Stories to be posted a bit at a time!
Mr. Sandman.
Martin Moss stretched and yawned, tired but reluctant to turn off the T.V and go to bed. In the early hours, the pool of light that spread from the T.V set seemed grey and smoky to his tired eyes. Even the colour images flashing in front of him lost some of their intensity. He was no longer hearing what those boxed souls were saying; he was barely seeing them. It was definitely time for bed; he couldn’t put it off any longer.
With a decisive stab of his index finger, Martin hit the on/off button of the remote. The set flicked off, and Martin’s eyes gave in gratefully to the all-engulfing night that ensued. He soon began discerning shapes in the not so total darkness; the armchair, the lamp. Not blackness really, he thought, more a deep shade of grey.
After all there’s no such thing as total darkness.
Is there?
Feeling uncomfortable now, he made his way to the door, through it, and to the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. Unwilling to disturb his sleeping family, but needing the comfort of light, he pushed the switch. “It’s amazing how much braver we are with the light on.” He murmured softly, and placed his foot on the bottom step.
He ascended slowly, gripping the rail with his right hand, running his left over the wall with each step.
The fourth step. The fifth; the sixth.
Halfway.
The seventh step.
His foot rubbed, just slightly, upon something grainy inside his slipper.
Martin took a deep breath and tried to tell himself it was just his imagination, that it wasn’t real; even though he knew it was.
He raised his foot; a small rasping sound as his foot came to rest. By the time he had reached the top of the stairs, he knew without bothering to look, that a thin layer of sand coated the soles of his slippers.
All he could hear were the soft night-time moans and murmurs from his sleeping children and a steady sonorous breathing from his wife. He could hear the occasional gurgle from the central heating; the bedside clock gently ticking. Nothing unusual; but the palms of his hands were slick with sweat, and his heart was pounding.
He had to cross the landing; get to the bathroom first.
Sand.
Piling up in hard little mounds under his toes, inside his slippers; but as he crossed the threshold into the bathroom, it stopped. Ebbed slowly away like a dry sea; and he knew then that he was right.
He took the bag from the small plastic bin by the toilet, and tied its handles. The rubbish secure inside it, he dropped the bag under the sink and picked up the bin, put it under the cold tap and began to run the water.
He could sleep in the bath, he mused, as the bin filled steadily, and then dismissed the idea. How would he explain that to Lucy? Him spending his nights in the bath – it could ruin his marriage even. If he told her the truth? She would think he was insane, and probably leave him anyway.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
He was careful not to fill the bin to the rim. He didn’t want water spilling over the edge and giving his plan away.
So; back to the landing, and the part he hated most.
Holding the bin as steady as he could, Martin steeled himself to go on. He knew exactly how many steps it would take to reach his bedroom. Five; five long steps.
Just as he knew they would, he felt his slippers slowly refill, sand pouring through his toes like so many dry worms. He tried not to squirm but couldn’t stop himself. He resolved not to hesitate at the door but to go straight on, all the way to his bed, no stopping.
By the time he reached it, sand was spilling from the tops of his slippers, and Martin was trying to choke back tears; he knew the worst was yet to come.
He looked at his sleeping wife; she looked rested, and untroubled. Why?
He kicked his slippers off, as far under the bed as he could, enjoying the feel of carpet on his bare toes; but he undressed quickly. He knew it wouldn’t feel like carpet for long.
Hastily he pulled off his jeans and T-shirt, leaving his boxer shorts on, and eased into bed. Making sure that his hand was gripping the edge of the water filled –bin, he laid back onto cool cotton sheets that smelled of freshness and washing powder.
Salt, and sea winds.
Sand.
He knew it would come. He was lying on it, could feel it grind and shift beneath his weight. He was afraid to close his eyes, didn’t dare to close them. They flitted restlessly across the room, the curtains swaying gently in the heat rising from the radiator, catching his eye.
Even as he watched them, they blurred and distorted, changing from the Sunflower yellow Lucy had picked out so carefully, to a shade of green, dark on top but lighter underneath. They flapped in the air, in the gathering breeze, their texture changing, becoming smooth and shiny; and now he was looking not at innocuous bedroom curtains but at the leaves of a palm tree, rustling in the wind.
