Of the Sea by Rosie Guyer (Lucent Dreaming Issue 13)

Marina flicks through her lonely planet guide to Spain. She is confronted by a photo of a man in a garish orange costume leaping over a group of babies on the floor beneath him. “Salto de Colacho, the Baby-Jumping Celebration, is a practice of exorcism, not dissimilar to baptism. However, as a blend of Catholic and pagan rituals, it is not recognised by the Church.” Marina frowns. Clouds of dust follow the bus. The man next to her brushes his leg against hers. Her body is tense as she jerks away from him. She clenches her jaw as an itch develops where he touched her. Marina stares unblinking at her book.

Marina steps off the airport bus to an unpaved road and empty fields. She turns back to question the bus driver, but he has left her in the dust. No mobile data, no signs to check, and no passers-by. She drags her backpack to the side of the road and sits on it. Her new sandals have given her a blister on her heel. She pokes at the large, watery bubble, massaging it under her finger. Kicking off her sandals, she presses her toes into the earth. The ground is hot and dusty beneath her feet.

She is startled by the sound of a car approaching. A rusty ford fiesta pulls up slowly.

The driver rolls down the window, the shade from the sun visor shields his face. “¿Qué buscas?” His voice cracks.

“Perdón, no hablo español.” Marina responds.

The man peers at her from the window, “You’ve come for the cats?”

She nods, “For the cat sitting, yes.”

He motions for her to get in the car. Marina hesitates.

“I will take you there, come.”

Opening the passenger door Marina slides into the seat. She is overwhelmed by a wave of stale cigarettes, sweat, and another more earthy, rotten smell. She holds her breath and tightly clutches her rucksack to her chest. Marina ignores the pricking of an itch on her foot and turns her gaze to the window. With a short cough, the man breaks the silence, “My name is Ernesto, I am the neighbour of Paula y Arturo.”

Marina turns to face him. He does not look at her. His shoulders and neck are hunched, making his chin jut forward. He wears a faded orange shirt which is ripped at the sleeves and collar. The shadow of the sun visor casts strange shapes across his face. His skin looks loose, his forehead separated by deep frown lines. Marina holds her backpack closer to her chest; the itch intensifies.

She grits her teeth and begins to rub her foot against the car door. “Do you live close by?” she asks. His eyes flick to her in the rear-view mirror, puffy and framed by dark circles.

“Not so close, not so far. Sometimes Arturo asks for me to check things for him.”
Marina frowns, “Like to feed the cats?”
“Maybe this, yes.” Ernesto shifts in his seat. His beard is patchy and sections of it are bare, revealing gaps of mottled red skin underneath. His knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel.

“Aquí estamos.” The car rounds the corner, pulling into the driveway. The cortijo is larger than it looks in the photos, with whitewashed walls and a courtyard of fruit trees. An orange cat is curled up on the porch. A small blue tractor is parked outside. Marina steps out of the car. She turns back to face Ernesto and sees him look away quickly. She mutters a quiet gracias, fumbling with the keys as she tries to unlock the front door and immediately shutting it behind her.


Marina steps into the shower, her feet leave muddy footprints on the bath. The tap is stiff but the water that splutters out is cold and refreshing. She lets her eyes close, focusing on the sting of the icy water against her warm back. Her breathing slows, she leans her head back and lets the water cascade over her face and chest. That night in her room Marina starts to unpack her things, setting out her trio of Pukka travel teas on her bedside table. The thick walls of the cortijo leave the room humid and stuffy.

She wakes up around three a.m., her back slick with sweat. Unpeeling herself from her bed she reaches for the window. Pulling it open, she is greeted by a waft of equally warm, stale air. Marina rests herself on the window ledge and looks out across the garden. The moon is reflected in the dark, silky water of the courtyard pond. She thinks of trips to the pool with her mum, a weekly ritual. They would push off the side together, synchronised. Marina used to imagine she was a swan. She would close her eyes as her head was submerged. Holding her breath as long as possible, she’d savour the quiet of the muffled noises.

In the back garden, something rustles near the fruit trees. Marina squints, leaning further out the window, it looks like a very large animal. She reaches for her phone torch and shines it over the orchard. A male figure is illuminated, a flash of orange, then quickly disappears behind the Carob tree. Marina gasps, slams the windows shut and yanks the curtains closed. Breathless, she runs to bolt her bedroom door. She lies on the bed and pulls the blanket over her head, her hands shaking.

The light starts to filter through the curtains. Marina decides enough time has passed sweating in this small room. Her hair is matted and sticks to the side of her forehead in slicked curls. She looks out of the upstairs window and sees the back garden flooded; the pipe has burst. No running water, no shower, no toilet. She grabs a light sundress and grimaces at the way it sticks to her body as she zips it up.

