by Sulivan, Tricia; Nevill, Adam; Tchaikovsky, Adrian; McDougall, Sophia; Tidhar, Lavie
My arm went limp and I lost all sense of direction; the cold had suddenly given way to humidity; the thick air clouded my head and I felt dizzy but the stranger dragged me on. I was conscious of the hedges; tall, dark and spiky, and I was caught on the cheek, the deep scratch causing me to cry out.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Home,” was the simple reply.
“Home?”
“Can’t be out here, not now. Home’s the best place to be.” He tugged sharply again and I tripped on the uneven earth; the ground was hard and embedded with large stones; the sickness in my head was making me faint.
“Come on, no lagging behind.” The strange man spoke softly, his thumb stroking my hand.
“But I don’t want to go home.”
“I’ve told you, home’s the best place for you now.”
And then the rain started. The brooding sky had completely smothered us and huge, cold drops fell tentatively. Seconds later the heavens opened and the rain fell harder and with urgency; my head was dripping wet and the sickness vanished.
“I said I don’t want to go home!” I shouted at the stranger’s back. We were under trees now; the flapping leaves were sodden and struck me in the face. My eyes scrunched up and I struggled to see the blackened overcoat ahead or, for that matter, the cold hand that was wrapped around my own. I was alone; the stranger had disappeared but somehow I was still being pulled along and couldn’t free myself. The bones in my wrist hurt; I could feel his fingers almost gouging into them and I struggled to twist my arm loose.
“I’m taking you home,” the wind seemed to say through the branches.
“Let me go! You’re hurting! Let go!” I screamed, wrenching my arm this way and that. I gave up. I was scared; the fear was bewitching and my wrist throbbed.
The trees began to thin out and the gloom of early evening rain clouds was metallic. But I still hadn’t heard a rumble of thunder or seen a lightning strike.
“You’re a liar! There is no storm! Liar!” I screamed out again, but I was pulled onwards.
Once out of the trees I saw, thirty feet ahead, a fence with a stile. Sitting on the stile was a beautiful girl; her legs were long and naked, her hair was long and black and she was staring up at the sky, letting the rain pour down upon her. She was dressed in a cotton smock and red shorts, her feet were bare and she held a bottle of wine. As I approached, I watched her drink; a dribble of red juice dripped onto her white top.
I forgot my agony and didn’t even notice the invisible grip; I felt as if I were floating, drawn to the girl on a hovering carpet.
She didn’t look at me when I reached her. I gazed at her face, still offered up to the bursting clouds, and saw such beauty – creamy skin, cornflower-blue eyes and long dark lashes that twinkled with rain drops.
“She’s magical,” I whispered.
The girl lowered her face and looked at me dreamily.
“Hello,” she said, with a voice like a summer breeze.
“Hello,” I said, mesmerised by the mouth that smiled shyly.
She returned her gaze upwards; taking another drink of wine. The rain was easing; the clouds lighter and a creeping coolness enveloped me.
“Oh no,” the girl said sadly, “it’s stopping.”
“I’m happy about that,” I said, “I don’t like rain.”
The girl’s face was melancholy.
“I’m sorry, I have to go.”
She got up; her muddy feet slapped onto the wooden stile and she turned, fixing me with frightened eyes.
“You’re going home too, aren’t you?”
“Yes but I don’t want to,” I stammered.
“Neither do I.” She spoke quietly, looking away.
Suddenly she exclaimed, “Let’s run away. Let’s walk and walk and never go home.”
My heart nearly burst with excitement and I nodded.
“Come on then, give me your hand.”
I held her delicate fingers as she climbed over the stile; I followed in a daze of ecstasy. On the other side, she slipped her hand round mine and we hurried across the field. It seemed to go on forever as though it were the only thing on Earth. But I didn’t mind; I was with the loveliest girl I’d ever seen and would happily have run with her for all time.
“We’re going the wrong way, we must go back,” she said, slowing down and pulling me to a standstill.
“No,” I said, “we can’t go back.”
“We have to.”
“No, we’re not! We’re not!”
