White Pines

by Gemma Amor

  I saw other ancient ones, sleeping in their circular tombs. Three of them in total, arranged strategically around the Island. The tomb where I lay, and two others. If you were to walk a path from tomb to tomb, you would create a shape with your feet, an equilateral triangle, a Euclidean boundary.

  Within which another tomb sat, dead in the very centre. And something slumbered there. Something older and wiser and more terrible than my ancestors. I couldn’t describe it, couldn’t fully understand it, but I could see it lying down there, in my mind’s eye.

  A face, carved from stone. Horrifyingly simple and crude, yet recognisably human. A face I had seen before, in another place. One garlanded with the roots of a cherry tree.

  And beneath that, or beyond it, or behind it, or maybe around it, lay the Other Place. Instead of a cairn on a hill in the centre of an Island, a cherry tree stood in suspended animation within a giant glass bubble, marking a sacred place.

  And all else beyond it was chaos.

  The mummy vomited her knowledge into my brain, which was wide open with rapture and the glorious pain that came with finally being able to understand what my place in this world was, which was no place at all, because my place belonged between worlds, and once she knew that I knew this, she released me. I had a second to try and breathe, to try and drag some of the air remaining into my burning lungs, to try and speak, but before I could, the ancient one…

  Crumbled to dust.

  I cried out. Whatever purpose had kept the body intact all these thousands of years was now fulfilled, but I felt a keening loss despite this. The papery flesh, leathery skin and brittle bones disintegrated before my eyes, and the Island sighed beneath me once again. The rumblings outside of the tomb intensified. The stone tomb walls began to crack, splinter like teeth biting down on something too hard. Soil spilled into the hole around me, cold and damp and stinking, and full of insects, more insects. The earth surged in beneath me like rising water swelling up a well shaft, and I rode the wave of it, rolling into a crouch, and thrusting myself up, and out of the darkness.

  The capstone over my head split in two with a thunderous crack.

  I rose from the tomb in a fountain of shattered stone and dust and earth, naked as the day I was born, coated in mud and insects and blood and dead leaves and grass and roots, all of it plastered to my skin so that you could barely see the woman I was underneath. I rose, and I saw Fiona, pale-faced, mouth open, holding out a hand as if to ward me off.

  This was not how the ritual usually played out.

  ‘You’re not supposed to…’ she stuttered, backing away from me. ‘You’re supposed to wait until we let you out!’

  I stood before her. Taller. Wiser. Changed. My ruined eyes leaked a thick bloody pus down my cheeks, and I let it dry in the salty air. The ancient one had taken my sight, but it was not like earlier, not like the car accident. I was blind, but I could still see.

  I could see it all.

  Fiona took another slow backwards step.

  ‘This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t how it happens!’ She shouted at me, and she wasn’t smiling anymore. The old me cherished that I had finally found something to wipe that insufferable smile from her lips.

  The new me cared nothing for such trivialities.

  I walked towards her. The blood from my chest wounds trickled down between my breasts, over my tummy, into my pubic hair. I let it flow. They were marks of honour. Of belonging. Of family.

  She cowered as I drew near. Murdo stood to one side, letting me pass. Awe was painted bright on his face.

  There was a moment then, when Fiona was before me, a little thing, such a little, unimportant thing, and I thought she might prostrate herself, but her pride would never allow that. She stood, half-grovelling in my path, a malevolent, greedy insect, driven only by selfish need and ambition. I thought how easy it would be to place a hand on her head and crush her to a bloody pulp with just one gesture, but I had more important things to do, first.

  I had more to learn from my forebears.

  Fiona cried out, fell backwards, and landed hard on her rear. I walked straight past her, ignoring her bleating cries that I was not following the ritual properly, and I trod the line of the boundary, walking the path around the edges of the triangle, around the edges of what used to be White Pines, green grass beneath one foot, burned soil beneath the other, marching along a thin frontier that was a veil between this world, and the Other Place.

  I walked in a straight, perfect line to the next cairn, and laid my hand upon it.

