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Sisyphus
By Michael Wass
I was out one morning, striding above the shore, mindful of my dog galloping by the sea-beaten edge. I was chewing on the dense air, delighting in the way the wind fought against my pace and the way that the dog’s wispy hair flapped against his wiry frame. The dog darted towards the cliff edge, leaping between and over and around jutting volcanic rocks that had been worn by the sea.
The hard pads of his paws lost purchase against the mud and grass and sent him tumbling down, down towards the jagged rocks that stood out from the bottom of the cliff like crooked teeth on an over-bitten jaw. I scrambled over to the edge myself, braced for the sad sight of my dog on the hardness. I looked and I looked, but I couldn’t find him from my vantage point. There were a few alcoves against which he might have bounced; covering much of the underside, for the cliff face wasn’t flat. I’m an old man. In younger days I bounded down these cliff faces with confidence, I would let myself slip and let my feet and hands find me down to the sea line. Now, with remorse for my lack of care and fear for my own slippery demise, I moved to a flatter part of the cliff edge. I wanted to get the dog’s body before the tide was out. He was a good dog and didn’t deserve to be washed out to sea, to be eaten by fish and washed up again and again against the rocks. I had nothing to put the body in, I’d resolved to carrying it slung against my shoulder, moving slowly back towards the more forgiving way I’d got down to meet him. I waded with hesitation through the shallows.
To my amazement, when I got to where I thought I would find the dog smashed to pieces, he was sitting there, tongue lapping against his chops, completely unharmed. And beside him was a body, the body of a person, who had plummeted and had been unluckier than the dog. It was a man, late twenties or early thirties. His face was black with dried blood and he lay on his chest with his limbs jaunting out at odd angles. He was white and cold, but the meat wasn’t spoiled. The body hadn’t been there too long. I checked his pulse to confirm what I already knew.
I came down to retrieve the body of a dog and had found the corpse of a man. I noticed the tide was coming in. I could have carried the body of a dog slung over my shoulder as I crept up the cliff face, but not a person. Shamefully, I decided to let the sea take him. First I propped him up against the rocks, sat on his backside with his back to the edge of the land, legs forward and arms open.
I don’t know why, but I wanted him to receive the sea as it received him. I picked up the dog, he struggled at first, and I started back up towards the high rise, to walk back towards my car parked so far away to reflect on what had happened.
I was out one morning, striding above the shore, mindful of my dog galloping by the sea-beaten edge. I was chewing on the dense air, delighting in the way the wind fought against my pace and the way that the dog’s wispy hair flapped against his wiry frame. The dog darted towards the cliff edge, leaping between and over and around jutting volcanic rocks that had been worn by the sea.
The hard pads of his paws lost purchase against the mud and grass and sent him tumbling down, down towards the jagged rocks that stood out from the bottom of the cliff like crooked teeth on an over-bitten jaw. I scrambled over to the edge myself, braced for the sad sight of my dog on the hardness. I looked and I looked, but I couldn’t find him from my vantage point. There were a few alcoves against which he might have bounced; covering much of the underside, for the cliff face wasn’t flat. I’m an old man. In younger days I bounded down these cliff faces with confidence, I would let myself slip and let my feet and hands find me down to the sea line. Now, with remorse for my lack of care and fear for my own slippery demise, I moved to a flatter part of the cliff edge. I wanted to get the dog’s body before the tide was out. He was a good dog and didn’t deserve to be washed out to sea, to be eaten by fish and washed up again and again against the rocks. I had nothing to put the body in, I’d resolved to carrying it slung against my shoulder, moving slowly back towards the more forgiving way I’d got down to meet him. I waded with hesitation through the shallows.
To my amazement, when I got to where I thought I would find the dog smashed to pieces, he was sitting there, tongue lapping against his chops, completely unharmed. And beside him was a body, the body of a person, who had plummeted and had been unluckier than the dog. It was a man, late twenties or early thirties. His face was black with dried blood and he lay on his chest with his limbs jaunting out at odd angles. He was white and cold, but the meat wasn’t spoiled. The body hadn’t been there too long. I checked his pulse to confirm what I already knew.
