Solstice and Sulphur

Prologue

Two years, nine months, three weeks and one day. And yet the plates lay still in Gabriela’s cupboard, gathering dust. Something made her feel she had to keep them – every time she came close to ridding herself of them, they told her not to. They commanded her. They begged her not to sell them. The day they first came to her was still fresh in her mind as if it was yesterday. A trimly dressed man had entered her shop, a black duffel bag slung across his shoulder. This wasn't abnormal - from time to time she had people coming in to pawn antiques to her.

But the man had a distinctly sharp scent – one of a sour lemon scorched with sulphur. One which penetrated through any manner of warm, summery smells. And as he stepped into the shop bringing a brush of air in with him, his shoes made a resonant and devilish click on the weathered tiles of the shop. She remembered clearly seeing his eyes narrowing in a barely concealed look of distaste as he scanned around the room. And so, to add to this haphazard collection, the man presented from his bag three painted ceramic plates. The painting was not elaborate – nor was the ceramic of particular quality. But the sense of longing that she felt as soon as the man presented the three plates was more than anything she’d felt before. It was a calling, that she had no choice but to buy them, to satisfy the gap that these plates would fill.

So, buy them she did. In fact, she took the whole duffel bag. The man seemed as eager to get rid of them as she was to buy them. And in the cupboard they stayed. Unpacked, unviewed, unsold. For two years, nine months, three weeks and one day. But for no longer. Today was the day. They were going on sale. Over the years Gabriela had learnt to build up a tolerance to their incessant callings from the cupboard, and to hang them on the hooks on the wall pained her more than an eternal suffering in hell. But she could not take it anymore. The constant twinging in her heart, the constant confusion and longing and hatred and love she felt for these plates.

Her first customers of today would come by shortly after the morning heat started to settle in. After dutifully dusting each shelf, as she did each morning, Gabriela sat herself behind the table and sighed in satisfaction. From her position at the back of the shop, she could see all of her shelves, stacked high with flowerpots and miniature statues. Each shelf was custom made, too – made out of a tightly woven mix of palm leaves and clay. She found it made for a very stable platform. She tried in vain to switch on her electric fan. It had broken a few months ago, but she was so used to the routine she often forgot. Nevertheless, she was accustomed to the heat – unabating as it was. She glanced over at the plates, tuning their cries out. Everything was in position.

Ding.

The tinny bell by the door rang quietly as the drapes fluttered in the wind. The first customer of the day. Right on cue. An fair-skinned man stepped through the doorway, bending his head carefully to avoid the low-hanging ceramic décor. He held out his hand behind him, and with a delicate swirl of floral fabric a beautiful young woman followed.

“Good morning,” the man said in impeccable Spanish. His eyes sparkled, and a warm scent of freshly baked bread filled the room as he spoke. Almost immediately his gaze snapped to the three plates hanging on the wall. She too felt compelled to look at them again, their vibrant decoration, their ornately circular nature, their absolute beauty and lust, their complete splendour. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to sell them. “How much for these plates?” the man asked, with a sudden vigour.

“Oh, they are not for sale”, Gabriela found herself saying. It was not her mind forming the words, yet they were being spoken from her mouth, as if thought by another.

“How much? I will outbid anybody.” The man was insistent. Business had been slow these last months, and Gabriela was regrettably short on money. “I’m sorry. They’re not for sale.”

Again. Those words. She did not mean them. She wanted those plates gone more than anything. Or did she? Maybe the words were hers, simply said without thought.

“Please. Just one. A hundred. I will pay a hundred euros.” The man had a slight glint in his eyes, a slight sign of madness. The warm scent of bread was gone, replaced by a faint familiar tinge of burning sulphur.

The acrid smell momentarily broke the vice that the plates had held over her.

“Take it,” she said. Finally. Her own words. “Take it, please.” Nothing more was needed. The man plucked a note out of his pocket, threw a hundred euros at Gabriela, almost ripped the plate off the wall and was gone. Just like that.

Gabriela sat in shock for a few moments. Her heart twinged with an odd pain, as she sat staring at the empty hook on the wall. But she felt the power the plates held over her ebbing. Only two remained. Gabriela knew, somehow, that the plates could not survive without each other. They had to go. She could not stand looking at them on the wall any longer. Yet she could not sell them.

