Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover
Page 4
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In the dream I have snake skin.
I am strapped to a massive chair by ropes made of teeth that sink into my arms. They tear into my skin. There is the pungent stink of rotten and decaying breath, although I confess I have no idea what this normally smells like, nor do I usually smell anything in a dream.
I am seated on a hill. It feels heartlessly cold, barren and damp.
This is a soul-less empty place.
It could be daybreak or it could be sunset – I know not - but the sky is a thunderous violet, almost ultraviolet. My body glows in incandescence.
Around my feet, purple orchids spring from the ground. They twist and contort at angles that should see them snap under their own weight. The orchids suddenly go rigid, standing bolt upright, taking the shape of numbers. They remain like this just long enough for me start counting, before the whole plant is whipped violently underground, as if an unseen force is pulling from below.
Layers of skin are peeling off me, tumbling by my feet. Other pieces crack off and float in front of my face, cluttering my vision.
A voice behind me.
‘What numbers do you see?’
I do not recognise the voice. It’s neither friendly, nor malevolent. It has no agenda or discernible tone.
‘What numbers do you see?’ It utters once more.
I scan the ground, watching the unusual orchids. When one grows rapidly, every part of it: The stem; the leaves, the petals and the stamen all coil in tandem to form a number. I see a ‘six’, a ‘four’ and a ‘twenty’.
I wipe my forehead and when I look down, I see blood on my palms.
The sky has grown blacker in its black parts and vividly pink in its lighter part; it’s coming closer.
The whole earth rumbles below. It begins to bubble and crack. Steam pours out of narrow fractures where the ground swells like pastry baking in an oven. The plants sag under the intense heat and shrill screams arise from protrusions punctured all over the terrain. Hundreds of tiny beige cones push their way upwards from the holes. Suddenly, each cone splits down their centre and a horrific cacophony pierces the air.
Countless beaks push their way out of the ground, squealing around me.
I shake violently in the chair. The teeth in the ropes gauge deeper into my skin. I struggle against them. The ground explodes…
Earth, debris, dust and stones momentarily hang in mid-air. Thousands of bleeding, ripped and dying birds take to the sky amongst the shrapnel. There’s a smell of damp earth and burning flesh. The mixture is sickening.
Now, as I peer downwards, I can see below the ground as if I’m looking through ice. I see clouds rolling along beneath me and the earth below. It’s as if I am seeing a mirror-image of where I am. I see a miniscule version of me trapped on the hillside. I look to the sky, searching – half expecting - to see two large eyes- my own eyes- looking back down. I see nothing. The clouds roll faster and faster under my feet. Between the clouds, in the mirror image directly below, somebody stands behind me. I feel fear. I strain on the macabre ropes. I can’t turn my head to face my assailant but can smell their breath; an unearthly odour - something evil. I feel a hand touch my shoulder and just as I strain to look, the purple sky explodes wildly around me – blinding me. As the light settles on the inside of my retina I see the words, “The end of it all” form and linger momentarily and then, nothing.
Am I awake?
Everything is dark and quiet.
I can’t tell if my eyes are open or not but I can hear and feel my heart hammering in my chest. Why do I have so many dreams like these? They are becoming more vivid.
I lay completely still thinking about it. Slowly, I open my eyes, and they gradually adjust to the contours of my room. I’m pretty sure I’m awake now and so I turn my head to see moonlight poking beneath the bedroom curtains. All is quiet and safe in here, but I’m breathing rapidly.
I check on Buddy. Is he there? There’s a rustle at the bottom of my bed. I jolt sharply, my heart pounding faster, as I start to make out the form of a crouched shadow.
‘Buddy?’
‘Shelly…’
I clamber from the sheets and move towards my brother, wondering why he’s hunched over.
‘What is it, Shelly?’
As I approach his silhouette, I can see that he’s bending over something that’s emitting light.
‘Buddy, what are you doing?’
‘I dunno what it’s doin?’
Shards of light illuminate the underside of his belly; purple, like in my dream. He hovers almost protectively over something I can’t make out at this distance, like a good parent protecting a fallen child. I approach and stumble over something, and as I look again, I can see my bag and it’s been opened.
I feel confused. I’ve just woke up. Have I?
Buddy’s taken the book from my bag and, well, he’s reading it (well, looking at it) and he appears to have a torch.