I came down to retrieve the body of a dog and had found the corpse of a man. I noticed the tide was coming in. I could have carried the body of a dog slung over my shoulder as I crept up the cliff face, but not a person. Shamefully, I decided to let the sea take him. First I propped him up against the rocks, sat on his backside with his back to the edge of the land, legs forward and arms open.
I don’t know why, but I wanted him to receive the sea as it received him. I picked up the dog, he struggled at first, and I started back up towards the high rise, to walk back towards my car parked so far away to reflect on what had happened.
And I lay in my bed at home, tossing and turning between the sheets like the body being corralled by the force of the waves. Against the rocks, again and again, before drifting off to sea, to be caught in a ragged net, or be found under a southern pier by an unfortunate cockle picker, or never seen again. I rolled from pillow to pillow. The dog slept soundly at the foot of the bed.
I thought of the blood-caked face, the peculiar angles of his limbs, and the comfortable position I’d left him in, propped up against the rocks that had taken him. Why I’d left him I still didn’t know.
My son had left me a note. ‘Called in to see you,’ it said. ‘No answer. Hope you’re okay. Please get in touch, Dad.’
Although I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea, I decided to return to the bottom of the cliff face a few days later. This time I left the dog at home. He seemed alarmed at my leaving without him. He pestered about my legs, blocked my path to the door and as I started to turn the keys to leave he was leaping up at his collar and lead hanging from the coat rack in the corridor. I ignored him and left.
I thought of the blood-caked face, the peculiar angles of his limbs, and the comfortable position I’d left him in, propped up against the rocks that had taken him. Why I’d left him I still didn’t know.
My son had left me a note. ‘Called in to see you,’ it said. ‘No answer. Hope you’re okay. Please get in touch, Dad.’
Although I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea, I decided to return to the bottom of the cliff face a few days later. This time I left the dog at home. He seemed alarmed at my leaving without him. He pestered about my legs, blocked my path to the door and as I started to turn the keys to leave he was leaping up at his collar and lead hanging from the coat rack in the corridor. I ignored him and left.
This time the day was mild. Without the dog I found myself moving at a much slower, more meditative pace. I thought about the things that troubled me: Why didn’t I inform somebody? Why did I leave him there?
Why did I pose him in such a way? How did the poor soul end up there? Did he jump? Was he pushed? Did he slip like the dog did? I was compelled to return to the bottom of the cliff face with a magnetism that I could scarcely comprehend. The tide had certainly swept the body far beyond the shore, and if not it would’ve mangled it in the most macabre fashion. I had no answers to any of my questions, but maybe if I saw the body again, maybe if it was still there, there was a chance I could put my conscience at rest. If it hadn’t moved, perhaps I’d give in and ring the police or the coast guard. I wasn’t implicated, I had found the body, could say I checked for the pulse. What evidence was there, bar the finger prints on his neck and possibly fibres on his clothes? Even those may have been picked ragged by hungry seagulls.
And if it had moved, then there would be nothing else to it.
So with the sun beating down upon my balding head I eased myself down towards the shallows. I waded back amongst the rocks and foam to where the dog had landed, and where the body might have sat. As I turned the corner my breath leapt out of my lungs. The body wasn’t there. The sea hadn’t taken it. It had moved, somehow, further up the cliff face, to one of the alcoves that initially covered his position. He was still sat with his backside to the floor, arms by his side and legs straight forwards. He had moved vertically by about 20 feet and hadn’t changed from the moment I left him. Even the birds had avoided him.
Terrified, I lost my nerve and fled. The sea lapped up against the rocks, the tide going out, revealing more stones and debris underneath the surface of the water. I lost my footing against a greasy rock and fell, twisting my knee harshly. I swore profusely, struggled to pick myself off and made my way back to the car with more caution. I’d returned in search of answers and left more puzzled than I’d ever felt in my life. Back to the car, back to the house, a warm bath and a bottle of whisky to recover.