Ding.

Another customer.

A familiar face poked around the doorway.

“Gabriela! Wonderful to see you.” Gabriela was pleased to see a friend – the last customer had unnerved her. “Ah, Maria. How nice of you to visit.”

Maria was an old acquaintance of hers and came by the shop often before the afternoon influx of tourists, for a chat or gossip.

“How have you been?” These words fell on deaf ears as Maria’s eyes were immediately locked on the two plates hanging on the wall.

“Where did you get these plates?”. Maria did not look up while she said this. It was as if she was entranced.

Gabriela stood up sharply from her chair. “What did you say?”

“I need these plates. Give me these plates.”

Once more the calming warmness of summer was gone, and Gabriela felt chilled by the unmistakably harsh smell of sulphur.

“No!”, she cried. “No, please, not you too!” Without warning, a severe wind blew through her shop, and she could swear she heard a crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder. Before she could even blink, Maria was gone.

And so were the last plates. Even the hooks were gone, sliced off the wall in one fell swoop as if by some supernatural force. She ran a hand through her hair. It was soaked. Even her light summer dress was drenched to the skin. Yet through the shop window blazed the unrelenting rays of the solstice. Not even a hint of a cloud presented itself, despite how much Gabriela willed even the faintest suggestion of a storm to materialise. Anything to explain what had just happened. In a way Gabriela felt strangely bittersweet. She no longer felt the inhuman calling of the plates, that had tormented her for so long. Yet a space remained in her mind. A space which had been filled for so many years with the companionship of the plates. A space which was now empty, awaiting a new resident.

The Tide

Francesco was behaving worryingly, Giulia thought to herself. This erratic behaviour was not like him. The manner in which he pulled her out of that pottery shop, let alone the price he paid unprompted for that horrendous plate.

“Francesco, please. Where are we going?”

Still not a word. He gripped her hand tightly as he weaved through the crowds of tourists. The sea blew a gentle breeze onto her face, but she barely had time to notice before they were ducking under another olive tree, or dancing around a speeding moped.

“Oh Francesco, look,” she gasped. “How sweet!” A trio of young girls were squatting by the roadside. Laid out in front of them was a linen wrap, dotted with intricately painted pebbles and freshly collected shells threaded onto a necklace. She tugged his arm. “Francesco, we must.”

But she could not slow his pace. He powered on, practically dragging her sideways as she looked back helplessly at the girls, her sandals trailing on the boardwalk.

“Francesco!”

Finally he stopped and turned to look at her. She saw a face, but it was not Francesco’s. It was one of wrath, of fury, one which terrified her. Still he said nothing. But his eyes conveyed a world of meaning. Giulia’s Francesco, the one she knew – had a brilliant glint in his eyes. A devious but friendly glint, a cheeky but good-natured glint. This was not that. She saw an unpredictable glint in these eyes.

She begged again. “Francesco, what is going on? Where are we going?” Not a word. He grasped her hand almost violently and turned to pull her away again. But now she resisted. She pulled back. He pulled more, stronger. She stood steadfast and pulled back. He turned back and reached for her shoulder, as if to lift her. At this she pushed. Hard.

Francesco lost his balance and fell onto the wooden boards. The world almost in slow motion, Giulia watched the plate he was carrying fall too, fall gently towards the ground as if it was a feather in the wind, float gently – and smash. Shattered. Everywhere. Pieces as small as a blade of grass splintered through the gaps between the boards.

“What have you done?” he finally cried. He dove to the ground, frantically rescuing fragments and trying to rebuild the plate.

“What have you done?” he cried again, the anger gone and replaced with a melancholic nature, as if he had just lost a loved one.

Giulia stayed standing, not in shock but in indignation and confusion. Francesco looked up towards her, a pained look on his face. He had gathered most of the pieces together in his panic-stricken state and rebuilt a plate-shaped pile of ceramic. Yet he said no more. He stood up gently, taking care not to damage the plate further. And with that he was gone. He almost evaporated into the waves of tourists as he stepped backwards and disappeared. Giulia could have blinked and missed it. A tiny shard of the plate was left on the boardwalk as the only piece of evidence to prove to herself what had just happened. She bent down carefully and picked it up between her fingers. It was wet. As she turned it to inspect it more the sharp edge sliced the tip of her finger. She dropped it in pain and examined the wound. There was no blood, but there was a smear of blue on her index finger, and a smear of an ashy white on her thumb. The paint was running.