No, not a torch, the light, the light is coming from the book itself. I sit down next to him, my mind reeling with curiosity.
‘Buddy, what have you done?’
The book is open and in the piercing light that shines brilliantly from the script, I can see a nursery rhyme; not one that I’m familiar with. The writing is alive and moving, swirling and coiling. It reads:
A carrion crow sat on an oak,
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho,
Watching a tailor shape his coat.
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho.
Wife, bring me my old bent bow,
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho,
That I may shoot yon carrion crow.
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho.
The tailor he shot and missed his mark,
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho,
And shot his own sow right through the heart.
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho.
As the writing unfurls, I hear words take on a melody somewhere in my mind. I listen, but hear nothing coming into my ears. Whatever can be heard is coming from within and not from elsewhere. Buddy is gently rocking beside me and I catch a glimpse of him mouthing the words.
‘Buddy, can you hear that too?’
Buddy looks up at me. ‘Sing hay - ho de carrion crow.’
The music begins to fade in my mind as I look at the book; the words steadily diminish in their brightness. As the light is now disappearing rapidly from the open tome, I quickly make a mental note of the page number - page ninety. In an instant it’s gone; the words have gone; the music has gone.
Darkness.
Buddy and I sit together in the quiet.
I touch his arm to let him know I’m still sat next to him, but also to reassure myself that all this has been real and not a figment of my imagination. We sit perfectly still, lost in our own thoughts, knowing that whatever has just happened has no bearing on normal life, at least not the life I’ve so far been used to. We’ve both witnessed something other-worldly. I know that even Buddy will be thinking about that. I ponder what the nursery rhyme means; why it’s been revealed like this. What am I supposed to do with it?
‘Buddy, what happened – how did you get hold of the book?’
The ping of a small bell rings out in the darkness near Buddy. It gently chimes, drawing rapt attention from its blind audience. I see the outline of Buddy’s arm moving with the sound it makes. Finding his arm in the blackness, I let my hands crawl down from his shoulder towards the object making the sound. He relinquishes it immediately.
‘The book gave it to me.’
I pause.
‘What do you mean the book gave it to you?’
I feel the shape of a bell carefully in the darkness, not sure of its power, wary, well of just about everything: Its origins; its functions; its purpose. I double check that I’m even holding a bell.
‘Buddy, the back of the book?’
‘Yes.’
In an instant, I’m on my feet, the open book in one arm. I’m using the quilt on my bed to guide me towards the reading lamp by the side of my bed. I scrabble around to find the button and press it. The lamp’s glow is soft. Buddy sits there looking at me with a bewildered expression. I kneel against my bed and examine the bell. It’s about twelve inches long and weighty. It’s hard to make out any defining features in the dismal light. Placing it down on my bed, not quite believing that it came from the back of the book, I open up the back page expectantly.
The small hole that was at the top of the dome is open and has expanded into a larger hole. White and blue concentric circles of energy are being drawn to the centre. They are vivid and emit a low buzzing sound. I let my fingers hover over them and feel a strange, indescribable sensation. There are no emotions or experience to compare it to, and so I pull them away. It feels neither pleasant nor unpleasant, safe nor dangerous. I just have no idea how it makes me feel. I let my fingers get closer and experience the same alien sensation, immediately drawing them back, scared to probe further.
‘Buddy, did you pull the levers?’
He shakes his head slowly. He looks guilty.
I hold up the book and show him, ‘Did you pull the spikey things?’
‘Yes.’
He looks fearful.
‘No, don’t worry – you haven’t done anything wrong.’
I’m not sure if this is the case though.
I’m having a hard time understanding what’s happened to me since this book came into my life twelve hours ago. I turn to Buddy.
‘Into bed, Bud: Don’t touch this again unless I ask you to.’
Buddy nods and heads back across to his bed. I close the book quickly and pop it back into my bag. I take the bell and place it in the front compartment. I zip the rucksack closed and throw it all the way underneath my bed. It hits the wall on the other side. I don’t want Buddy touching that; it might be dangerous. I simply have to find out more about this. Who can I ask?
I climb under my sheets and contemplate what has just taken place for what seems like a lifetime, until sleep covers my eyes once again.
In my dreams I disappear down the hole in the book like Alice in Wonderland. It is a dark place. Unseen denizens claw at my flesh...
Chapter Three
The Box That I Made