He knew he must have closed his eyes. He was slipping away from his room, his wife; there was no hope for it now. With something akin to relief he sagged against his sandy bed, and waited for Him to come.
He didn’t have to wait long.
*
Mr. Sandman - Part 2.
When this had first begun, just a few short weeks ago, Martin had thought it was merely a vivid dream. He had always imagined the Sandman as a sort of Father Christmas in a yellow suit; with a sack full of sand, rather than toys, to sprinkle liberally into stubborn eyes, forcing them to close, and so the child to sleep.
The reality was very different. An image had presented itself to him that first night as he lay on his sandy bed. All around him was sand, and from far away came the subdued to and fro roar of a sea, though he was yet to see it. All he could see were the leaves of a palm tree, and sand stretching for endless miles.
A curious voice had addressed him, sometimes soft and cool, sometimes harsh and rasping, “Martin?”
He had watched as a figure, appearing to pour himself upwards from the dry sand, stood tall in the loose shape of a man. Arms and legs were there, two mismatched shells for eyes, dried out kelp arranged in the shape of a lop-sided mouth, but no nose.
“Martin?” The figure repeated, softer now. “Why aren’t you asleep Martin? Why? Why aren’t you asleep?”
Martin found he could not answer. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt wooden. Contrary to all the songs and stories, the Sandman’s purpose seemed a malicious one – to keep him awake every night, not send him to sleep.
He had lost so much sleep that in the end he had to give up work ; it had become too dangerous. He had almost nodded off at the wheel of his lorry more than once. He had promised a concerned and puzzled Lucy that it would be temporary; just until he sorted himself out.
But back then, just a few short weeks ago, he wasn’t sure if it was a dream, if it was real, or if he was just going mad.
He knew now all right.
“Martin?” That hoarse, insistent voice; and then the Sandman was standing at his feet, shell eyes and seaweed mouth leering, sand arms gesticulating impossibly in the air. “Martin? Still awake? What will we do with you?” A sound like gravel sliding down paper; Martin guessed it to be a laugh.
“Martin! Oh Martin!”
Gathering his courage and his strength, Martin forced himself to look to his left. The bin full of water was there, his fingers clutching its rim, its bright red plastic incongruous in these surroundings. He had managed to bring it then; so far so good.
The Sandman did not appear to have noticed, still going on with his dry litany of mocking questions. Could he really see out of those shell eyes, Martin wondered. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, expecting some sort of punishment for this act of defiance; a face full of stinging gravel maybe...
The Sandman merely continued his questioning. “Why aren’t you sleeping Martin? Can’t find your way to The Land of Nod?” That laugh again. “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? Or sleepy? Oh so sleepy?”
Martin, painfully slowly, had shuffled onto his knees, the bucket still firm under his fingertips. Should he try it now?
The Sandman paused in mid-sentence, something he had never done before. Martin froze, the salt-wind stinging his lips, his heartbeat echoing in his head; the moment seemed to stretch out for an eternity. Then, with a silty sigh, the Sandman resumed his taunting.
Cautiously Martin rose to his feet. The Sandman was tall; even standing, Martin was at least a foot shorter.
Was there enough water? The bin suddenly seemed small and silly. He had to fight off the almost irresistible urge to lie down again and submit to the Sandman. But it passed, and Martin found himself lifting the bin into the air.
Some of the cold water lapped against its’ sides, making a wet, slapping noise.
The Sandman stopped again, hands frozen in mid-air, and those shell eyes were definitely looking at Martin.
“A bucket?” He enquired. “Going to build a castle?” the question was innocent, the voice full of menace. “Going to make a big castle? With paper flags, and battlements, and a driftwood bridge? Going to use shells for windows?”
The Sandman quivered, his legs shaking madly, threatening to crumble. Martin clutched the bin to his chest, trying to hold it steady, his hands feeling weak with fear.
“Going to protect it are you? Make good, strong walls? Maybe make a. …MOAT?”
