From: "Scott G. Miller" Date: Thu, 7 Oct 1999 10:19:34 -0500 Subject: NEW: Color of Mood: Solace (1/1) Color of Mood: Solace by Scott Miller Categories: V Removing herself from the world into a world of her own, Scully turns to the ocean for solace.. and something else. -=- To temper stress from one more day, into mood a quick foray. With sharpened quill and dappled leaf, words flow forth and sweet relief. -=- Dana Scully, Fox Mulder . . . Chris Carter, 10-13, etc. Feedback is never refused: scgmille@indiana.edu Color of Mood: Solace by Scott Miller - - - Light was a precious commodity, sparingly applied to the rough texture of rock and sea. In some places it washed abundantly over ocean-worn basalt, but at the somber moment of dusk; where Dana Scully sat thinking; it made due wrapping around edges and creeping around corners. Shadow, light's inferior cousin, prevailed over the moment. Where the burnt orange light found itself trapped at an obstacle, shadow found a home. One of these shadows was creeping along her cheek right now, waking from the length of her nose like a sleepy child. The odd ray glanced off her eye, so that one glancing at the extending shadow might also watch the sunset through her contemplative stare. From her viewpoint, however, the darkening sun was visible only in the periphery. More important in her gaze was the dark grey sea stretching out to the horizon. Had she been watching like an artist, she'd note the perspective the scene offered. Nearby the waves found themselves surging up, around, and into the harsh but smooth rocks. Corralled and diverted as through the advance of an impenetrable phalanx. Further away, the army seemed unaware of the carnage its brethren at the front. Neat but broken ranks of swells stretched to the horizon, pressed closer and closer with distance. Dana Scully wasn't thinking as an artist, nor as a poet. The scene cast on her retina served only as a soothing diversion. A scene never altered, yet constantly changing. What brought her to the shore wasn't the dusk hue or the feeling of insignificance a sense of the infinite ocean brings, nor the warmth of a summer evening; not even the lilac-and-salt smell in the air. For Dana Scully, it was the sound that made this her place of solace. Despite the visual animal human beings were, Dana was oriented in the world by sound. For her, the atmosphere of the audible set her mood more than anything. Perhaps her love of the sea stemmed from the calm and stability of the ocean's rhythms. Some say the rise and fall of the sun or moon is the constant on which one can always rely. "Oh swear not by the moon, th'inconstant moon," spoke Romeo. The ocean, day or night, was far more constant than the moon. Day or night, one can hear the peaceful rustling of water on stone. Day or night the sea would whisper to her, if she would only come to listen. And listen she would. Her eyes stared blankly towards the juncture between sky and sea. Her breathing, in and out through relaxed lips, was in sync with the rush and retreat of the waves. But most of all, her ears trained on the sea. At first she tried to pick out specific differences between each swell. She was trained well in this area with her eyes. Slicing through the useless organs of the deceased, she would mentally compare the images before her with her perception of the normal. Differences, after all, were her life. Training her ears took concentration, thankfully. Drawing her attention toward the sea, her mind would quiet, her eyelids would relax to half-mast, and stress would flow like the rivulets of sea water down an adjacent projection of rock. The sound of sea water on stone, she thought, was a symphony of the complex. One could listen for hours, trying to sift through the white noise, attempting to get at the complex interactions of water and air. Sure, one notices the swell of sound associated with a wave, or the sub-surges as water flowed between the rock. Her physics mind envisioned plotting these surges on a chart, Y axis in decibels, X as time. One would get a repeating pattern of sound, a surge with little bumps of sound, then a trough as the water flowed back to sea, then the surge, and so on. But the smooth curves of her graph would be masking the complexity of each surgelet. She could increase her resolution, focus in on just one of the peaks. With her new scale she'd see new peaks and curves. But here she could travel further. She tried to picture each droplet of water as it struck the stone and was reflected, tumbling to strike some other droplet. The interference would affect the air, sending a ripple toward her ear. - - - This kind of thinking was counter-productive, however. In fact, it was the kind of thing she'd traveled to the beach to avoid. "One week," Skinner had proclaimed. She'd brushed