I was screaming at the girl; the most beautiful girl ever born, and I panicked. I watched her eyes darken like the clouds – cornflower to steel – and she gripped my hand hard.
“Yes we are.” Her mouth tightened like her fingers; what I once thought were delicate had become thin and pointy, the tips arrowheads piercing my flesh. My heart pumped quickly but my mind was motionless and, before I knew what had happened, I was back at the fence with the stile.
“He’ll find me; we shouldn’t be here,” I said, fearfully.
I looked at the hand clutching my own; blood trickled from the wounds.
“Let go of me, you’re hurting.”
“Have some of this and the pain will go away.”
The girl offered me the bottle and I took hold of it; I looked at her but the face was hidden; her hair was swirling like tendrils under water and obscured the beauty I wanted to see.
A gloom was creeping over me and I felt darkness inside. I stared at the wine, the pain was getting stronger, so I put the bottle to my mouth and drank and drank until the liquid spilled over my lips. Warmth seeped from my throat to my belly and I was delirious.
“How are you feeling?” I heard the girl say, as if in a dream.
“I want more.”
“There is no more; that was the blood of Jesus and you’ve drunk him dry!” She laughed; a high-pitched jangling of bells and I saw her throw her head back in slow motion, the tendrils of hair snaking about her face hypnotically.
“That’s not true,” I said, trying to fend off the sickness that jabbed at my stomach.
The girl’s hair wrapped around my head and pulled me in. Through hot eyes I saw her beautiful face; tears like claret slid down her cheeks and she said sickly, “Maybe it wasn’t Jesus’ blood.”
I dropped the bottle to the ground and clutched my head.
“Oh, are you tired?” Her voice was distant and she’d let go of my hand. “Home’s the best place for you now, time to go, it’s time to go home.”
Something flapped against my knuckles and I peered through my fingers. It was the tweed scarf, dangling from the young man’s neck and blowing softly in the wind. He leaned in close.
“Ready?”
I was shaking uncontrollably; I closed my eyes tight, begging silently for the man to vanish. The wind blew harder and the scent of damp earth was sweet to me.
‘Go away! Go away! Go away!’ I said over and over again in my mind. ‘Go away!’
The wind died and there was complete quiet; I dared not open my eyes.
‘Has he gone?’ Has it worked?’
When I gained courage to look, I saw night. The dark had descended in seconds and I was all alone. My breath came in bursts; my heart hurt with terror of everything. Where was I to go? I didn’t know where to turn for safety but running was all I could think of doing; just run and get away from this place. I started to lope across the inky grass as quickly as I could.
The small wood I’d been dragged through was barely visible but the black of the dense trees was my focal point and I ran towards that. I stumbled and fell. I ran on again, my legs shaking. I tripped on a mound of earth and sprawled on the cold grass; I whimpered pathetically as I picked myself up once more. My eyes strained to see the wood but I could only see darkness; the ground, the sky and everything between had merged into one shade.
“Where am I?!” I screamed. My voice seemed stunted and to me sounded like a whisper. I tried to run again but
couldn’t; tears seeped down my face and I wanted to collapse; my body ravaged and unable to stay upright. I crashed to the ground.
In an instant, I woke from my unconsciousness. There was a huge full moon lighting up the countryside. I could see the boundaries and the sky and the small wood. And someone, a man perhaps, standing in the middle of the field. He was stock-still; like a scarecrow. I blinked and looked again; the scarecrow was moving. I clambered to my feet, preparing to flee, when a voice said, “He’ll get you.”
Pressing against my thigh was a big fox; he was warm and musky.
“Who is he? What does he want?”
“You. Quick, run!”
The fox bristled and made a dart for the wood; I grabbed hold of his brush and was pulled along, bent down and unstable. The fox was strong and I held on for dear life; he made me feel protected.
“Not far now!” The fox panted.
The wood was bearing down on us. My hand was damp with sweat and the brush was slipping from my grasp. If I tried to get a better grip, I’d have to let go and the fox was too quick; I’d lose him and I didn’t want to.
