The Historian
There was once a peaceful little village nestled on the coast at the base of a hill. The village had beautiful westward views over the sea and the mud flats, and everyone loved living there. All except one old man who refused to live in the village. He built his cottage set apart on the windy slopes of the hill.
He wasn’t from the village but came there after the war. Walked with a limp. Always wore a naval cap. Nobody knew much about him, but letters were addressed to him as ‘Capt.’ So everyone called him 'the Captain'.
His cottage was full of books and old maps. You could often see the light shining deep into the night as he read them, plotted, and made notes.
The villagers didn’t really like him. They would mutter that he thought himself too high and mighty to live among them.
One day, as he was collecting more maps from the village post office, he was overheard warning the grocer that the village could be washed away by the sea. “It’s happened before and it will happen again.”
His cottage was full of books and old maps. You could often see the light shining deep into the night as he read them, plotted, and made notes.
The villagers didn’t really like him. They would mutter that he thought himself too high and mighty to live among them.
One day, as he was collecting more maps from the village post office, he was overheard warning the grocer that the village could be washed away by the sea. “It’s happened before and it will happen again.”
That night, as the old man’s light flickered in the window of his home on the hill, the village pub was alive with debate over his conversation with the postmaster: Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even come from the village! My grandfather never said anything about it!
One of the bolder villagers who agreed to ask him about it the next morning trudged up the hill to see the old man scanning the horizon with binoculars.
Few of the villagers ever ventured up the hill but at the sound of footfalls, the old man didn’t take his eyes from the glasses. “You see that line along the cliffs over there?” He lowered the glasses and gestured with his flat hand towards a line below which the cliffs above the village changed colour.
“That’s the line made by the last one.”
“The last what?”
“The last super surge tide. Must have happened a thousand years ago, but it will happen again. Isobars are right. You should spread the word in the village that people must move to higher ground tonight.” He headed back into his cottage muttering.
One of the bolder villagers who agreed to ask him about it the next morning trudged up the hill to see the old man scanning the horizon with binoculars.
Few of the villagers ever ventured up the hill but at the sound of footfalls, the old man didn’t take his eyes from the glasses. “You see that line along the cliffs over there?” He lowered the glasses and gestured with his flat hand towards a line below which the cliffs above the village changed colour.
“That’s the line made by the last one.”
“The last what?”
“The last super surge tide. Must have happened a thousand years ago, but it will happen again. Isobars are right. You should spread the word in the village that people must move to higher ground tonight.” He headed back into his cottage muttering.
The villager didn’t quite know what to make of it on his way back down the hill, but he couldn’t help glancing at the line on the jagged cliffs below which the rock was strangely smooth.
The yokels were waiting in the pub for his report and soon, a group of villagers could be seen in the street outside staring up at the cliffs.
Of course he was talking nonsense, was the increasing consensus as the pint glasses emptied and the sun set over the sea. Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even come from the village! By the time the publican called ‘time’, a cold wind had whipped-up and the patrons hurried home.
By 2 am, the wind was gale force and two hours later the waves were breaking over the sea wall. Then, just after 5 am, a monster wave crashed over the esplanade against the beachfront shops. Nobody heard the tinkle of breaking glass above the din of the waves but when it receded the shop windows and striped awnings were gone.
Seconds later, another breaker emptied beach balls, belly boards, sun hats, parasols, and swimwear briefly into the street before sweeping them into the seething ocean. The contents of the pub and its shelves of memorabilia were next, and the frame of a faded picture of the local football team from 1943 caught briefly against the empty window before joining the darts trophy and similarly ancient tinsel from Christmas decorations in a raging torrent seawards.
By sunrise, a line of villagers, haggard from lack of sleep, bedraggled by the wind and rain, could be seeing carrying what they could up the slopes of the hill.
The yokels were waiting in the pub for his report and soon, a group of villagers could be seen in the street outside staring up at the cliffs.
Of course he was talking nonsense, was the increasing consensus as the pint glasses emptied and the sun set over the sea. Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even come from the village! By the time the publican called ‘time’, a cold wind had whipped-up and the patrons hurried home.
By 2 am, the wind was gale force and two hours later the waves were breaking over the sea wall. Then, just after 5 am, a monster wave crashed over the esplanade against the beachfront shops. Nobody heard the tinkle of breaking glass above the din of the waves but when it receded the shop windows and striped awnings were gone.
Seconds later, another breaker emptied beach balls, belly boards, sun hats, parasols, and swimwear briefly into the street before sweeping them into the seething ocean. The contents of the pub and its shelves of memorabilia were next, and the frame of a faded picture of the local football team from 1943 caught briefly against the empty window before joining the darts trophy and similarly ancient tinsel from Christmas decorations in a raging torrent seawards.
By sunrise, a line of villagers, haggard from lack of sleep, bedraggled by the wind and rain, could be seeing carrying what they could up the slopes of the hill.
The storm raged for days. The old man took as many of the women and children into his home as he could, and some sheltered in the barn before the emergency services arrived.
When the villagers went back down the hill to assess the damage after the storm, they found the village devastated. Only stone structures had any hope of survival – anything wooden had been carried out to sea. Even the beach had been scoured clean.
The Red Cross set-up a tent town on the slopes of the hill where people lived while they rebuilt their homes and shops. After a few months, the tent town began to disappear as families returned to their restored homes, and the shopfronts braced themselves for the summer tourist season.
Everything returned to normal.
The village had beautiful westward views over the sea and the mud flats, and everyone loved living there. All except for one old man who refused to live in the village. He lived in a cottage set apart on the windy slopes of the hill.
His cottage was full of books and old maps. You could often see the light shining deep into the night as he read them, plotted, and made notes.
The villagers didn’t really like him. They would mutter that he thought himself too high and mighty to live among them.
When the villagers went back down the hill to assess the damage after the storm, they found the village devastated. Only stone structures had any hope of survival – anything wooden had been carried out to sea. Even the beach had been scoured clean.
The Red Cross set-up a tent town on the slopes of the hill where people lived while they rebuilt their homes and shops. After a few months, the tent town began to disappear as families returned to their restored homes, and the shopfronts braced themselves for the summer tourist season.
Everything returned to normal.
The village had beautiful westward views over the sea and the mud flats, and everyone loved living there. All except for one old man who refused to live in the village. He lived in a cottage set apart on the windy slopes of the hill.
His cottage was full of books and old maps. You could often see the light shining deep into the night as he read them, plotted, and made notes.
The villagers didn’t really like him. They would mutter that he thought himself too high and mighty to live among them.
© Andrew Bergman 2017