A sour, rotten smell fills the room, filtering in through the open window. Marina tries to locate the origin. Walking out to the garden, the putrid smell intensifies. As she nears the Carob tree it becomes unbearable. The smell of warm, rancid meat is thick in the air. Marina gags and holds her nose, her eyes watering. An hour later she can still smell it in her room, mixing with the stale air of the night before. Taking clothes out of her drawers she holds them up to her face, desperately trying to mask the rank smell. To no avail, it feels like it’s stuck in her nose, clinging to her nostrils. Marina groans. She cannot bear to be surrounded by this smell any longer.

The midday sun glares down at her, yet Marina walks with a spring in her step. The pebbles of the dirt road are loose, and her sweaty feet slide in her sandals. She walks through sloping fields lined with olive trees. She breathes in the hot dusty air, the smell of baked earth. A bead of sweat snakes down from her forehead to her chin. She approaches the large boulder that marks the bus stop. Leaning back against it, Marina watches as a buzzard circles over a distant field, swooping suddenly.

She spots the bus approaching and stands up, getting her change ready. Marina stays near the front, holding onto the pole. Balancing herself, she watches through the window as white farmhouses and Sienna fields roll by.

The bus pulls into the town. The square is filled with people and stalls of fresh fruit and food. Marina smiles – relieved she’s brought a little spending money with her. Stepping off the bus, she walks to the opening of the market and is immediately hit by the stench of warm, rotting meat. She turns to the side and smells herself, has she brought the smell with her? A group of older women turn to look at her, frowning. Can these women smell her? Tears prick her eyes; she presses her lips together. Rounding the corner into the market, the smell chokes her. She is surrounded by stalls of raw meat, warming in the sun. Marina turns and comes face to face with a dead pig, pale yellow and hanging by its ankles. The meat sweats in the heat. It stares her down, its eyes heavy-lidded and bloodshot. Marina retches loudly. The owner of the stall sees her and starts to laugh, motioning to the other men. She makes eye contact with one of them, his shoulders shake with laughter, his large belly trembling. His eyes are red rimmed and remind her of the pig. Her chest tightens.

She stumbles out of the corridor of meat and into a crowd of locals. They are shouting, gesticulating wildly. Marina squints and rocks back, unsteady on her feet. Her eyes well up. She forces through the crowd, swallowing the lump in her throat. A man with thinning hair and small eyes pushes into her, his broad shoulders knock her down. She falls, grazing her knees against the rough cobbled ground. She is absorbed into the sea of bodies as they overshadow her and strange faces peer down. The air is thick and tightens around her. A heeled boot steps on her fingers and she cries out, scrambling to get up. Finally, she disentangles from the crowd, dragging herself through the mass of people. She reaches the dirt road that takes her home. Here she allows herself to cry, her tears falling onto the scorched earth.

Her body is weak in the heat of the afternoon sun, her legs heavy. She drags herself forward, squinting to see the road ahead of her. Her scalp is burnt. She brings her hand to it. It is raw and tender under her fingertips. The base of her skull throbs, she’s left her water bottle in the town. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth and her lips are cracked. In the distance, she sees the entrance to the house. Her feet are swollen and bleeding from the straps of her sandals. She undoes them, tossing them to the side of the road.

The sun is low and red, it looks soft and malleable. Wobbling, it eventually dips below the horizon. Marina arrives at the cortijo entrance. Through the gateway, the ginger tabby comes up to greet her. He winds his tail around her leg, purring as he rubs his face against her. Her face is tight and burnt, her breathing short and ragged. Stumbling through the courtyard, Marina sees the reflection of the still, glassy water through the trees. The area around it is shaded. Her shoulders relax, her eyebrows softening as she gets closer.

Marina pulls her dress over her head and stands naked for a moment. The grass is soft under her feet, and she scrunches it beneath her toes. She reaches the side of the pond, where the earth is wet and dark.

First, she dips her toes in the cool emerald water. Next her legs, stomach, and chest, slowly until her whole body is under. Inhaling sharply, she immerses her sunburnt shoulders. She smiles as the soft, slippery algae caresses her legs and she runs it between her fingers. With a sigh she sinks to the bottom, finally submerging her head. Her body tingles from the suddenness of the cold water. She winces as white feathers poke through her skin. A beak pushes out of her mouth. Her neck elongates. Upon resurfacing she extends her new wings behind her, stretching back. A small sapphire dragonfly lands on the side. She turns her head to look at its large spherical eyes. Marina glides effortlessly, the water parts softly around her. The pond smells fresh, like rainwater. Tucking her beak into her soft feathered wings, she closes her eyes.


Rosie is currently on her university year abroad, having spent four months working in the Galapagos she is now studying for a semester in Argentina. She studies English and Spanish at Bristol University and has loved writing from a young age. While her earlier work – titles such as ‘The Gruffalump’ – could be considered a little derivative, she has recently enjoyed exploring some more original angles. In her writing she looks at themes of self-transformation / mutation, the merging of the human and non human, and the female experience. Some of her favourite books include The Tiger’s Wife, Sexing the Cherry and The Travelling Cat Chronicles. In her free time Rosie teaches yoga, spends time with her cat Boris, and loves a sea swim.

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