The cutter lay half-buried in the dark soil, light skimmed the horizon – dim and chilly. The sea had not been here for a very long time.
She sat on a stool washing the cold armature clean with soapy water and ammonia. The smell was awful, but the grease came off.
There had been a time when he had come up the landing with buckets of fish, with loot from all over the world. Now he only took the pills and listened to the radio.
Things slipped away. It all slipped: the sea, the fish, the foreign works of art.
Suddenly a part of the armature came away. It had eroded while being left in the shed where damp and mould ate at everything.
It was useless now. She cleaned and cleaned, but it didn’t last for long, everything became filthy in no time. Things fell apart.
From the house came a hearty laughter. She couldn’t believe her own ears. It was him. He was singing now! What on earth was going on?
She ran across the yard and into the house. And there he sat, naked, on an oak chair she had never seen before. On his head was a steel helmet and in his hand a large spear.
She was frightened now. She didn’t like change, but this was worse. This was unreal – hideous.
Outside, people began to spill into the yard. Excitement rang in their voices as they joined in his song. Ravens flew in from the hills. Crows came from the dead fields. And then… the screams of gulls.
The sea had returned.
An old artwork called Procesa the Sea Witch