The Mind's Eye

The Mind’s Eye

By Hannah Gates

The moist heat clung to the air like saturated cotton wool. The clouds of pewter grey loomed ominously as they devoured what was left of the baby blue sky. I checked for the tickets, still there in a sweaty pocket, and handed Jimmy a hurried sandwich, a late lunch as we had not anticipated the traffic. Jams had been caused by an accident with an overturned, roadside coconut stall.

“Where did my shadow go, Mum?” asked Jimmy, his five-year-old voice struggling to climb the crowded, stifling air. Looking down, my eyes searched for a shadow that had been absorbed by the darkened atmosphere. I shuffled my legs to relieve the stinging prickles of sweat. At last, the queue of passengers moved slowly towards the jetty. I cast my gaze upwards, expecting to see our tourist ferry, but where I thought the ferry should be, merely the ocean lay wide open, rising and falling, nearing and pulling back, as though on the brink of uttering an urgent warning. My eyes fell downwards and were met with a rather disappointing, rusty old boat of considerably smaller dimensions than what I had been hoping for in early September, the burgeoning monsoon season.

The queue was strangely quiet. A sudden gust of wind caused some empty metal crates to roll and clunk down the crumbly slope.

“I’m super excited about our trip, Mum! Is there ice cream in Langkali?’

“Langkawi.” I corrected him. I was always correcting him, it was an automatic response, like wiping away stray snot, and seemingly as important. It was about the only parenting skill that came naturally to me.

“Langkawi. Mum is there ice cream there?”

My lips poised themselves to answer but before the words could form, thunder, like a pent-up rage roared directly above. The sky opened as though lashing out in anger, and bulbs of water pelted our faces and hair as, one by one, we moved towards the boat. Eager to begin our journey to the island for our short holiday, we quickly handed over our suitcase. A tanned man in a crimson red jersey held out his hand, ready to steady my footing as I crossed the jetty to the boat. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that where the man’s little finger should have been on his left hand, was a small stump. His dark, inky eyes reminded me of the bleeding hearts of poppies, seeming to hide the knowledge of a thousand sorrows.

A whiff of tobacco followed us inside the faded, wooden cabin. It seemed neglected, in need of a fresh lick of paint. Another, more stocky, unshaven man of about 40 was arranging the baggage in chaotic piles in the centre of the lower cabin. He seemed agitated as he roughly piled suitcase upon suitcase, as though he held some sort of a grudge towards each one. He yelled something across to the man in the red jersey, but the Malay dialect was lost on me. He motioned us to sit near the front of the boat. We were not allowed out on deck, but being amongst the first passengers onboard, we sidled past the piles of suitcases and seated ourselves next to a stale, fraying window. The bench was hard and cold. Packed as tightly as layers of thinly sliced cheese, the boat was full to bursting. The engine finally rumbled into action and our journey began. Rain splattered against the pains, obscuring the view.

Waves as high as 10 feet swelled and brought us to an almost 45-degree angle before crashing down again and again. Some passengers moved from the back to nearer the front of the boat. We pressed in closer to each other. “I’m a bit scared, Mummy.” Jimmy’s little voice reached out, almost as a whisper. “We’ll be okay, Jimmy. In two hours we’ll arrive on the island. I’m sure the storm will be over soon,” fell the trembling words from my mouth, dull and flat like the sound of a spoon hitting a stainless-steel pan. I smoothed Jimmy’s hair while he rummaged through his hand luggage to look for something to do.

I gazed out of the window in a half-hearted search for evidence of land. Glancing to my left, I noticed the two crew members who had earlier guided us aboard and sorted the luggage, were outside, on the deck. The man with the crimson red shirt, the one with such sad eyes, was arguing with the other, stockier one. Through the grey rain curtains, I could just about make out that the stocky man seemed angry and was prodding the man with the red jumper. The shorter, thinner man seemed to retaliate, his arm gestures becoming more and more elaborate and defiant, and then a struggle as one took at punch at the other, and then the unspeakable: a flash of crimson, two leather boots upturned in the air. The stocky man had grabbed the smaller man by the scruff of his collar and pushed him overboard! Half a second later (that felt like hours), the perpetrator turned and his eyes met mine through the window screen. He darted away towards the front deck. Had he seen me? My heart in my mouth, I turned away quickly, my legs wanting to run far away, but remaining rooted to the spot, my mouth wanting to scream but as dry as a bone. Unable to utter even a squeak, I managed to bring my hands to my face, to rub my eyes, and as I dared to look back, half expecting the crimson sweater to reappear. In place of the two men was now merely a rusty, white steel railing. The rain continued to sob at the window. I looked to the water for reassurance, but the waves carried on in their nonchalant, repetitive rising and falling rhythm, in smug denial of any crime. Cold beads of sweat bubbled over my skin. I felt sick. Had my eyes been playing tricks on me? Had what I just witnessed actually happened?

A brief feeling of relief seeped through me as I realised Jimmy had been absorbed in his colouring book and not seen any of what had just taken place. “Mum, Mum, are we nearly there yet?” he enquired as he started to fold his picture into a paper aeroplane. Suddenly, my mind was tugged back into the boat, away from its confused trawl along the stormy deck. I began to wonder if I had imagined the whole scenario. I fanned my face in a vain attempt to simultaneously cool down and waft away any unclarity. I checked the window, again just a bare, bored, non-complying white railing. It was not going to share any secrets with me. I glanced around: Malaysian tourists reading shiny magazines, a breastfeeding mother, blonde adolescents playing on a phone, probably from Scandinavia, I supposed. Everyone seemed oblivious to what I had just seen.

Finally, the storm retreated. The sky unveiled a new, true blueness. And there was the island. Langkawi’s eagle loomed, its stone wings a solid gesture of welcome and safety. Our holiday time beckoned like a warm hug. The other passengers were excitedly chatting in an amalgam of Chinese, Malay, English and Swedish, happy to have the dubious crossing behind them. My feelings were a mix of relief and bewilderment as a tanned, four-fingered hand helped me to dry land.

Word count: 1245