Fever Greed pdf with covers

fever greed

Katharine Platts

FEVER GREED

‘Strong torch required.’1

It happened many years ago and yet I’ve still never been able to make sense of it. I wasn’t a young child and cannot pass it off as a frivolous fantasy, I can only describe it as an omen.

At first, I thought I had been stung by a weaver when, shin-deep in the ocean, a sharp pain jolted through me. But the prick was fleeting and, upon checking the underside of my foot, the skin remained unpunctured. Bemusement cultivated my curiosity and I waited eagerly for the white foam to retreat, eyes transfixed to the sand, to reveal what hid beneath.

Gradually, painstakingly, the form of a tentacular thorn2

peeled

back

the

bed.

Although I had grown up in many ways, I still always brought a bucket to explore the rockpools, to see what had been taken and what had been left behind. Maybe it was this inquisitiveness that incited me to investigate further, rather than leave troubled waters be.

The sand around the thorn was hot to touch but this wasn’t a deterrent, in fact, I think it spurred me on. It felt like the hum of a radiator, heat coursing into the surrounding ground, transposed to me, transferring energy. The sound too was encapsulating, reverberating, and my hands dug faster and deeper, knowing where to enter and where to not, almost of another’s will.

What I finally lifted free from the cavity I had created didn’t provide much explanation. The thing I had stepped on protruded from the top of a compact block of sand that was somehow held together, whilst the rest had fallen away. Yet when I looked closer, I saw it no longer had the touch, the appearance, or even in the smell of sand. It was … tissuey in parts and glittered in the light, yet immensely strong too, the inconspicuous durability of a spider’s web. A rough gossamer was threaded through the block, a delicate wiring holding the body of it all together. Maybe it was still sand in part, but something had possessed it; taken hold and meddled with its properties.

I knew there was still more to be uncovered. I began to pull away at the iridescent mass, revealing what appeared to be rhizomes and roots. I broke through those too. Would I find a carcass, held in place by that which had killed it? A body in Pompeii, its screaming breath perfectly preserved by the settling of tortuous volcanic ash. But this felt too hot and too loud to be dead. Maybe it was more like a nest, regenerating, holding onto survival. Now whatever was at the end of that tentacle had outgrown it and was looking for a way out. I wonder what drew it in this direction, to the surface of my world.

A rusted patina, rough and hard as the barnacles who perturb whale’s tails3, gleamed out of its encasement. I contained it in my bucket, in case once released, it altruistically scuttled free from its saviour4. Teasing great clumps of membrane off the body, I finally revealed a battered, crusted carapace (I think that’s the word? My knowledge of crabs isn’t so clear anymore). The thorny tentacle was now recognisable as one of many jointed appendages and gently turning it over in my palms revealed a tender belly. I immediately recalled the enchanting stories told by conches to sea fairies and, somehow, the hypnotic hum and soft underside drew me to hold this thing to my ear in a similar fashion.

A bitter March wind snaps at our ankles and bites our cheeks. We’ve been walking for over half a day, up at first light, and now the sun is starting to dip again.

There’s about 40 of us, some seeking help, some just here to support them on the arduous journey. Our feet touch the sand now; not far to go. Surely ‘this must be the most unusual location for a holy well’5, exposed to the ocean, ‘washed out twice a day, every day, when the tide comes in and floods the cavern’6.

I remove my plimsols and place bare feet on wet rock, instinctively knowing where to put my hands along the cave walls. My mother likes to say our ancestors from Cubert cut the steps into the rock that lead up to the well, I’m not so certain but the story always goes down a treat with visitors.

In summer people flock from God knows where to fix their ailing bodies and minds, its best to get here early in the year.

‘The virtues of this water are very great’7, but that is a lot of miracles to give out.

THE ROCK-FORMED CISTERN IS OF A DUPLICATE FORM,

I watch the mother in front of me carefully remove the cloth swathing her new-born.

She dips the baby in the spring basins before passing it through the aperture, between the two caves. I close my eyes, shortly after I feel her brush past me as she retraces the path.

I step forward.

A

C

O

M

M

M

HAVING A COMMUNICATION EXISTTING BETWEEN THEM

U

N

I

O

N

8

I approached eagerly, wading through the water, shin deep.

It wasn’t quite low tide, but the water was retreating9.

Normally, I’m more cautious when caving but I had travelled a long way to get here, and I had limited time to gather my research.

It was the unusual combination of geological features and sacred waters that drew me to the site. ‘The water supply comes from above, and this water, being of a calcareous nature, has coated the rock with its earthy mineral deposits, giving to the surrounding walls and to the well itself a variegated appearance of white, green and purple.’10 I hadn’t been able to find out much in all my digging, not even when the cave had first been documented, which is why I had applied for the grant; to study it myself.