Slowly she got back to her feet. Trying to push to the back of her mind what had just happened, she straightened her dress and tightened her sandals.

“Francesco!” she called. “Francesco!” But the only answer she got was curious looks from passing tourists. She pushed through swathes of drunk locals and weaved past waiters carrying stacks of wine glasses, calling his name. She’d go back to their house. Francesco would be there, waiting for her. It would all turn out to be a misunderstanding. She repeated this in her head until she started to believe it. Or maybe it had all been in her head. Maybe Francesco had just gone ahead of her, maybe she had just imagined it all. But glancing down at her hands, the streaked paint remained as a symbol to remind her of the reality of the situation.

But Giulia was not a woman to be intimidated or scared. She took this all in her stride and just walked faster, with more purpose. She began to plan the conversation she was going to confront Francesco with when she got back. He blew half their weekly budget on a useless trinket – and then smashed it! As this pent-up anger built, she suddenly felt blood rushing away from her head, and almost lost her footing. She grasped around fruitlessly to find something to right her balance, and finally landed on a thin metal railing. Gasping for air, she leant on this rail and took in deep breaths. The salty ocean air calmed her somewhat, and she closed her eyes to feel the sea breeze rush against her face, cooling her. The pain in her head gently subsided. Perhaps she was being too hasty. Maybe Francesco was to be reasoned with, maybe he had a justification for all this. If anything, she just wanted an explanation.

As she opened her eyes, she saw the moon glowing gently, illuminating the water with a white glimmer. The moon? She looked around in alarm. There was not a person to be seen. The restaurants were empty, shutters pulled ominously over their windows. But where was the waiter she almost hit? And the girls by the beach? And the tourists? But no matter how hard she willed, none of these people appeared before her. The road was deserted, lit only by the flickering of streetlamps and the much brighter rays of moonlight, casting an eerie filter over the seafront. She could hear the gentle pulsing of the water, and the familiar crashing of waves against cliffs in the far distance. There was not another sound to be heard. But instead of fear, Giulia felt relaxed. It was a strangely peaceful atmosphere. It almost felt calming to be stranded here, in this world lit by only moonlight, populated by only the waves and the stars in the sky.

Not even a bird was heard, or the suggestion of a cloud. Just endless stars, and the beautiful rolls of darkness in the sky.

But this peace did not last long. Interrupting the tranquillity, Giulia felt herself thrown forward violently as if shoved from behind. Her hands lost their futile grip on the railings and her legs were flung over the barrier, down towards the sea below. Desperately reaching for a hold, her fingers finally dug into the wood of the boardwalk, the last outpost of safety before the waters under her. As she hung there, her feet swinging and her dress buffeting in the wind, she swore she saw the sea beckoning to her. The pleasantly calm tide was gone, and all that she could see now was a dark monster, rearing its head at her, waiting to swallow her whole. She felt the starting drops of a rainstorm dripping onto her head, and she only had seconds to grip the planks tighter before the heavens unleashed themselves on her. Within moments her auburn hair had turned the shade of the sea, the unrelenting tempest draining any last colour or life she had left in her.

The storm grew stronger, thrusting gusts of wind at her, ripping her sandals off and flinging them into the merciless rolls of the ocean. She felt herself getting weaker, her grip loosening as the wood crumbled and rotted as she watched, the pitiless sleet drenching the boards, again and again. One by one her fingers were ripped off their holds by the unyielding wind and rain, until one finger remained. Not even a thought manifested itself, as all of her ever-depleting energy was being used to hold her above the sea. The last sight she saw before plummeting into the depths of the cruel waves, was her finger, stained with the ashy-white paint, slipping on the wood, slipping, falling, tumbling – and then she was gone. Swallowed into the tide, drowned under the unsparing weight of the waves.

Profit

It was high time to return home to his apartment in London. He longed to be able to read the newspapers, and drink fine whiskey again, without being hassled by some urchin trying to sell him some cheap bracelet. It was no secret that Benedict despised being abroad. He hated the new foods, the horrible smells, and most of all the locals and their confusing languages.

