Gante

Gante worked all day upon his isolated coastal farm. The smell of brine from the ocean swept eternally over the sheer cliffs, borne upon the wind. The sound of waves crashed incessantly against the base of these cliffs, wearing them down with their old tenacity; as though engaged in some ancient, secret feud. The sound was rhythmic, hypnotic, swooshing up and then thundering down; the sound its’ self like a wave, with a trough and a peak. He would time his work to such sounds occasionally, when chopping lumber or carrying out repairs upon worn down structures. He worked up a sweat during such tasks, feeling the earthy ache of his muscles; feeling connected to the very earth. And when he became fused with the sound of the waves, he would work tirelessly in a trance, timing himself to the peaks and the troughs – a backdrop against the howl of the wind and the tangy taste and smell of the salt.1

Gante was a brooder, an introvert. He enjoyed his own company upon the farm, with nothing but the animals and the crops and the sound of the sea. He was at peace, like a rock of stability and calm, so that one would almost assume that as long as he remained upon the cliffs, then they would endure forever. He looked to be about forty-five years of age, with a shaved head of red hair and a serious caste to his eyes, which were a steely grey. His face was stern, but only slightly lined. It was the face of a man who knew his own strengths and limitations; the face of a man who was comfortable with himself – a face which said ‘I have lived, and here I am, still alive,’ and nothing else, because nothing else was necessary. Gante had huge muscles, like knots and cords of cable which ran around his frame. He was like a tree, his feet like roots planted in the earth, his legs like trunks, his arms like branches, and his weathered skin like bark.2

The people from the nearby town knew nothing of him. He would make weekly incursions to gather supplies, during which his conversation was sparse and to the point. His voice was guttural, deep and harsh through lack of use. This, combined with his size and his stern, grey eyes, meant that people kept away from him. They were also aware, on some level, that he must be much older than he looked, for he had appeared the same when the adults were young. It was as though the waves of time were having no effect, as though his presence was indomitable to the extent that it defied time – the very essence of the universe. He was an outsider because of these reasons, and that was perfectly fine with him. He was regarded with suspicion and fear, but if he noticed such things, he gave no sign. His incursions into town lasted a few hours at most, and then he was gone again. However, his presence was like a stick poked into a hive of bees, and the villagers buzzed around for days afterwards, repeating gossip which was already old.3