A roar like rocks clashing. “Water eh? Well it took you long enough! Think I’m easy do you? You’ve got to find me first, Martin!”
He vanished.
Martin was alone with the bin, the palm tree and miles and miles of sand.
He felt sick, and was beginning to wish he hadn’t started this. How was he supposed to find the Sandman here? Where should he begin?
He looked around, scanning the sand carefully for any whisper of movement. Despite the wind, not even a grain of sand shifted, although the tree swayed and the leaves rustled continuously.
That tree.
The only feature in this flat, open landscape; it must be significant somehow. Martin racked his brains, trying to understand what it might mean. What do you think of when you think of Palm Trees? Coconuts? Holidays? That made no sense.
Then he understood; life. It was the only thing in this miserable landscape that was alive and growing. He determined not to travel far from it.
He set the bin down carefully at the tree’s base, and chose a direction to start with. He would look to the right; West.
Setting out, he suddenly felt very exposed in only his boxer shorts, as if thousands of eyes were watching him. He wished he had pockets to shove his hands into. The sand was gritty but firm beneath his feet. Growing a little more confident, he ventured on, and immediately regretted it.
A hand shot up and over his foot, a hand made of shale and grit, but with a grip as strong as any solid man’s. Martin screamed and sat down heavily, straining to resist being pulled under. He dug his own hands in behind him and heaved himself back with all his strength, afraid for a moment that wouldn’t be able to, imagining himself being dragged below, his lungs and eyes filling…
The thought terrified him, and gave him extra strength. He heaved back with all his might, until the sandy hands released him and slipped away.
Martin hurriedly pulled his feet back in under himself, panting with shock and exertion.
No going that way then.
He rose and staggered back to the tree. The leaves were still waving madly in the wind, in fact more so, it seemed. Tentatively he stretched up, and found he could reach one.
The branch attaching it felt dry and brittle; it snapped off easily.
It had seemed the right thing to do, but now that he had the leaf he had no idea what to do with it. He sat down again, using the tree for support, careful not to upset the bucket, and pondered the dry branch and the large leaf he was holding.
Nothing would come to him. In exasperation, he threw the leaf out across the sand to his left.
A sandy white hand shot out and pulled the branch under.
A green leaf slapped the side of Martin’s face.
Another branch, so low down that he could reach it from this sitting position? He was sure it hadn’t been there before. An idea began to form in Martin’s mind.
He turned and threw this new branch; again, the sandy white hand. He turned and threw another, to the same effect.
He was trapped, here in this not so idyllic oasis. And it was an oasis; a palm tree, shade, and a bin full of water.
Martin began to laugh, and found he could not stop. He laughed a loud, breath-taking, belly aching laugh. He laughed so hard he cried, and his ribs hurt.
“What’s so funny, Martin?”
Martin stopped, but his fear was, inexplicably, lessened. He was listening carefully, trying to pinpoint the Sandman’s location. He could see nothing, but he felt he was near.
“Still not a sleepy boy?” Martin whirled, the voice coming from behind him now. He found his own. “Why don’t you come closer Mr. Sandman? Where I can see you and we can talk properly?”
A sneering, rasping laugh was his only reply. Why doesn’t he come closer? Martin wondered. Why?
What was here that the Sandman. …feared?
He turned to the tree again. Not just the red bin full of tap water surely? He thought back to all his previous ‘visits’.
He had always seen this tree, always lain here, and the Sandman had always stood just beyond his feet. So why hadn’t those hands come shooting out to grab him here? What was here, in this spot?
Was it really an oasis?
Could it be?
Mr Sandman - Part 3.
The tree, strange though it was, was thriving. Even this tree must need water; so where did it get it from?
Martin formed a theory. Estimating roughly the centre of his odd oasis, he dropped to his knees and began to dig, looking for water like he used to on the beach when he was a kid.
If it was there at all, it was deep. Martin could felt a cool sheen of sweat on his back and his brow before he felt the very welcome, deeper coolness of water on his fingertips.
So he had been right then; it hadn’t been such a crazy idea to bring the bin full of water with him.