“Nearly there.” He barked, but his tail slithered from my hand. I saw him sprint low, onwards, and I couldn’t keep up. My heart wanted to burst; the pain stabbed and I stopped running.
I was at the edge of the trees, the black trunks like guards, and I didn’t know what to do.
Something made me turn around; a prickling on my neck and, to my horror, I saw the scarecrow, stock-still, not far behind me.
Indeed he was a scarecrow, sprouting with straw and covered in sackcloth. He had no face except for a slash in the cloth; straw poked out like teeth and I thought I saw him smile.
“Between the devil and the deep, dark trees,” the scarecrow whispered.
He stepped forward, his limbs jerking as though an electric current had passed through him, and his teeth lengthened.
“Come here.” He spoke soothingly.
He stretched out both arms spasmodically and took another step.
“Keep away!” I shouted, backing up to the trees.
“But I like you; I want you to know how much I like you.”
He jerked forward again.
“I don’t want to know! Leave me alone!”
He stretched the slash wider and let his arms fall to his side.
“I can’t.”
I turned quickly and ran off into the wood. I crashed through the undergrowth blindly, not daring to look back. Soon I was deep in the trees and all I could think was, ‘keep going, keep going ‘til you get to the other side.’ But the branches started to stretch and close around me; they were blocking my path, forming gnarled fences and I had no choice but to twist and turn.
“Why don’t you want to go home? What are you so afraid of?”
I was spinning, mentally and physically; all I could see were the swaying trees, bending and making a cage around me.
“I’m not afraid, I just don’t want to go home yet, I whispered.
“You are afraid. And you should’ve gone home hours ago.”
The voice was coming from below; I looked to my feet and there was a box. I was compelled to touch it; smooth, cool and solid, the box was wooden. I tried to prise open the lid but there wasn’t one; it was seamless. A strange blankness overcame me and I stroked the silky object. Then the box began to grow. I tried to back away and remove my palm but couldn’t; my hand was stuck. I yanked hard but the skin of my palm was glued to it, as if the box was a block of ice.
“Let me go!” I screamed, still trying to free my hand, but the skin was ripping. “Let go!”
I struck the casket with my free hand; I hit it again and again. My fist was damp and I knew it was blood but I continued to punch and punch.
“Let go! Let go!” I shouted with every smash of my fist. The wood was splintering.
“You’ll never be forgiven, you should’ve gone home.”
My fist was punching something soft and wet and the blood wasn’t mine. I pulled my hand away and with it, hair. I recoiled in fright; the hair was long, and it kept coming. I staggered backwards, gagging.
“And I thought you liked her.”
“Who?” I asked.
The man with the tweed neck scarf crouched down at the head of the pummelled girl.
“Still beautiful, I heard him say.
Transfixed, I could just make out the man piece together her face and then he began to reel in the hair.
“Why didn’t you come with me? This would never have happened if you’d come home.”
He was pulling me in and sighing.
“Poor girl, poor, little stray girl…well, at least she’s home now.”
The hair knotted around my fingers and he continued to reel it in. Frantically, I tore at the strands, stumbling backwards and panicking when the hair seemed to get tighter. I was getting closer to him; I could smell the rotting vegetation of his breath and I whimpered.
“Oh dear, you seem agitated,” he said, heaving me to his chest, “Why?”
His cold body pressed against my own; I felt sick and couldn’t answer.
“Is it this? Her hair?” The man delicately picked at the strands around my fingers until I was free. “There, it’s gone.”
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“Because I know what’s going to happen,” he replied, twisting the length of hair into a rope. “You’re going to run and I’m going to let you go.”
“What?”
“Run away.”
“You’re letting me go?” I couldn’t believe it.
“I said, run away. Run, run, run; run away as fast as your legs can carry you.”
I was static; was it a trick?
“You’re still here. I told you to run.” He twitched. “Well, it’s time I went.”
And the man with the tweed neck scarf turned and walked further into the trees. I watched him disappear and only then did I move.
How long I ran for I didn’t know but eventually I could see the trees thinning out and the world seemed lighter.