I was in my chair, numb with drink. I’d moved the body of a dead man, left him, returned, and he’d moved himself. I picked up my glass again and studied the whisky rocking back and forth between my fingers, dancing between the ice cubes like the flotsam between the rocks. The dog wasn’t sitting with me, I noticed. He took to his bed in the hall and let me be. Now I was in an impossible situation. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. At worst they’d peg me for a murderer, at best they’d think me mad. To be honest I was unsure as to whether I was either, or rather an unfortunate spectator to a very strange occurrence. I was alone in the world. My wife had left me years ago, my son was grown up, had a family of his own. I was trapped in a routine of walking, getting home, drinking myself catatonic. Where once my dull days were filled with work, I was cast adrift as an old man in a world full of new things, but I was too young to be going senile. Surely I was.
A car pulled up outside. I switched off the lights. A fist pounded the door, my son’s voice pleading:
“Dad, open the door. We’re worried. Are you not speaking to me? What have we done, Dad? Dad?!”
I climbed into bed and put a pillow over my face.
The phone rang. The ringing was regular. It wouldn’t stop.
Why did I pose him in such a way? How did the poor soul end up there? Did he jump? Was he pushed? Did he slip like the dog did? I was compelled to return to the bottom of the cliff face with a magnetism that I could scarcely comprehend. The tide had certainly swept the body far beyond the shore, and if not it would’ve mangled it in the most macabre fashion. I had no answers to any of my questions, but maybe if I saw the body again, maybe if it was still there, there was a chance I could put my conscience at rest. If it hadn’t moved, perhaps I’d give in and ring the police or the coast guard. I wasn’t implicated, I had found the body, could say I checked for the pulse. What evidence was there, bar the finger prints on his neck and possibly fibres on his clothes? Even those may have been picked ragged by hungry seagulls.
And if it had moved, then there would be nothing else to it.
So with the sun beating down upon my balding head I eased myself down towards the shallows. I waded back amongst the rocks and foam to where the dog had landed, and where the body might have sat. As I turned the corner my breath leapt out of my lungs. The body wasn’t there. The sea hadn’t taken it. It had moved, somehow, further up the cliff face, to one of the alcoves that initially covered his position. He was still sat with his backside to the floor, arms by his side and legs straight forwards. He had moved vertically by about 20 feet and hadn’t changed from the moment I left him. Even the birds had avoided him.
Terrified, I lost my nerve and fled. The sea lapped up against the rocks, the tide going out, revealing more stones and debris underneath the surface of the water. I lost my footing against a greasy rock and fell, twisting my knee harshly. I swore profusely, struggled to pick myself off and made my way back to the car with more caution. I’d returned in search of answers and left more puzzled than I’d ever felt in my life. Back to the car, back to the house, a warm bath and a bottle of whisky to recover.
I was in my chair, numb with drink. I’d moved the body of a dead man, left him, returned, and he’d moved himself. I picked up my glass again and studied the whisky rocking back and forth between my fingers, dancing between the ice cubes like the flotsam between the rocks. The dog wasn’t sitting with me, I noticed. He took to his bed in the hall and let me be. Now I was in an impossible situation. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. At worst they’d peg me for a murderer, at best they’d think me mad. To be honest I was unsure as to whether I was either, or rather an unfortunate spectator to a very strange occurrence. I was alone in the world. My wife had left me years ago, my son was grown up, had a family of his own. I was trapped in a routine of walking, getting home, drinking myself catatonic. Where once my dull days were filled with work, I was cast adrift as an old man in a world full of new things, but I was too young to be going senile. Surely I was.
A car pulled up outside. I switched off the lights. A fist pounded the door, my son’s voice pleading:
“Dad, open the door. We’re worried. Are you not speaking to me? What have we done, Dad? Dad?!”
I climbed into bed and put a pillow over my face.
The phone rang. The ringing was regular. It wouldn’t stop.
I picked up the phone.
“Dad?”
“Hello, son.”
“Dad! Thank god. I’ve been trying you for days. Are you alright?”
“Oh yes. Just been doing things, son. Feeling quite sleepy a lot of the time.”
“Dad, if something is wrong, tell me. I’m worried.”
“Everything is fine. I’m just keeping busy.”
“Promise?”
“Oh yes, I promise.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“Yes, you too, son.”
I was numb. I couldn’t bear to watch the television, terrified that I’d see a news report asking for witnesses that could help with the disappearance of a young local man. I didn’t want to be involved and at the same time I felt strangely protective of my discovery. Curiosity got the better of me and I was once more compelled to journey to the shore, to breathe in the fresh air of the cliffs and confirm once and for all whether I was going mad or whether there really was a dead man climbing up the cliffs and resting, waiting for me.