aside the puppy-dog stare from her partner as she left the office for the weekend. On Monday, she thought, I won't think of paperwork. She packed light, a sun dress, two pair of jeans, her swimsuit, a couple of t-shirts and a buttoned white cotton shirt. It was this shirt she was wearing now, over the two-pieced bikini she convinced herself without much effort that she still looked good in. Not that looking good was even a mild consideration for the weekend. Her hair was half damp, half dry now. It most likely looked, she thought, like a tangled mess. The swim after dinner was impulsive and quite unlike herself. But when dinner was two slices of baguette, a small helping of spaghetti and a glass of '68 Merlot, relaxation is such that impulsiveness is instinct. The bed and breakfast on a small, enclosed section of beach ensured her privacy. Here, the image of a woman clothed in swimwear and a dress shirt, perched on twelve million year old basalt would draw no stares. Perhaps the elderly couple that ran the house might notice, but age and wisdom would recognize the rare instance of peace and leave it to be cherished. Dana pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, dropping her head to glance sideways at the oblong sun. "Never look into the sun now Dana," her mother would warn her. Now, though, it was safe. The sun was approaching the color of a lazy fire, and if she looked hard enough, she could see the shimmering of the egg-shaped surface. 'Random fluctuations in atmospheric pressure and temperature,' she reminded herself, then returned to admiring its beauty. Glancing down, she watched the Earth's dance partner through reflections in the sea. Here the shimmering was far more intense. When a frothy wave wasn't scattering the light completely, the sun was an expansive streak across the rippled surface, its appearance shifting like sparklers on the fourth of july. With a soft sigh, her eyes closed and she let the sound in her ears return to her consciousness. As white noise filled them once again, she let her mind drift. - - - When she awoke, light's cousin shadow had completely taken hold on the environment. With the cloak of darkness had come a light sea-breeze and a mild chill. Dana looked over the water, black with night and capped by a star-filled sky of barely perceptible blue. Drawing the shirt closer around her, she took a deep breath, exhaling with the waxing tide. The moon was sure to make an appearance soon, half bathed in sunlight. Judging from darkness, the fact that the moon wasn't marring the sky, coupled with her knowledge of lunar motion, she estimated the time to be around eleven-o'clock. A sensible person would button the shirt, walk along the sea-mount back to shore, collect her towel and necklace, and head to bed. Sensibility held no place in her itinerary for the week, however, and with three days left on her paid vacation, spontaneity certainly did. Taking off the shirt and folding it neatly to lay on the stone, she eased herself into the cold, dark water. This moment was hers and hers alone. During the daytime, the water was blue-grey and expansive. Fish swam in it, and the light of day gave one a certain knowledge of how to reach shore. At night, the black water was a mystery. Undoubtedly fish still traveled in it, and certainly the shore could be found in one direction or the other, but with little effort, one could choose to forget all these things and focus on just being in it. After swimming a few dozen yards away from the rock, Dana rolled onto her back and focused only on the stars. Filling her perception were only those points of light and the feel of her body rising and falling with the swells. Within moments even the cold didn't bother her. It nagged at her consciousness enough to know that she couldn't be out all night, but like the fish it wasn't hard to ignore that too and focus on how peaceful she felt. - - - Dana Scully fastened the gold necklace and then the last button on her shirt. Wrapping the towel around waist she walked the short distance to the cabin. Even the sound of creaking wood and the swish of the sliding door across its tracks disturbed the constant throb of the ocean. Every nerve in her tingled as if tuned to the rhythm. She felt at the same time exhilarated and exhausted, like she could go to sleep for days if she liked, but her mind was clear and awake. She hung the towel up to dry on a wooden dowel installed for the purpose, and sat heavily on the bed, eyes still drifting towards the shoreline. The moon was just beginning to peak above the horizon, large and half-full as promised. Reluctantly she looked into the room as if to size it up once more before she allowed sleep to claim her. There, in a small bamboo chair sat Fox Mulder; face as calm as she felt, just watching her. -