GFP 019: Neðarsjávar Hýði

The Harrowing was not what Jonathan Plover had expected.

He’d been floating, completely enveloped in it, for God knows how many hours. Days even perhaps.

It was made of a viscous, honey-like fluid. When Jonathan first arrived, plopping into its existence and fully submerged in it, he had panicked, thrashing his limbs, eyeing desperately for the surface.

He very quickly held his breath.

Above, below, off to the side, in multiple permutations of all three axes, there didn’t appear to be a singular source of light.

He swam in a direction he believed to be “up”, kicking his legs, sweeping the liquid with his arms. It was especially difficult being fully clothed.

There was a soft, dim periwinkle glow all around, surrounding and following him. It went as far as his eye could see, unknown coruscating motes marking distances farther away.

After a minute of madcap stroking however, as the built-up carbon dioxide inside Jonathan began to claw at him, a bag of needles ready to burst, a horrifying epiphany came to him.

No matter how far he swam, the light did not change in brightness. It was the same even level no matter where he turned. The irregular depth of perception disoriented him. He grew nauseous, wanted to vomit and that’s when his body gave up on holding its breath and involuntarily swallowed a huge gulp of the gelatinous liquid.

It did not kill him.

At first he gagged, and believed himself to be drowning. But as he gasp and swallowed and breathed in the thick marmalade atmosphere of The Harrow, as this strange jelly flooded into his lungs and stomach, Jonathan made the serendipitous discovery that this confiture did not suffocate him. Instead, it nourished him with oxygen, nutrients and life itself.

It was discomfiting to suck in this thick molasses through his nostrils, have it clog up his esophagus, his trachea and all the many branches of bronchi in his chest… and live.

It was like Jonathan was inside the womb at the beginning of time, lingering in its life-giving amniotic fluid, gently hovering, buoyant and still.

This, Jonathan supposed, should give most anyone a small sense of serenity. To be warm, nurtured and taken care of. A feeling that everything was going to be all right no matter what happened.

But not Jonathan.

The aimless isolation was claustrophobic. By now, he had become numb to it. If only he knew what to do next, where to go, how to get out of here.

If only he hadn’t settled that silly bet with Anne Campbell. Anne with the springy, bouncy curled blonde tresses and sweet, small dainty lips and bubbly, infectious giggle. Being around her was like a wave of opium, black coffee and a pinch of Wilsons of Sharrow snuff all at the same time.

Jonathan wanted her the moment their eyes met.

They were at a private affair put on by Jonathan’s uncle, the Earl of Mulgrave, at his stately countryside manor. It was an annual soiree for a coterie of handpicked Cambridge students set the Saturday after the Vernal Equinox.

He had casually sidled up to Anne and nonchalantly asked, “Did you know the Hawksbill sea turtle may lay up to 250 eggs at a time after mating?”

Unfazed, she replied, “That simply cannot be true. You are exaggerating Mr. Plover.”

Jonathan realized it was an exceedingly stupid question to begin a conversation with Anne as momentous as this. But the fact that Anne took the bait and played along meant there was a sleight hint of mutual attraction.

“I shall prove it to you,” Jonathan declared. “Come with me to my nuncle’s private library. He has an extensive collection of encyclopedia on marine life you should find irresistibly captivating. And if I’m right, you shall owe me a kiss to settle the matter.”

Anne smiled mischievously. “And if your fact happens to be egregiously wrong? What then?”

“Well, I shall owe you a kiss, of course!”

“I will come with you, Mr. Plover, to settle this bet. But I shan’t like it. Not at all.”

Jonathan led Anne through winding hallways, past the banquet room, the dining hall, the solar until they stood before the looming chestnut French doors to uncle Frederick’s bibliotheca. With a gentle push, the great doors swung open, revealing a deep expanse of tall bookshelves, a second floor gallery, four neat rows of escritoires and in the center of the room, a grand majestic heliocentric orrery made of brass and gold and mother of pearl.

Jonathan grinned as Anne gasped, breathlessly taken by the sheer magnitude of it all. It gave him incalculable pleasure to to impress Anne and delight and surprise her.

“Come now,” Jonathan said, as he confidently clasped Anne’s hand into his. “This way.”

They wandered hand-in-hand perusing the innumerable books on varying topics until they came upon a ten volume set on zoology, leather-bound in a rich maroon dye and inlaid with gold lettering. Jonathan reached for the one labeled “Ge-Is” and began flipping through the onion skin pages.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Here it is. The Hawksbill sea turtle.”

Anne Campbell leaned into Jonathan and rested her cheek against his broad shoulder. They both silently mumbled the entry together, a jolt of electricity passing between them in their close proximity to one another.

“Well, well, Mr. Plover,” Anne said. “It appears you were quite right about their eggs.”

“I should be so…”

And at that moment, Anne interrupted Jonathan mid-sentence and kissed him quickly on the lips. She didn’t linger. It wasn’t a conciliatory peck either. It was a perfect balance of the two. Just long enough to mean business and short enough to tease.

When she had released Jonathan from her grasp, she stared at Jonathan longingly for a brief second before she said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Plover” and exited the library without looking back.

Jonathan was simply dumbstruck by her unwavering audacity and had no idea what to do with himself then and there.

He dropped the book and it took him a moment to realize that this had happened, that what had just happened had just happened. A swirl of confusion and joy and nerves.

When he had finally recollected and gathered himself, he kneeled down, muttering aimlessly, “well old boy, well indeed,” and picked up the fallen volume on zoology. It laid on the freshly waxed parquet floor like a low army tent.

Turning it over, he saw that it had not lost the page on the Hawksbill sea turtle. It was as if the encyclopedia volume had wished to capture that one particular perfect moment between Jonathan and Anne for prosperity’s sake.

And that’s when Jonathan noticed the entry prior to “Hawksbill Sea Turtle”: “The Harrowing”. ☣