The Sandman was afraid of it.
That was why the sand stopped invading his slippers in the bathroom; why the Sandman never dared to come closer to the tree, or to him.
Gritting his teeth, Martin worked to expand the hole. He was gratified to see that it filled quickly and became quite deep. Holding the palm tree with one hand, just in case, he gingerly dipped his foot into the small well he had created, reaching down, trying to estimate how deep it had really become.
The water reached his knee, but his foot hadn’t yet reached the loosely firm base as he had expected.
It reached his thigh; his groin, wetting more thoroughly the boxer shorts he had splashed, along with his chest, whilst digging. But surely he had not dug this deep?
He yanked his leg out, suspicious that maybe there was no floor to that particular hole; after all, nothing else here was normal.
Back to his original plan then; he had more water here now, at his disposal, a better chance it would work.
He traced his steps back to his original location, and lay back down. He could still see the round indentation left by the bin in the sand. He knew this time he could be in for a long wait – the splashing he had been doing may have warned the Sandman off for a long time.
But apparently, even Sandmen are capable of arrogance.
“Seen sense have you? Saw you couldn’t win?
Martin was grateful that the Sandman had no nose; the metallic scent of water was heavy in the air, at least so it seemed to him. How sharp were those eyes? Sharp enough to see over the sandbank Martin had built in an attempt to hide the hole from this side? He could only hope not. He did not reply, it was important now that the Sandman felt in control again.
“Bucket gone has it?” He enquired slyly. So he couldn’t see as far as the tree then.
“Yes.” Martin didn’t offer an explanation as to where it had gone.
“Threw it did you?” A sharp sigh, sandpaper on stone. “That’s better. No point getting silly ideas Martin. Now, where were we?”
Martin forced himself to lie still and listen to the repetitive, provocative words. “Still not sleepy Martin? Why are you awake Martin? Why? Why?” Until he was confident that the Sandman thought he had won, and then, very slowly, he began to edge backwards, back towards the hole.
The Sandman appeared not to notice, even dancing a small jig now and then, as if unable to contain his triumph.
Martin’s head was level with the hole, between it and the bin. Now what?
“Aha. Still not tired? You’re going to tax your brain Martin, with all this thinking. Still trying to escape are you? I think I’ll stay this time, and watch you try to leave.” More laughter.
He knew; he had been watching him all this time. How? Martin felt close to tears again. He hadn’t see the gaudy red bin at the base of the tree, had given no sign of having seen the watery hole Martin had dug.
He knew he would have to be quick. The last time the Sandman had got wind of his intention, he had disappeared. Martin could give him no such chance again.
He pushed himself up, screaming something like a war-cry to cover any watery noises, and, on his feet, flung the contents of the bin full into the Sandman’s face.
Much of it splashed harmlessly onto the sand; he was too far away now to get the whole lot on target, but it took the Sandman by surprise. Martin ran to the hole, scooped up another bucketful of water, and ran closer to his target this time, hitting him with the whole lot.
The top of his head sloshed away, and his remaining eye slid down his grainy face.
Another bucketful and the shoulder and left arm went flying, to land in lumps on the fine dry sand behind it; another bucketful, and another. The hole never grew shallow, while Martin grew breathless, working like a man possessed.
He was gone.
All that remained were a few sodden lumps of sand, scattered in all directions, two shells spread far apart, and in the bottom of the bin, floating in about an inch of water, was an odd-shaped strip of kelp.
Martin’s relief was usurped by the desperate need to wash the sand that he was now covered in himself; it was even in his mouth.
Throwing caution to the wind, he lowered himself into the hole. He was a good swimmer; he could get out if he had to.
To his surprise, the water was now warm. He opened his legs and arms to allow it to wash over him more fully. He luxuriated in it. Taking a deep breath, he submerged himself.
And felt himself being pulled, swiftly and inexorably, down
.
Martin panicked at first, afraid of drowning, but he was screaming. He could actually hear his own voice. If he was screaming, then he was breathing. Unlikely though it seemed, he was.
