The copper-blue barge

The canal boat rocked from side to side jauntily as a cap at an angle, and Karen looked through the window at the steely water, which rippled slightly in the light drizzle. Her barge seemed to be creating a happy tune, mingling the rocking with the squeak of lead- painted boards, the tipity-tapity of rain, and the cheery whistling wind into a jubilant quartet of sound. She added to this with the nervous drumming of her long fingers on the sill; the rain then took this as a challenge to out-drum her, and began to pound the roof with more vigour.

Karen’s fingernails lapsed into the same pattern as the rain, simultaneously chipping away at the paint. Ten years ago, she had decided to paint her entire barge the same blue-green as tarnished copper. To her, it was the most beautiful colour in the entire world. In her eyes, it was also a very expressive colour, one day appearing blue as heartbreak, the next as vivid and joyous as summer. A decade was a long time, however, and the boat was in need of a fresh coat of paint.

Karen leaned back in her chair, which was covered in her knitted blankets, and gazed ponderingly up at her geraniums suspended from the curtain rail.

She had impulsively planted them in old corrugated food cans, as she had seen on one of those darling watercolour jigsaws you could find in a gardening centre. Her eyes drifted again, this time to her tartan curtains, which were also knitted, and matched the blankets behind her.

She sighed, and pushed the chair back, creating a fresh scratch mark on the wooden floor. Standing, Karen stretched leisurely, slipped on her rough woollen coat, then made for the door. The brass knob squeaked in protest as she turned it left, the right, and finally pulled it open. A blast of the icy January air caught her full in the face, so she leaned back in to snatch her red scarf from the hook.

Karen strode across the pontoon, and walked along a mossy, windy path to get to the town. A tunnel of bare trees lined the dirt track, and rust-coloured ferns masked their gnarled roots. Picking up her pace, she trotted the final five minutes to civilisation.

Upon entering the town, she was struck by it’s archane beauty again. Up above, broad, black beams supported white plaster walls, coiling like possessive vines around the housing, while on the lower levels, quaint, hand-painted signs attempted to entice passers-by in through the wrought iron doors. Once entered, a marvellous array of antiques confronted the possible buyer.

Karen’s heeled boots clacked on the cobbles, treading on sneaky cushions of invading moss, and made a bee line for the library. Composed mainly of stone slabs, the library seemed uncharacteristically modern in this town. Single-glazed latticed oriels gazed dreamily and proudly at the street below, as if secretly pleased at the treasure trove it contained.

Karen took the steps to the front door two at a time, opened the it. She then proceeded to take a moment to appreciate the warm, musty smell that always lingered in a library, then headed straight to the adult’s fiction section.

She nodded to the librarian, who smiled and nodded back, and began running her fingers along the spines of old tomes. She walked aimlessly along the burgundy carpet. Karen paused, and drew a slim book from the shelf just above her head. It was dramatically titled ‘The Remorsists’. Wordlessly, she adjusted her grip and plodded over to a corner with an empty armchair. Sighing with contentment, she leaned back against the padded seat. Making sure to be gentle with it, as the librarian was watching her closely, she opened it at random, somewhere near the end, and began to read.

‘It was cold and dark. The air smelled metallic, bloodied. The churned up mud coated itself on the survivor’s khaki suits. Occasionally, a length of barbed wire snagged a pant leg. And the Remorsists just watched. The troops plodded thankfully away from their trenches, back towards the army trucks. Upon boarding, they set off, the engines protesting, then giving in with a sputter, finally kicking a cloud of dust into the air. The hot sun bled exhaustedly into the horizon. Red and pink painted the sky anew, and lustrous purple clouds scudded into the lee of distant emerald hills. Cooler air sank in the absence of sunshine, distributing the rancid smell of death more evenly.

The Remorsists waited until the final golden rays receded from the sky. It was at this moment a pallid, bluish, translucent silhouette began to rise from a body. It blinked confusedly, looking around. More ghosts began to rise from the fallen, all looking bewildered and lost. The first Remorsist stepped forwards, and, gently took the arm of a ghost, and began to speak to it in muted tones. One by one, the apparitions were whispered to; they lost their confusion, and drifted off to the edges of the battlefield, gathering around an ancient oak. It must have seen many years in its time.Time altogether meant nothing to this giant. The second Remorsist glided over calmly to the congregation. Reaching up into the sky, it gave a little hop, and, upon landing again, had a bright, shining star clasped in its fist. With great care, the Remorsist held out the star in two cupped hands, then slowly, delicately, he stretched it. He handled it like it could break at the slightest wrong move. Almost like one would handle a newborn child. Gradually, it grew into a gateway. It shimmered and glimmered at the edges, fluorescent against the rapidly darkening sky. In the middle, a black void, but was immediately paved in silver steps, each taking it in turns to make a show of appearing. As the last stair fell into place, another gateway opened opposite, allowing a peak into another place. Heaths of heather sprang up randomly in between tall stalks of golden grass and buttercups. Distantly, a view of the sea and a sandy beach came into view. Blue sky on azure sea. Heaven. The third Remorsist took the first ghost by the arm, and lead it through the gateway. One step, two steps, three… With each footfall, the spirit became more solid, and after one-hundred-and-sixty-nine, walked on by itself. One by one, all the ghosts were led through.

By the time they had finished, and the second Remorsist had returned the star to the sky, there was but an hour till dawn. Lastly, the fourth Remorsist came forward, and, gently, plucked the hearts from the fallen warriors’ chests. She stowed them in a sack, then took a packet of seeds from her sleeve. Gracefully, she selected a few, and planted them in the soldier’s body. One-hundred-and-sixty-nine seconds later, a tall, healthy poppy sprouted and unfurled from each of the fallen’s chests. Then, as if they had never been there at all, the Remorsists disappeared into the early morning sky.”

Karen put the book down on the low table beside her. In her mind, she turned over what she had just read. Trance like, she dragged through the rest of the day.

That night, she dreamt of the heaven. Upon the azure sea floated her copper-blue barge. And as she stood on the sandy beach, she caught a glimpse of her dear-departed Johnathan waving to her. 167, 168, 169… and back to Johnathan.