But Benedict was an art collector. And so in his work, he often encountered clients who lived internationally, often in some remote village. So typically, he sent out his couriers, to outbid everyone else and return home with as many pieces of artwork as they could. He would then sell these onto museums and galleries in London, using his charm and class for an extortionate profit. But not here. The host of this art collection had stipulated specifically that each art collector must show up in person if they wished to purchase anything. Begrudgingly, after accepting there were no loopholes around this, Benedict took the earliest flight out and found the most luxurious hotel he could. So that was why he found himself here, in this dump of a seaside town, eating ghastly Spanish food. Even worse, the deal had turned sour, and he ended up with not even one lousy miniature. He'd return to his hotel after his evening meal, stay one more night, and then catch the first flight back to Heathrow in the morning. He couldn't stand the birds' constant chirping for one more day, let alone the hubbub and bustle of the locals.

“Garçon!” Benedict snapped his fingers and gestured for the bill at the nearest waiter. Naturally, he hadn’t bothered to learn any Spanish before coming here – in fact, his cultural ignorance was almost unparalleled. A local paper lay open on his table, his meal peppered with poorly translated snippets that caught his eye - a woman had been found washed up on the shore nearby, a tourist, and the paper was calling for people to come forward. Her boyfriend, the prime suspect as it were, had gone missing the day before. Cut and dry, Benedict thought, act of passion, lust, jealousy, he could easily see himself pushing a cheating partner into the sea.

He left his table as soon as he had paid, without even so much as a thank you. As he walked, he steered clear of the swathes of tourists. Instead, he stayed hugging the wall – away from all the idiotic moped drivers.

As soon as he could, he veered off into a quieter street. He made care not to scratch his leather shoes on the rough cobble, though. In his obliviousness, he almost tripped over something lying in the middle of the road. Looking closer, he could see it was a person, wrapped in shawls and motionless on the cold stone. He bent down gently and peeled the shawl off. It was not like him to be curious – but for some reason he felt forced to discover what was underneath this. As he did so, the most horrible stench was released, spreading itself into the street, latching onto every surface it could. But Benedict did not notice. His eyes were caught on something else. The shawl had not just been covering the person, it had been covering something they held in their hands. Despite all of his better instincts, Benedict reached forward and plucked them out of their cold, lifeless hands.

Two of the most beautiful, most intricately painted plates he had seen in his life. This more than made up for the failed art deal. These could be worth hundreds of millions. He held them very gently in his hands, carefully caressing and turning them in his hands, examining them from all angles. Quickly, he slipped off his suit jacket. It was expensive, yes, but that wasn’t important right now. He folded the plates securely in the jacket, wrapping it as tightly as he could. He quickly threw the shawl back over the body. Somebody else could find it. Some good Samaritan. He didn’t have time for that right now.

He stood up sharply and set off down the street. Back to the hotel, immediately. He would find these a safer container – he had a briefcase designed for carrying paintings. It would be perfect. He would keep them under constant watch, until the morning. Once back in England, he would be getting the biggest sale of his life. One call to Rossovsky, a quick visit to his mansion in Kew Gardens – and a cool fifty million in the Swiss bank account. Benedict practically jumped with glee thinking of it, but then stopped himself. None of this would happen if the plates didn’t make it back, he reminded himself. That night Benedict got almost no sleep – he eventually passed out, holding the briefcase tightly in his arms.

~

He was woken abruptly by the harsh ringing of his alarm. He was almost about to reach over and hit the snooze button before he realised what he was doing. He awoke fully with a jolt and looked down frantically. Phew. Still here. The briefcase, surprisingly, had not moved in the ten minutes he had taken his eyes off it to sleep. Benedict had never gotten ready so quickly before. In less than five minutes, he was washed, dressed, and packed, by the door ready to leave. He rushed past the receptionists, and practically jumped into his taxi.

He barely even noticed the mountains and hills go by, as his eager taxi driver tried to point out beautiful valleys to him. His mind was in another world. He was picturing his new Ferrari, or Lamborghini – no, wait, Bugatti. He could have that cashmere sofa he’d always wanted. That new hundred-inch TV he’d just bought? Forget it. Anything smaller than a cinema screen was not even worth considering. Sir. That was what his butlers would call him. He’d move, maybe get some bigger gardens. Sir. He liked the sound of that. Sir.

