Binoculars

A couple live in a beautiful, peaceful village by the sea. They take a brisk early-evening walk and climb up high onto their hill overlooking their waters. The lady takes out her binoculars, a birthday gift. She is excited to try them. A new experience; a new insight.

She thinks she sees something foreign in the boisterous waves. Unable to focus the binoculars clearly she adjusts the view. A moving object, a thrashing shape, an intensity of sorts is observed. She puts her hand over her mouth smothering her sharp intake of breath and passes her binoculars to her husband. He fiddles with them but they are still blurred, his perception too is shrouded.

“It’s nothing. Stop imagining things,” he says.

Other walkers, enjoying the countryside, join them and soon there is a small crowd of locals high on their hill. There are how do you do?’s, chitter chatter, and sharing of home-baked cake. A man drinks tea from his thermos flask as they take turns looking into the binoculars. What they see is unknown.

“It’s a monster,” someone says. The others laugh.

The lady thinks she hears gargled, gasping cries. Sickened, she retrieves her binoculars and looks again. The monster is wild, untamed but still indistinct. Its solid form is breaking up, bits fall off it and splash sporadically alone. She begs her husband to look but he just shakes his head and his steady hands calm her. Someone else takes the binoculars and reports that the monster is dangerous. A man suggests it could just be the unsettled chopping of the seas.

The wind is up and the crowd is battered, yet they are grounded in their stance. A grieving shrill pierces their hill but it’s watered down, drowned out by the landscape. Yet it is heard, by them, those locals, before it’s quietened. The crowd is restless; the slapping wind does not enlighten their bruised white skin and cheeks rubbed red. Anxious pained frowns show struggle. Some twitch and turn their backs.

The lady turns her gaze to the other side of their hill, across the green, lush countryside towards their village. She’s confused and wonders if it’s the anti-depressants that have made her delusional. She thinks of her luxurious home, full of nostalgia and of her happy grown up children. A pregnant woman stands beside her and cradles her belly. Her husband puts his arm around her. They are lost in their dreams. An elderly man wraps a scarf around his neck. It’s getting cold. More of them look towards their village, their home, their community.

A few still look out to sea but its darkened, obscure and hostile. This time, the lady is sure she hears pain filled cries. She looks from one person to another, no one reacts. Her husband tucks the binoculars in his pocket, they are only small. The crowd take steps backwards away from the edge of the hill. They are too close for comfort. The lady follows their lead.

Lights flicker on in their village. The view is very pretty, high up, where they are. Manicured gardens with neat borders abound. Grand houses and charming cottages settled in perfect arrangement. The warmth of their homes are calling. They worry about getting down from the hill as nighttime is upon them. Hands are held as they help one another with generous spirit.

A father picks up his toddler and squeezes her tight. He, like the crowd, like the lady, traces his steps back towards their village but his toddler keeps pointing at the sea. There is still something there, it’s more broken than before, scattered pieces everywhere. Its movements are less dramatic and there are parts, bobbing up, reaching and then disappearing, like dying swans of synchronized nightmares. The toddler babbles noisily. Her father tickles her. She laughs and is distracted.

The crowd, a closed huddle, sheltered by layers of thick wool, move quietly, tense, back along the well-trodden, most traveled path. United in their private thoughts, wed in their separate dreams and cushioned by their rights, they are soothed. They want to get home. They love their village. They love their lives.

There are goodbyes, take care’s, and see you soon’s as the crowd splits and disbands.

The lady’s husband unlatches the gate into their luscious garden and she bears the familiar squeak as it opens. She closes the gate behind her and grips its iron bars, looking out. Her breathing is irregular; she gasps in the suffocating air. Something terrible just happened. She asks him if he has her binoculars and he nods.

The sea is strong and the severed monster has weakened. Heard, but ignored, seen but unacknowledged, drowned.

No longer a threat.