11-30-2022, 08:30 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-30-2022, 08:33 PM by Tristan Wells.)
Whitby was quiet on Sunday mornings. There was no market, shops were closed, and the superstitious fisherfolk dared not work on the Lord's Day for fear of divine retribution at sea. Most people who considered themselves respectable were at church. Tristan found more fulfilment in a walk while the town was so unusually quiet.
He was wearing a black suit with a waistcoat of finely woven red and black wool, a burgundy tie and a bowler hat. It was still warm for late September, but despite there being few people about, he dared not take off his coat. When he had carefully made his way down the slimy slipway from the east pier however, and stepped onto the dark shale that the sea revealed there at ebb, he took off his hat for a moment, let the sea breeze cool his head, and rubbed his hand over his thick hair, before putting his hat back on. Whoever had decided that a black coat and black hat were the only respectable choices of dress for a gentleman was a masochist as well as an awful bore.
Slowly and carefully, the overheated but respectable gentleman made his way across the cracked and layered shale. There was slippery seaweed to look out for, as well as pools of seawater trapped in lower areas of shale. It wouldn’t be the first time he stepped in one and got his shoe filled with water. But the risk was worth it. Tristan fancied himself to be a man of science, and he had recently developed an interest in the fossils that could be found in the ‘Scaur’ or ‘Scar’, as locals called the rocky area were fishwives gathered bait and city children spent their holidays netting the puddles until the tide came back in.
They were once sea creatures, covered by sediment for millions of years until they turned to fossilised rock, Tristan mentally lectured to himself, for lack of an audience to admire the wisdom he was copying from a book he had read some days ago. As he stepped from dry section to dry section, his dark eyes scanned the shale. There’s one! Merrily he took a small chisel and hammer from the leather bag he carried, placed the bag on a relatively dry patch and moved over to the ribbed grey rock in the shale, which he suspected was part of a larger ammonite hidden beneath.
He crouched, set the chisel against the dark shale at an angle and gave it a gentle knock with the hammer. The thud echoed along the rocky seabed and back, altered but loud, from the sandy cliff behind him, filling the whole beach. Tristan paused and looked left and right. There were only one or two people. He looked down at the shale. The part between the chisel and suspected fossil had broken off and he removed it, revealing the rough outline of an what was indeed an ammonite. He set the chisel elsewhere and gave it another knock, as quietly as he could, but unable to prevent the loud echo.
Thud – THUD. Thud – THUD.
Every time, a little more of the fossil revealed itself, or he managed to clear some of the shale on the sides, so that it would be easier take the treasure. So engaged he was, that he did not notice a young boy approaching, taking his bag, and hurrying off with it in the direction of town as fast as the slippery surface allowed.
He was wearing a black suit with a waistcoat of finely woven red and black wool, a burgundy tie and a bowler hat. It was still warm for late September, but despite there being few people about, he dared not take off his coat. When he had carefully made his way down the slimy slipway from the east pier however, and stepped onto the dark shale that the sea revealed there at ebb, he took off his hat for a moment, let the sea breeze cool his head, and rubbed his hand over his thick hair, before putting his hat back on. Whoever had decided that a black coat and black hat were the only respectable choices of dress for a gentleman was a masochist as well as an awful bore.
Slowly and carefully, the overheated but respectable gentleman made his way across the cracked and layered shale. There was slippery seaweed to look out for, as well as pools of seawater trapped in lower areas of shale. It wouldn’t be the first time he stepped in one and got his shoe filled with water. But the risk was worth it. Tristan fancied himself to be a man of science, and he had recently developed an interest in the fossils that could be found in the ‘Scaur’ or ‘Scar’, as locals called the rocky area were fishwives gathered bait and city children spent their holidays netting the puddles until the tide came back in.
They were once sea creatures, covered by sediment for millions of years until they turned to fossilised rock, Tristan mentally lectured to himself, for lack of an audience to admire the wisdom he was copying from a book he had read some days ago. As he stepped from dry section to dry section, his dark eyes scanned the shale. There’s one! Merrily he took a small chisel and hammer from the leather bag he carried, placed the bag on a relatively dry patch and moved over to the ribbed grey rock in the shale, which he suspected was part of a larger ammonite hidden beneath.
He crouched, set the chisel against the dark shale at an angle and gave it a gentle knock with the hammer. The thud echoed along the rocky seabed and back, altered but loud, from the sandy cliff behind him, filling the whole beach. Tristan paused and looked left and right. There were only one or two people. He looked down at the shale. The part between the chisel and suspected fossil had broken off and he removed it, revealing the rough outline of an what was indeed an ammonite. He set the chisel elsewhere and gave it another knock, as quietly as he could, but unable to prevent the loud echo.
Thud – THUD. Thud – THUD.
Every time, a little more of the fossil revealed itself, or he managed to clear some of the shale on the sides, so that it would be easier take the treasure. So engaged he was, that he did not notice a young boy approaching, taking his bag, and hurrying off with it in the direction of town as fast as the slippery surface allowed.