  41. Job done

  It was easy, once you knew how. All it required was a willingness to listen. The ritual was a passing down of knowledge, like the passing down of heirlooms. Like handing over an old, weathered cottage to a long estranged granddaughter.

  And the more I spoke to these tiny, wizened kin of mine, the more I learned, and the taller I grew, and the sharper my senses became, even as I lost parts of myself with every step.

  The first tomb took my eyes.

  The second, my ears. I felt them go, my eardrums, as my ancestor whispered to me. A small explosion, one on each side of my skull. Pain, intense pain, and then a rush of new sound. And, as with my vision, it was as if all the noise I had been listening to in my life before this had been a false approximation of noise. And now, only now, was I hearing what the universe truly had to say.

  The last tomb took my tongue. My ancestor leaned into me, opened her mouth, and kissed me on the lips. Her breath spilled into my mouth, and it burned, intense, bright, incredible heat, and when she crumbled into dust, I found I had nothing left inside of my mouth except for charred flesh.

  The ritual repeated, leaving three shattered capstones behind me on the dirt.

  I found myself back at the point at which I’d started, back to where Fiona and Murdo still waited for me, my steps sealing a path which became a closed loop as I rejoined them. Then, I turned my face into the triangle.

  The final cairn sat proud on its summit in the centre of the Island.

  Only one left.

  Was I ready?

  It didn’t matter if I was not. Because the ritual wasn’t complete. There was a god down there under the rocks, a god I had unfinished business with, and I did not wish to keep it waiting.

  I put one bare, bloody foot into the triangle.

  Something flickered in the air before me.

  I held my breath. The cairn would have to wait.

  Out of the air, the huge, long shape of the Hunter snapped into view.

  Nimrod.

  It swayed on its enormous legs, gelatinous jowls wobbling and quivering as it moved, its eyes trained on me from the ends of their stalks, and I found I wasn’t afraid of it anymore. I had become more than prey. I had become a type of hunter, too.

  It waited, blocking my path to the cairn. We studied each other. I cocked my head to one side, and Nimrod did the same, its skin flapping and slapping with the motion.

  It stretched one leg out before it, testing my reaction.

  I took a step forward, matching it.

  The Hunter shifted its weight, tensed its body, as if ready to start a race. It was excited, I could tell.

  But I had no time for this. I had a ritual to complete.

  Behind me, Fiona shrieked in fear. Murdo’s dog began to bark, furiously.

  I ran.

  Nimrod roared, and one giant foot lifted high, then came crashing back down again. A thunderous tremor shook the earth.

  Nimrod was fast, but I was faster. In a few quick strides, I caught up with Murdo and Fiona, both of whom were running for the tree line. They came up sharp as I appeared in front of them, and Fiona reared backwards, seeing something in my face that terrified her more than the creature who followed behind.

  I put my hands on her shoulders.

  I was the smiling one, now.

  ‘How...how can you see me?’ She whispered, and I laughed. There was eye-jelly on my cheeks, still. Blood in my ears. Ash in
my mouth.

  We do not need eyes to see, I thought, and I thrust my fingers into her hair. Fiona cried out in pain, but pain is a transitory thing, a necessary step towards what awaits us.

  I dragged her back towards the edge of the triangle, and stood for a moment, contemplating the creature who lurched for us. Murdo’s dog yapped and snarled incessantly in the background, crazed with fear. Murdo himself seemed turned to stone, frozen to the spot. He had not tried to help Fiona, but then I remembered he had no tongue either. Would he try and save the woman who had ripped his speech from his mouth? Obviously not.

  It was a moot point, anyway.

  Fiona thrashed and flailed at the end of my arm. Nimrod bellowed with hunger, and another foot came down, whump! The ground shook with another mighty tremor.

  I tightened my grip on Fiona’s hair, and kissed her lightly on the forehead, even as her fingernails raked at my face. A damp patch spread on the crotch of her trousers as she saw the last few seconds of her mean, miserable life play out before her.

  Then, I threw her to the beast.

