The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

GEETA ROOPNARINE Corbeaux Bay

IT IS THEIR summer holidays. He has gone for a run along the beach, early in the morning, every day except today. Last night he slept uneasily, disturbed by the peculiar sound of a night bird.

Sunday, and the beach is already swarming with people gaily mapping their domains with rectangular pieces of scraggy matting. The fishermen have returned from their trawling and Christine is at work in the lean-to. She slits, disembowels, and segments strange sea creatures that she has picked up from the nets; they may not be marketable but they do make nourishing soups. She looks like a Pied Piper but with a flock of black scrawny corbeaux, turkey vultures, some as tall as their youngest son. She throws the inner parts of the head, the gills, and the shining entrails to them without looking and they eagerly scoop up the offal, their curved beaks slicing, spilling the juices of the soft material. They are fast eaters, intent on their portions and defensive of their territory, fiercely pecking.

He is uneasy that she feeds the birds while the children watch from the balcony, but she laughs and says it is because he is from the city and does not understand the ways of nature, that when she was a girl her mother did the same and she sees no reason to change.

As he hurries along the pathway to the garden, one of the corbeaux, intent on feasting, on staining the cement red, is unaware of his approach. He aims a kick at it. The bird staggers a few feet away with a weird side-stepping gait and gazes at him. The flock also pause for a moment, their heads cocked to one side, and look up. Christine continues to pull, to stretch, to empty.

When he is almost at the gate, she notices him in his sneakers and tells him to take his mobile phone.

“What?” he says. “And have you calling every five minutes to tell me which child is using dirty words, or which one is making his kaka.” He goes back inside and puts away his phone and his watch.

Then he bares his arm at her. “I am on holiday.”

He goes for his run but soon returns. The sun is high in the sky and the people on the beach upset him, playing handball and shrieking as if the beach belongs to them. Tomorrow, he promises himself, he will leave early in the morning, and explore beyond the coconut trees on to the shoreline bordered by the jungle.

The birds have gone and he is pleased that he doesn’t have to look at their bare wrinkled necks, their curved beaks, their staring eyes.

Next day he leaves at 6 a.m., before the sun is up. He takes a small bottle of water, strapped to his waist. He picks up his mobile phone, remembers his conversation with his wife the day before, and puts back it down.

The beach is white, pristine. There is not a soul in either direction. The sea is grey, untouched yet by the morning sun. It looks fresh, newly formed.

He pulls off his socks, balls them up, places them in his sneakers and runs in the fine sand, his feet caressed by the soft swell of the water. He leaves no trail, and in front, the beach stretches out clean, unmarked.

He goes further and further until he leaves the swelter of houses, humped together like ticks. After an hour he reaches the end of the long beach and the sand gives way to a rocky outcrop. Here, the coconut palms surrender to the tangled growth of the tropics. He dries his feet, puts on his socks and sneakers, and climbs the rocky incline. Another, shorter beach stretches out in front of him. In the distance, beyond a protrusion of blood-red rocks, a second bay shimmers.

The small village has vanished behind the curve of the sea. He drinks the rest of his water and decides to go as far as the red rocks, maybe take a small sample for the boys. In the sky, a bird circles lazily.

He jogs slowly, taking care. The sand is littered with debris: broken plastic, bottle tops, a single rubber flip-flop. He looks at the orientation of the shore, at an angle to the long beach, and it appears that the sea rages through here at intervals. As he goes on, it becomes rocky. He wonders whether he should turn back. The sun is already high and Christine would be looking towards the beach. Then he reasons it is a pity to come so far and not see what is on the other side.

The liver-coloured rocks are jagged with thin spikes and he is amazed at the different shades of red, rust and brown that swirl through the small peaks. He is dizzy from the long run, not having had breakfast, and the hot sun, but he is determined to climb to the top, to master this wilderness.

The top does not disappoint. It is wild and rugged. In the forest, the trees seem alive, listening. Here, too, he sees that the ocean comes in with a vengeance. Large logs are piled up at the edge of the narrow strip of beach as if protecting it from the forest or something unknown.

The tip of the rocky outcrop is covered with huge globs of white with black feathers sticking out here and there. He looks up. More birds are circling but they are too far away for him to identify. Probably those damn corbeaux looking for another gullible housewife to feed them.

He peers down. On a ledge cut into the rock, he sees nests with broken shells, but one has two eggs. They are large, speckled with grey. An image of Christine’s face, frowning, passes across his mind as she sees him with the egg, when her monopoly on nature is broken, and the boys touch the egg with their small, sensitive fingers.

As he balances himself and stretches precariously to get at the egg, his attention is caught by some markings on the beach below like symbols in a strange language.

He falls and as he moves through the air, slowly, he sees a multitude of black figures huddling under a projecting ledge. He hits one of the tall spikes in the rocks below and feels something ram into his stomach. Then, the spike breaking, he falls again.

He is lying on the beach. He takes a deep breath. There is no pain yet. He sees himself take a hold of the spike with both hands and pull hard. He flings it away and at first there are no fluids, no blood, no acids.

He rolls onto his stomach, closes his eyes and gives in to the pain, his face pressed against the sand. When he opens his eyes, the markings, the symbols, are no more than hundreds of V-shaped footprints of birds.

A stain spreads across his T-shirt and he pulls it off, tears it and makes a bandage of sorts. He reaches towards his pocket and then his hand falls away; he pictures the mobile on the table where he left it.

A movement above catches his eye. On the hidden ledge, something is causing the birds to stir. They raise their heads and seem to sniff at the air. Then they are quiet, watchful, their heads cocked to one side as if listening to some signal.

They take to the air, fly high. He exhales slowly. He turns his head towards the forest. It looks dark, impenetrable. The only way is back over the cliffs. He tries to move forward, but the pain leaves him weak.

He hears a movement and moves his head slowly. A corbeau is on the beach, side-walking like a bashful virgin, its beak contained, quiet.

Another movement, and more feet making V-shaped symbols on the sand.

His mouth is dry; the hot rays seem to pour down his throat.

He wishes he could talk to his sons, listen to their little squabbles falling around his ears like soft rain.

Then, a stirring of wings blots out the sun.