Dragging my tired body on, I was out of the wood; the sky was turning grey and mist hung softly over the field. I saw the hedgerow and knew the stream wasn’t far away; I urged my limbs to make one final effort to reach familiarity.
I could hear the gurgling of water as I walked hurriedly alongside the hedge.
The grey sky was becoming yellow as the sun crept up from the horizon.
I stopped when I saw the bridge and smiled; it was as perfect as I knew it should be; the happy stream, the chorus of birdsong and the green fields that stretched on beyond.
“Thank God,” I sighed, and walked to the bridge. I enjoyed the sound of my footsteps on the wood; the solitary sound of one person, and I gave myself a minute of solitude before moving on.
I leaned on the handrail and stared at the water tumbling over rocks. Moths flitted to and fro and a Kingfisher darted out of the low hanging trees, vanishing on the other side. I smiled again and then felt myself frowning.
‘Why did he do that? Why did he let me go?’ I was puzzled and couldn’t figure out what I’d done to ensure my freedom. ‘And I wonder where ‘home’ is.’
I shook my head and tried to dislodge those thoughts; it was time to go.
Taking one more look at the scenery, I turned and went back across the bridge.
“Pretty as a picture in’t it?” The man looped his arm through mine, threading the length of rope and tying it round my wrist, “We can look at this view all day.”
Follow this link to read the author notes
A Change in the Weather
Rebecca J Payne
We live beneath a veil. From the south-western horizon of the sea, where mists rise up from heavy churning waves, the overhanging shroud stretches taut into flat grey skies above, smothering the town. From the shingle beach I gaze up and try to imagine the morning sun. I can no longer remember the last time it shined here, only a burnt and rusted carmine glow be
hind the chimney stacks in the east where it slowly rises behind winter’s curtain.
Portland. South-west veering west, six to gale eight, increasing severe gale nine for a time. Rough or very rough, becoming high. Rain then squally showers. Moderate or poor.
Wet stones shift and grate beneath my feet as I walk the length of the old sea wall. Someone has vandalised the seafront map again, thick marker pen drowning the streets in a deep black, turning them to dark rivers that snake their way inland, consuming houses, parks, hotels. I reach up and touch the peeling surface of the board. A smudge of ink comes away on my fingertip, still half-damp in the early morning.
Fastnet. Westerly or north-westerly five or six, occasionally seven for a time. Moderate or rough. Showers. Moderate.
From somewhere I hear the calling of gulls, but there is nothing in the heavens, nothing but the grey dome above, and the roar of the waves below. I raise the pocket radio to my ear, better to hear over the sound of the ocean, and the speaker spits and crackles to me.
Low Fitzroy. One thousand and four, slow moving, filling one thousand and seven by midday tomorrow.
A green-grey tide makes its way to land, inch by inch across the shingle. Scraps of garbage tumble in the water as it churns over empty lager cans and polystyrene trays. Half a mile out from the shore I see water breaking roughly over a string of warning buoys that bob like orange sweets tossed into the current. Above the beach a red flag flies. I wonder who would commit themselves to these waters on a day like this, to the darkness blossoming beneath the chopping waves.
Finisterre, intermittent rain, visibility one mile, and rising slowly.
The long-wave signal fades and dies. I slip the radio into my coat pocket.
It will not be today. But it will come.
After each new rain, dirty water pools in the sunken parts of the pavements. I walk through them in old shoes that never really dry, but this doesn’t bother me too much. The whole town is damp. Hundreds of little terraced houses huddled together in winding, narrow streets, their sea-facing walls battered and corroded by salt winds.
I walk up the steps that lead away from the harbour, the cobbles sloping north-east to the seventeenth century stone church. Once built to welcome fishermen back to the safety of land, its thick wooden doors are closed now, and the few boats that sit behind the harbour wall are old. Nobody will come here until the sun returns. Behind the church spire the town rises further, to the old factories, their brick towers reaching up to pierce the dome of mists, channelling all that work and heat and labour into empty space. Once birds hovered there. Now I hear them screeching, calling for scraps of food, but cannot see them, as though they have been shot out of the sky with arrows and brought to earth to pick the streets clean.