  Nimrod pounced, pulling her up from the floor and yanking her body tight between its hands. Fiona’s spine popped with a loud, definitive snap like the inside of a Christmas cracker. The eye stalks shivered in pleasure, and a pink, wet slit opened up in the giant’s lumpy, doughy face.

  The body of the mainlander was then folded in half, feet to forehead, and crammed unceremoniously into the terrible, wide-open mouth. There was a gulping, crunching noise, and Fiona was gone. The giant swallowed, moaning in pleasure, and its knees sagged and buckled with appreciation.

  I watched, in awe. The creature shuddered as its meal slid down into its belly, and then squatted, dipping down towards the ground and back up sharply again, as if…

  As if in thanks.

  A shame, I thought then, cracking the knuckles on both my hands.

  A shame to have to kill such a beautiful beast.

  42. The Hunter becomes the hunted

  The air within the triangle tightened, snapped like a rubber band stretched tight across a cardboard box.

  I didn’t have long.

  I looked to the cairn. The ritual was incomplete, but it would have to wait.

  For I had an opportunity, and I did not care to waste it.

  I turned to Murdo, who was still rooted to the spot like one of the many, many trees behind him. He was pale. His dog, now beside itself with terror, barked and growled and pivoted in frantic, frenzied circles on the spot.

  I put a finger to my lips, as if soothing a small child.

  The dog lay down next to Murdo.

  The air behind me trembled. My window was closing. I could feel the wave, about to recede. I turned. Nimrod, flesh-drunk and swaying about on those long, crane-like legs, dimmed around the edges, as if the great beast were only a silhouette, a shadow, and the sun was retreating behind a cloud. It flexed its shoulders, and threw back its head.

  I stepped into the triangle.

  Nimrod vanished.

  And I let the Island take me, too.

  PART THREE: BRANCHES

  43. Granny

  I opened my eyes. I was lying on my back, staring at a blue, high sky. My arms were restrained, pinning me in place. If I flexed my hands, I could feel five fingers on both of them, not just one.

  I looked down at myself, awkwardly lifting my head as far as it would go. My body was smaller, lighter, and thinner. Like that of a child’s. My hair dangled down behind me. I realised I was on a long, stone table, raised off the ground. People moved around me, busy, talking in low whispers. In the distance, there was bird song. I was outside, and it was warm, summer-warm. A butterfly flew across my line of sight. I followed it with my eyes as far as I could, and then a face came into view, blocking the butterfly out.

  It was a face I barely remembered, but knew just the same.

  It was the face of my Granny.

  ‘Hello, Megan,’ she said, smiling gently. I could make out every single line and pore on her skin, see every hair, every spot and wart and whisker, every broken vein and mole that peppered her face.

  She lifted something to my lips, something that smelled of aniseed.

  ‘Eat this,’ she said.

  I obeyed, because I trusted my Granny. I opened my mouth, and she popped a boiled sweet onto my tongue. I sucked on it, shuddering with the bitter aftertaste, and after a moment or two I began to feel light-headed, and dizzy. A numbness spread from my mouth to my throat, and then to my chest and along my arms.

  ‘Better?’ Granny asked, and I nodded, woozily.

  Then, she held something else up before me. It had handles, like a pair of scissors, and two flat blades with a circular hole cut into each one. I could see one of her eyes through the holes, as if she were wearing a strange, frightening monocle.

  ‘Listen, child,’ she said, and there was a sad expression on her face. I saw other faces then too. They made a ring around me, faces of men and women I thought I knew, but didn’t really. Two in particular stood out, and I realised who they were: younger versions of Murdo and Fiona, watching me with grim expectation.

  I started to squirm, but Granny pressed down on my chest firmly.

  ‘This is necessary,’ she said, gently. My right arm was freed from its binds, and held up in front of me by two men, one of whom gripped my elbow, the other my hand with his own cold, rough fingers.

  Granny carefully slotted the little finger of my right hand into the holes in the blades, sliding the scissors-device down until it was just above the lower knuckle, and pausing as she held it in place for a moment. The contraption was cold and sharp against my tender skin, and despite the numbness creeping through my body from the boiled sweet, I could tell that whatever that was about to happen was going to hurt. A lot.