I set off early the next morning. I took the dog, he seemed eager to follow this time. When we pulled up in the car park near the shoreline, he started to fret and I decided it would be better to leave him. The light wasn’t great and I lost my nerve, memories of his near brush with death returning.
I left the window down slightly and waved him good-bye, heading out to the cliff edges. I’d look down from above first, if I couldn’t see anything I would struggle down again and look up from below. As I approached the cliff edge, with the sun creeping across the lower corner of the sky and the light bouncing off the crashing waves in the horizon, I could see a figure sitting. His back to the world. I found myself breaking into a jog, then a run. The sound of the waves crashing was dragging me towards the edge. I did not know whether I was going to jump, why I was running. I started to slow down about 20 yards away from the figure sat facing away from me, strode up behind him and gave him a mighty kick, sending him tumbling back toward the rocks below. I felt putrid skin squishing at the force of my heavy rubber sole. I heard a splat but couldn’t bear to look. I ran back to the car.
Since then I’ve been back to the shore five or six times. Every time I go back, he’s still there. Starts at the bottom of the cliffs, then with another visit moves further up. I’ve begun to drink a lot. I feel in control of it but at the same time I need it. I can’t talk to anyone about what I’ve encountered because no one would believe me. Writing it down, I scarcely believe it myself. But the fact is, I have been trapped in a cycle of discovering this man and pushing him back off the cliff for months now. I haven’t spoken to my family in a while. My son still calls dutifully but I feel so isolated from reality that it would burden his soul to know what I think I’ve seen.
© Michael Wass
Sisyphis was first published in The Journal, 19 November 2011
“Dad?”
“Hello, son.”
“Dad! Thank god. I’ve been trying you for days. Are you alright?”
“Oh yes. Just been doing things, son. Feeling quite sleepy a lot of the time.”
“Dad, if something is wrong, tell me. I’m worried.”
“Everything is fine. I’m just keeping busy.”
“Promise?”
“Oh yes, I promise.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“Yes, you too, son.”
I was numb. I couldn’t bear to watch the television, terrified that I’d see a news report asking for witnesses that could help with the disappearance of a young local man. I didn’t want to be involved and at the same time I felt strangely protective of my discovery. Curiosity got the better of me and I was once more compelled to journey to the shore, to breathe in the fresh air of the cliffs and confirm once and for all whether I was going mad or whether there really was a dead man climbing up the cliffs and resting, waiting for me.
I set off early the next morning. I took the dog, he seemed eager to follow this time. When we pulled up in the car park near the shoreline, he started to fret and I decided it would be better to leave him. The light wasn’t great and I lost my nerve, memories of his near brush with death returning.
I left the window down slightly and waved him good-bye, heading out to the cliff edges. I’d look down from above first, if I couldn’t see anything I would struggle down again and look up from below. As I approached the cliff edge, with the sun creeping across the lower corner of the sky and the light bouncing off the crashing waves in the horizon, I could see a figure sitting. His back to the world. I found myself breaking into a jog, then a run. The sound of the waves crashing was dragging me towards the edge. I did not know whether I was going to jump, why I was running. I started to slow down about 20 yards away from the figure sat facing away from me, strode up behind him and gave him a mighty kick, sending him tumbling back toward the rocks below. I felt putrid skin squishing at the force of my heavy rubber sole. I heard a splat but couldn’t bear to look. I ran back to the car.
Since then I’ve been back to the shore five or six times. Every time I go back, he’s still there. Starts at the bottom of the cliffs, then with another visit moves further up. I’ve begun to drink a lot. I feel in control of it but at the same time I need it. I can’t talk to anyone about what I’ve encountered because no one would believe me. Writing it down, I scarcely believe it myself. But the fact is, I have been trapped in a cycle of discovering this man and pushing him back off the cliff for months now. I haven’t spoken to my family in a while. My son still calls dutifully but I feel so isolated from reality that it would burden his soul to know what I think I’ve seen.
© Michael Wass
Sisyphis was first published in The Journal, 19 November 2011
