Sandless Sympathy

The grass was coarse. Pinpricks under the soles, injecting additional jolts of shock as each blade merrily found its natural way, insistently forced from their upright positions.

“She sells seashells on the seashore”, I muttered, “the shells that she sells are seashells… I’m sore”. I had been on the seafront not long before and converting from the soft sand to the unwelcoming spines was a stark, unneighbourly contrast.

“If I hadn’t had let the tide wash my sandals away”, I said aloud,

“I probably would’ve made some other kind of mistake”.

Generally, my luck came in waves. Too extreme. I was never able to reside within the grey. It was one or the other. I was either galivanting, carefree, a human embodiment of the four-leaved clover with the world gracing me with a bombardment of unnecessary good fortune, the elements practically swooning over me…

Or, I would end up being thrown onto a vigorously damaging rollercoaster ride; an unfortunate sequence of chain reactions would occur, tossing me from my pedestal into a hot, unforgiving pit of negative despair. I know my preference, but today the odds chose not to present me with any favours.

I looked upwards as the Sun began it’s departure and introduced me to the beginning of the dark half of the day. Everything is weighted in such a way, so they say. Hot and cold. Dark and light. Luck and misfortune. I just wished I could remain within the grey. I trudged further, still feeling the minuscule bites of the ground beneath me. I had adapted by this point, they were but numb memories of the initial piercings, but the sand was still on my mind.

Perhaps I could go back, before night fully falls, I thought. The ocean may well have gifted me with a farewell token, albeit my own property in the first place. Once the hungry mouth of the water decides to inhale what she believes is rightfully hers, it is unlikely that any kind of return policy will be put into place.

“No,” I spoke softly to myself, “turn back and see what she has to offer”.

It was black by the time I returned. The moonlight was the only offering of guidance for the slow journey back towards the water. Now more unwelcoming than before, the salt foam frothed and churned and spat towards me as I stood with my arms dangling from their sockets, knees bowed to support my pierced souls. The liquid was soothing, though. They say salt heals, and my heels were in dire need at this point.

“Cure me, ocean,” I whispered, “keep my sandals for now, but replenish my feet for the journey back”.

Shrill. A high-pitched, eardrum rattling sound came from behind me. My feet ached no longer as the adrenaline coursed through my body, standing me erect like a meerkat minding its den.

Shrill. The noise came again and I squinted my eyes and cocked my ear as I spun around to decipher where the sound originated from. I shouted something out, I don’t recall what, as I was interrupted mid-yelp by a figure approaching from the dunes that guarded the sea.

The figure – a man – approached, as I stood bewildered, attempting to make out the shape of his face and the breadth of his stature. As my heart palpitated, I tried to control the drum beat.

Inhale. Exhale. Remain composed.

He came closer and I felt the swell of the ocean splattering against my Achilles Tendons, forcing me forward towards the man – the stranger in the dark. I strained my neck forwards and saw a smiling figure, an older man, cloak-ridden and soft-faced.

“Hello there” I swallowed as I spoke, my forced baritone croaking and falling short of its intended target. He reached into his cloak and my body tensed up once more, still intimidated by this peculiar presence before me. He shook a finger slowly, kindly, taking his encased hand from his robe, revealing a small, leatherbound, black book.

When he finally spoke, his timbre was delicate, gentle as the morning breeze on a mild day. The voice of a man who lacked indulgence and was at peace with himself – with the world.

“You’ve made the journey back”, he said, “but what will your reward be?” I stared as blankly as the dunes stare down at the sea.

“My reward?” instinctively that was the only response I could muster. As he stared back the waves drew closer, pressing me closer to him.

“I only came for my sandals,” I began to jabber, “I came back for-“ his raised hand halted me once more. Presenting me with the black book and a short pencil, he smiled with a coy sense of knowing.

“Draw what you desire, and take what is yours”.

Taking a grasp upon the book, bewildered, I took the pencil and book without allowing any form of conscious thought to take it’s grasp upon me. Hands in a perpetual state of vibration, I began to draw the sandals in the little black book. The leather straps and thick soles, I felt excitement at the thought of comfort once more for the journey home. Caught up in the unusual circumstance, I continued to draw until the shoddily sketched pair were complete upon the paper.

“Now sign your name”, the old man breathed.

I glanced forward, quickly jotted my initials: A J M

Before passing the cloaked man the little black book back into his frail hand. His eyes jotted downwards in the darkness towards the scrawling, his face emotionless as he studied.

“This is all you want?” He exhaled, “This is all you really want?”

Bewildered I managed a single nod of the head before the shrill whistle disturbed me once more, this time towards the water which crept behind me. I spun around for the second time of the evening, before looking quickly back towards the strange new stranger.

Just as he had emerged from the nothingness of the night, he was gone once more. I ran like a man possessed – I truly believed I may well have been, tumbling over the dunes through the blackness of the evening and kept on running until my chest felt the hot fire of exhaustion. Shaking my head, muttering and stuttering to myself in disbelief, I kept on my path, back towards the sharp blades that had sent me on this deluded escapade in search of irrational comfort. I approached the area where I had primarily turned back, and the moonlight revealed an object before me in the darkness. A cloak on the ground, nestled into a small hole dug out of the grass. I froze. A deer in headlights. Frightened and dumbfounded. I stepped closer. No one was to be seen as I approached. I twitched and turned, constantly looking behind me just in case someone – something - emerged from the shadows.

I must have called out. I definitely said something, but no one answered my cry.

One step. Two step. Three step…

Some level of instinct arose once again as I neared the huddle of rags. I could not feel the sharpness of the ground below, even when I fell to one knee and grabbed a hold of the robes…

As I thrust them, no man or beast was revealed below, but a trunk, a wooden chest about the size of a baby’s cradle. The lunar light reflected off a brass buckle upon it. No lock, no key. My entire being tremored as I reached forward and opened the clasp. I stared for what felt like an eternity. My vision hazed over in the darkness as my eyes darted back and forth like a feral beast, in disbelief. Tied in rope, piles, and stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills, completely covering the entirety of the surface within. On top of them all, was the little black book, placed next to a small canvas sack. As I gazed down, I fell to my elbows, trembling, and finally found the composure to grab the book and bag. As I shook, the bag opened before me throwing my long-lost sandals to the ground. Once consumed by the depths of the sea, here they were, as dry as a board. A single tear drop fell from my eye. Fear. Excitement. Disbelief.

I took hold of the little black book, where the third and final surprise awaited me. Something that stuck to my very consciousness like glue for the rest of my living days.

Within the page where my sketch had once lay, was a message. Jotted in ink.

“He who asks for little, is often most deserving of a lot. I think you’ll need the sandals for the walk home. 20,000 steps. A dollar for each step. Luckily for you, you were stepping in the right direction.”

Below the jotted note, my pencilled in initials remained, as they still do to this day. The scrawling of the sandals was nowhere to be seen.