  I cried out, afraid.

  ‘I love you, Megan,’ Granny said then, and bent to kiss me on my forehead. Just as I had kissed Fiona before feeding her to Nimrod. Is that why I’d done it? An unconscious tribute to my heritage?

  Behind her, the circle of onlookers silently raised their right hands, and drew triangles into the air.

  ‘In time, you’ll understand what all of this is for. In time, you’ll know. For now, try not to judge me too harshly.’ Granny looked at me with love in her eyes. Love, and something else. Something that went beyond love.

  Something that I would later recognise as duty.

  Without any further ado, she squeezed the handle of the scissors together, and cut my little finger off like a twig.

  And oh, how I screamed.

  44. The Lair

  ​I awoke upon the beach.

  ​It was different, this time. Molten glass still lay upon the sand, but aside from that, all was peaceful, and calm. I could see no bodies. No houses in the sea, no burning car. The sand was clean, unblemished.

  Except for a trail of giant footprints.

  I could see Nimrod in the distance, then, loping away from me, enormous strides devouring the sand under its feet.

  I got to my own feet, and began to follow. As I walked, I looked for signs of White Pines, but found nothing. I also searched for the cherry tree, to no avail. The beach looked just like any other beach back home.

  Apart from the giant walking ahead.

  I followed in the steps of a great, time-worn predator.

  The giant followed the line of cliffs that edged the beach, oblivious to my presence, or perhaps not considering me a desirable meal now that it had just eaten. The tracks it left in the sand were deep, and as long as two fully grown men lying head to toe. There were scuff marks connecting each print, as if the creature dragged its feet after every step. It was heavy with food, and moved sluggishly, ponderously, as if tired.

  I was not tired. My body had been forged anew, enriched with the wisdom of three of my forebears.

  The beach eventually began to curve inland, and the cliffs with it. Suddenly, the giant disappeared around a corner. When I rounded the headland, it w
as nowhere to be seen. Then I saw a large, dark cave mouth set into the cliff face.

  A giant’s lair.

  The cave mouth was a tall, jagged slit in the wall of cliffs that rose high above the beach. The cliff’s colours were bright and distinct now that I was up close. Bands of orange lay atop layers of pink, grey, cream and yellow. The cave made a black slash across the banded colours, a hole from which a lone seagull emerged, wings spread wide. It unhurriedly soared over my head and out to sea, and I wondered if it was the same gull that had screeched at me from the roof of a drowned house in my dream.

  Boulders lay strewn around the cave entrance. As I began to climb over them, I saw images painted onto each one in rusty red paint, crudely, as if daubed there by large, clumsy fingers. The paintings were reminiscent of the carvings I’d seen in the tunnel beneath Taigh-Faire. Animals I didn’t recognise leaped about, drank from rivers, and slept in various poses on different rocks. Behind them, great men approached with spears and clubs. I recognised the motifs immediately. They were giants, hunting in groups, large, lethal clubs held high. I’d seen the same outline on the hill outside Laide, and beneath my house.

  As I moved closer to the cave, there were fewer fantastic beasts to be seen. The paintings thinned out. Then, I climbed across a boulder upon which, instead of animals, a small cluster of undeniably human figures cowered beneath a giant. The beast was frozen in the act of plucking one from the ground, and smashing it into its mouth.

  At some point, the creatures had stopped hunting their own natural prey, and moved on to other sources of food. People.

  Why? I wondered. Necessity? Preference? An extinction event?

  When had they stopped hunting in their own territory, and moved to ours?

  The boulders rounded off, grew smaller and more worn. The paintings became even scarcer. On the last one I passed, I saw the distinct, upside-down shape of a gallows frame scrawled in red paint. Hanging from it was the limp body of a stick man. A giant loomed over the frame, ready to collect its tribute. Gathered at its feet, a congregation of small people, all of whom had one arm raised to the sky.