“Sir?” He was jolted out of his daydream, back into the stifling heat of the cab. The driver looked at him impatiently.

“Sir, we’re here.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

He climbed out, still clutching the briefcase tightly. He was hit by the heat of European summer for the last time before he entered into the airport terminal. Why wouldn’t the gate open quicker? Surely the plane was ready to take off. Waiting to refuel? Turbulence? All of these thoughts whirled round his head as delay after delay kept him from his prize. But somehow, he kept his patience. Holding the briefcase, holding the plates with him kept him calm. The flight itself happened practically instantaneously. His mind was wandering, picturing the exact dimensions of his pool, or the pose his marble statues would have. And as he was imagining putting the final touches on his multi-story underground car park, he felt a jolt as the plane touched down. English soil again. Finally.

He couldn’t get off the plane fast enough. Flashing his diplomatic passport got him through most security checkpoints with a casual wave through. It was well worth the money. He’d make sure to thank Alexei for it when he got back. Most importantly, it exempted his suitcases from being searched. Did you think he was making all this money and paying taxes? No way. The British government would be after their half of his millions with all the style and class of a starving vulture. ‘Art Collector’ was just a fancy title he liked to attribute to himself. Legally, he would be referred to as an international arts smuggler. But he didn’t like the word ‘smuggler’. It implied a lack of skill, like a street-level druggie selling bags to addicts. He would never stoop to that level. No, Benedict was an art collector. He simply took art from people wishing to sell, and delivered to people wishing to buy. Completely respectable work.

No words could describe how pleased he was to be back on English tarmac, with pleasantly sub-fifteen-degree weather and a significant lack of sun in the sky. Wonderful. He made his way through the terminal to the train station. He’d already called Rossovsky’s men – they’d be waiting for him at Kew Gardens. A short tube journey was all that separated him from a quick art appraisal – all for show, anyway – and then his payment.

He kept hold of the plates carefully as he went down the stairs into the station. They were in his briefcase, wrapped and cushioned meticulously. When he arrived at the platform, he had a sudden urge to open the case. Would it hurt to have another look? Just before he gave them to Rossovsky. They were just so beautiful. No, it wouldn’t hurt to have just one more look. Turning around from the hubbub of the station, he quickly opened his briefcase and unpacked them. Okay. They were still here. All wrapped in their polystyrene, safe from damage. He carefully unwrapped their cases one by one. As the first plate appeared from its shell, he let out an audible gasp. The cream ceramic, beautifully accented with ashy streaks, and blue decoration to top it off. He couldn’t get over the craftsmanship. They were the best pieces of pottery he’d ever seen in his life – and he was almost sixty. He’d been to uncountable galleries, young up-and-comers trying to market their shabby cups. But these were not like those.

He reached out his finger and gently stroked the plate. He sighed with pleasure. It was as if he had just drunk a cold, refreshing glass of lemonade. It made him feel a state of relaxation he had rarely felt in the last few decades. Suddenly his calmness was interrupted by a sharp pain behind his eyes. Holding the plate with the briefcase with care, he found a quiet place in the station to lean against the cold concrete. He felt fatigue spread through his body, as he suddenly realised how tired he was. Maybe he was just jetlagged from the flight? The last couple of days had been busy. He ran his hand through his hair and closed his eyes, resting for a bit until the train arrived. As he opened his eyes, all that he saw was the soft afterglow from the lights illuminating the platform for a second, and then it was plunged into darkness. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. But no magical lamp appeared to light the station. He looked around in confusion. There was nobody to be seen. All the commuters, the crowds of passengers that he’d just got away from – they were all gone. The hum of the neon lights by the sandwich bar was gone, and the familiar bustle on the stairs down to the station was replaced by a faint dripping of water. He’d never seen a train station as deserted as this before. His eyes slowly accustomed to the darkness – but he still could barely see. The only light seemed to be a very faint lamp, far away in the tunnel – not illuminating much.

He stood still, listening for any giveaway noise. But still, nothing came. No sign of life, or anything to explain what happened. He bent down to repack the plate into its container, but as he did so, he felt himself thrown forward violently as if hit by a car. Benedict threw his arms out in front of him, desperately reaching for something to grab onto. But nothing. The freezing metal of the tracks came up to meet him as he landed, his arms flailing wildly as his head smacked straight into the rail.