The shallow pools are full of spring water. You can dip your hand in it, take something out, wash yourself with it. Help what? Maybe. In any case, it certainly does no harm. Maybe you just have to believe in it.11

I came across it on eBay of all places. I scour flea markets, car boots, charity shops, the lot, travel round the country for these types of things, you see. Postcards, that’s my hobby. It’s not often I look online, kind of ruins the magic of the discovery, I think anyway.

In fact, I’m not even sure how I stumbled across it. All I remember is being transfixed by the ominous gaping hole of the well, unable to tear my eyes away, even through the computer screen. My weekends melded together as I desperately searched for more information.

It wasn’t until yesterday morning I finally found some kind of answers. The local news announced the tragic death of a young woman, found collapsed on the beach.

It was only at the very bottom of the article that the cave was mentioned. They couldn’t identify the exact spot, not many people held onto relics of the past nowadays, and coastal erosion had buried memory12, but a well known for its healing properties had once stood on that bay .

we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours13 we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood we reproduce so much received narrative that we actually think is ours we lose so many networks, so many stories, that we once understood

In reverie, my fingers falter and the bronze crustacean slips from them, caught by the bucket with a loud splash. Yet it is not bronze anymore, nor spotted with brittle bumps. It is the smooth of baby’s skin, the blanch of deadened coral14. I swear I felt its harsh shell not moments ago, but now my fingers trace a waxen skin, lifeless as the cuttle fish that litter the shoreline. I realise I am mottled blue and shivering, sodden by icy winter waters, keeling with no lifeline. I clasp the creature between my hands, hold it up again, but all I hear is my blood surging voraciously through my ear canals15. I thrust the wretched thing out to open ocean, too far to see if it sinks or resurfaces16. As I turn to leave, I remember my bucket. It has been captured by the shore dump and by the time I manage to grab a hold of it it has been washed clean of rough gossamer.

Endnotes 1 English Monarchs (2006) Holywell. Available from: http://www.cornwalltour.co.uk/holywell.html.

2 In reference to Haraway, D. (2016) Tentacular Thinking: Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Chthulucene. Eflux. [online]. 75.

3 Actually, whilst barnacles do live on whales, they don’t cause any affliction or upset by doing so. This is a type of symbiotic relationship known as commensalism. See National Marine Sanctuary (2020) Whales and Barnacles: An Unlikely Duo. 4 In reference to the ‘…need for the contemporary human subject to become more actively aware of its debts to nonhumans and to enter into progressive alliances with nonhumans as partners, not mere victims to be saved.’ Ginn, F. (2015) When Horses Won’t Eat: Apocalypse and the Anthropocene. Annals of the Association of American Geographers [online] 105, p356.

5 See Burnham, A. (2020) Holywell Bay. Megalithic [blog]. 11 September.

Available from: https://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=8114 6 Martin, G. (2019) Inside Cornwall’s forgotten cave thought to have secret healing powers. Cornwall Live [online]. 27 January.

7 ‘The virtues of this water are very great. It is incredible what numbers in summer season frequent this place and waters from counties far distant.’

The amount of people that come to visit the cave evidence the virtues of the water. From William Hal’s (1750) ‘History of Cornwall’, in Martin, G. (2019). Cornwall Live [online].

8 John Cardell Oliver’s (1877) ‘Guide to Newquay’, in Martin, G. (2019). Cornwall Live [online].

9 Approach the cave with caution at low tide and watch out for signs of the tide turning.’ English Monarchs (2006) Holywell.

10 From John Cardell Oliver’s (1877) ‘Guide to Newquay’, in Martin, G. (2019). Cornwall Live [online].

11 Franz Anton Lindenmayr is a German caver and cave photographer. See Lindenmayr, A, F. (2020) Holywell Cave.

12 ‘History with a capital H has often been described as a fiction written by the conquerors, yet there are other histories, often hidden, sometimes literally buried.’ ‘Even as the power of place is diminished and often lostit continues- as an absence- to define culture and identity.’ Lippard, R, L. (1997) The Lure of the Local: Senses of place in a multicentered society. p13 and p20.

13 The VS Podcast. (2020) Chris Abani vs. Entanglement. VS Poetry Foundation [podcast].

14 ‘It is worth remembering that the Anthropocene arrives not with a socioecological transition (an event), but rather with our capacity to measure and to read signs of that event through scientific or artistic means.’ Szerszynski (2012) cited by Ginn (2015) in When Horses Won’t Eat: Apocalypse and the Anthropocene. Annals of the Association of American Geographers [online]. 105, p352.

15 See Helmreich, S. (2012-13) Seashell Resonance. Cabinet Magazine. [online]. Winter 2012-13 16 Maybe she is the one that has perturbed the crustacean.

Katharine Platts, 2020