
But he neither acknowledged me nor looked up, continuing to stare dumbly at some words he had scribbled on the back of this envelope, which, peering over his shoulder, I read.
Someone had underlined at the top: ‘On Marriage’, and beneath it I suppose he meant to write a poem; but he had only scrawled a jumble of meaningless words, and even as I watched he added another, in an infant hand: ‘cat’.
But now I could hear the rabble marching across the gravel drive, so I left him to it, calling out: ‘Ravella, Ravella! Where are you? Come down, quickly!’
She appeared at the top of the stairs and leaned over the banister.
‘Oh, Ravella! You should get away, the tide’s turned against you! Clare Belmont and her family, and half a dozen others besides, have all gotten the idea of taking you to task! Go and hide, they’re right behind me!’
In fact, they were at the door, and their chase through the tempest had done nothing to cool their tempers. On the contrary, they had multiplied their grievances at the prospect of venting them on her— and as if to match them, the gale screamed around the house. But in spite of the dangerous racket they made, it was the sound of the waves hurling against the shore that seemed to disturb the new Mrs. Trevick most. At each seething backdraft, and mounting churning, and violent crash against the rocks, she flinched.
Side-stepping her husband she descended to the hall, darting an anxious glance through the back windows as she did so. There, the grim seascape was portrayed vividly: the granite smudge of the headlands through the mist and spray, the ink-black clouds rearing heavily over the sea, redounding with thunder and shocking the scene with flickers of electricity. The thick rain lancing against the panes blurred the vista of the raging ocean, the sudden swells and gulfs, the lips and curves of white foam, the deep trenches of water and glances of exposed rocks, jagged under the sway and turmoil.
She stood, poised in apprehension, as the front door burst open and the whole host spilled in, cluttering the hall with taunts and noise. Ravella’s former friends, lovers, companions and all their attendants engulfed me as they swept towards her, loudly voicing their charges.
At that moment the back door, opposite the crowd’s entrance and giving onto the sea, shuddered in its frame beneath a shower of stout blows— it flew wide, and a great, looming man advanced determinedly, without abate, his whole body streaming water and entangled with sprays of weed and traces of shingle, his face white and colourless, his eyes black and vehement— and he fixed his gaze on Ravella, who returned it equally as he stormed forward— and so the drowned sailor bore Ravella, triumphant, into the sea.
The end
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. It’s from my book The Sleight of Heart and Other Stories. Find more stories and illustrations at www.benjaminial.com.