A rush of warm air, and Martin landed. He felt a wooden surface beneath him, but oddly, it wasn’t hard or uncomfortable; the landing had not hurt him. He allowed his body to relax a little, a gentle rocking motion lulling him into calmness.
He sat up and looked about him. He was in a small wooden boat. A blue-black sky, littered with stars, was above him, and all around him were boats just like his, all gently rocking to and fro, to and fro.
Something white was zigzagging down towards him. Instinctively, he lay back, watching its’ descent. It swung a few graceful curves before landing softly upon him; a warm, sweet-smelling cotton sheet. A feather pillow was under his head. The rocking motion of the boat became more insistent. The stars twinkled reassuringly above.
Martin closed his eyes, and went to sleep.
Mr Sandman - Part 4
He awoke in the early afternoon in his own bed. There were no telltale grains of sand, not even in his slippers. His boxer shorts were dry. the curtains were yellow and the bin was in the bathroom, next to the toilet.
Everything was all right.
He had won.
Not bothering to dress, he threw on his dressing gown instead and went downstairs. He had expected to find the kids were at school, and his wife at work, some sort of sarcastic note as to his laziness, together with a list of things to do, on the kitchen table.
What he found was his family all huddled together on the sofa, still in nightclothes, the old quilt used in illness and emergencies draped over them.
“What’s up with you lot?”
“Good to see you finally had a good night’s sleep.” His wife evaded his question, but he didn’t like the tone in her voice.
There was something wrong here; he sensed it.
“Never mind me. What’s wrong?”
“Oh nothing really. It’s funny though, none of us could sleep last night.” That scathing tone still.
“But you were all asleep when I came up, and that was late love, gone midnight.”
“Really? That’s odd.”
“Why?”
“Well, we all woke at about the same time. Sammy and the girls came into me practically together, not much past midnight; none of us could get back off. I sent the girls back to bed, and cuddled up with Sam, but we were all wide-awake. And you weren’t in bed Martin.” spoken accusingly. “so where were you?”
Martin was stunned, he could think of nothing to say. It never occurred to him that he might need a ready excuse; why should he need one? He had woken in his own bed after all. Where else could he have been? How could he tell her the truth? She would never buy it.
It would sound like some sort of fantastic excuse.
“All these weeks skiving off work, complaining about tiredness. No wonder you’re tired! Something’s keeping you up all night and it sure as hell isn’t me Martin!”
Kelly, Martin’s oldest daughter, threw back the quilt and gave her father a look that was pure teenager - disgust and disbelief and utter contempt, before marching out of the room and up the stairs.
Martin turned back to Lucy, struggling to find some words that would make sense here, but found he couldn’t.
Out on the stairs, Kelly gave a small shriek. “Dad! Dad! Come here, quick!” Martin’s heart jumped. He raced out into the hall. Kelly was a few steps up, and she looked confused; frightened.
“What is it love?” he asked, although his churning stomach told him he already knew.
She was standing on the seventh step up, grinding the toes of her right foot inside her slipper. Martin could hear the grate of hard grains, smell salt on the breeze that wafted down the stairs.
“Look.” She said in a small voice, upturning her slippers to let out a stream of white-gold sand. It formed a small pile on the step, like a crumbling pyramid.
Martin looked at it in dismay; Kelly’s face was pale. “Where’s it coming from dad?”
Martin closed his eyes in denial. He could see, behind his closed lids, an endless stretch of beach, littered here and there with shells and dead creatures, but nothing more; no oases, no vibrant green palm trees or ocean deep pools; nothing but sand.
Very far off, in the distance, a strange form danced an awkward jig, and Martin thought he could hear the faintest notes of a song. The tune danced in and out of his range of hearing, tantalizingly close but not close enough to discern.
It was a cheerful tune, and it gripped his heart and filled him with dread.
He opened his eyes. Kelly was still there on the step, slippers in hand, a worried look on her face. “I don’t understand dad.” She repeated.
Martin sighed, wishing he could spare his girl from the torment he knew the night would bring, “You will Kelly.” He murmured, “You will.”