Art Pact 101

On the top of the mountain sat a pile of stones, a salt-and-pepper collection of granite, chalk, and flint pieces, rounded by wind and water into smooth fist-shaped pieces. It had stood there for hundreds of years by the time the little group reached it. They sheltered in its lee from the northerly winds and looked back at the way they had come.

There was no doubt about it - the waters were rising, and rising fast. To the far south the could no longer see the familiar inward curve of the bay - now a ragged line of white cut across the land, separating the ever-shrinking green of farmlands and woods from the endless gunmetal grey sea beyond. Of the city only the very tips of the towers remained, poking out of the choppy water, and a rhythmic flickering that was the fire at the top of the lighthouse. The attendant had kept his promise, then - marking the site of the port as long as it was possible to prevent ships from colliding with the submerged buildings and perhaps draw the attention of rescuers.

Beyond the water-line they traced their day's journey. The sea had not yet overtaken the farmhouse in which they'd had breakfast - still visible as a tiny dot to those of the group with good eyesight - but there was no doubt that by tomorrow morning it would be underwater unless there were some miraculous reversal of the tides. Then the water would flow into the lower valley, refilling the shape cut by the ancient river that had once run there, and there it would halt for just a few hours, as though taking a deep breath before pushing onwards across the cornfields and copses on the other side, drowning the crops so that even if it were to recede it would have devoured everything of any worth to the survivors.

In the sea itself they could occasionally spot the humped backs of leviathans that had dared to come with the sea, risking their own lives to follow the surging flood. A huge grey shape surfaced in the middle of the old port town, blowing a gargantuan spume of salty water far into the sky, higher than the highest towers. It must have been the length of New Street, and the barbells by its mouth themselves the size of five men laid end to end. It dropped below the surface again, but even at this great distance they could see its immense form moving below the surface, gliding monstrously over the low cottages of the fishermen's quarter.

When they had regained their breath they began to silently unpack their food, each taking the first of the three packages they had made at the farm and devouring it as though it were the first time they had ever eaten. They passed around one of the canteens of water and drained it dry between them, and when they were finished they huddled closer together, colder now that the heat of exertion had gone from them.

When they had been like that for an hour or so, slowly watching the scene to the south fade, one of them stuck an arm around the edge of the fairy castle and indicated by gestures to his companions that the wind had lessened somewhat, and that he was going to go around and take a look at what lay ahead of them. The desire was echoed by the others, and since they would at some point have to travel that way, they moved clockwise around the circular base of the makeshift tower until they could see to the north.

Their hopes were dashed. The map they had was wrong, or if it were correct, it had been made long ago, or far away. To the north the sea curled around the land again, and although it was further off (perhaps three days journey) there was no doubt that it was part of the same rising ocean, and that travel in that direction would merely bring them closer to the waters they were trying to avoid. Traipsing around the peak of the mountain they saw water in every direction - sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, but on all sides the world was bounded by a dull grey ring that stretched from the far horizon towards them. They sat back down on the rounded rocks and stared at their feet. Some wept, some made fists and wordlessly cursed what mute gods might be watching them from above.

The sun sank into the ocean itself to be lost for another day, and a fire was started without much enthusiasm, an apathy that seemed to have been transmitted into the flames themselves. They jumped and lapped at the wood listlessly, throwing out a careless heat only when they could be bothered, then retreating into a sullen darkness so that it appeared for a few moments that the fire had gone out entirely. Those trying to warm their hands had to be on their guard constantly. When the fire waned they had to lean forward to glean the least bit of heat, only to be forced to jump back when a sudden spurt of yellow flame leapt out of the embers towards them.

Eventually darkness overwhelmed both the camp fire and the campers, the former dying away to a smattering of orange glows hidden in a field of ash, the latter forming themselves into a loose ring as close to the remnants of the heat as they could, each one with his or her head towards the dying fire, lying at an angle so that the circle could close up as tight as possible and allow everyone to share their heat with those to either side of them. Then one by one they drifted off, filled with despair that only the cold in their feet could distract them from, and then only momentarily.

Around them the ring of sea drew ever closer, and the things in the sea swam over fields and roads and old deer paths and wondered at their new territory.