Peace and love to one and all.
UNDER THE SYCAMORE TREES by Steven Holding.
1….
She washes up. Staring through the window at the discarded toys that litter the overgrown garden, sun bleached and forgotten. Silently weeping. Unaware of her own tears, or perhaps so acquainted with them that their presence no longer registers as significant. She turns away from the view, heart stretched to breaking point like a piece of cheap, tatty polythene. But it's not what she can see there that does the damage. It is an absence, a lacking, that slices and slashes like a rusty blade. For the millionth time she asks: Where did he go?
2….
The old man curses his shortness of breath, his aching bones, his wheezing chest. He shivers as he peers over the sagging wooden fence. Recognises immediately the swaying yellow grass, the harsh, tangled bushes. As snot drips from his nose, he wipes it upon his sleeve, murmuring a question to himself. How safe is it to be here? Confident that he is unobserved, he slips through the broken gate. Squatting, his knees pop. An audible crack like a gunshot. He pauses, grunts, sure that the noise will bring attention. A minute passes. He vanishes into the undergrowth. Swallowed whole. Eaten alive. The leaves and branches clinging to him; moist and greedy.
3….
THE CHILD SITS CROSS LEGGED ON THE CONCRETE PATIO, HEAPED PLASTIC BRICKS TOWERING BEFORE HIM, A VAST AND SPRAWLING MONUMENT TO AN AFTERNOONS PERSPIRATION AND TOIL. HE SMILES TO HIMSELF, PLEASED WITH HIS EFFORTS. IT IS SATISFYING TO CREATE A WORLD OF HIS OWN, TO DESIGN AND BUILD, TO CONTROL AND TO SHAPE. HE TURNS AND LOOKS OVER HIS SHOULDER. THERE, AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW, IS HIS MOTHER. HE SMILES AND WAVES A PLUMP, STUBBY HAND AT HER.
"HI MUMMY!"
SHE SMILES BACK, RAISES HER HAND FROM THE SINK AND BLOWS A KISS TOWARDS HIM. HER SOFT BREATH PICKS UP A TINY COLLECTION OF SOAP SUDS FROM THE PALM OF HER HAND, CARRYING THEM IN THE AIR UNTIL THE TRANSLUCENT BUBBLES FLOAT INTO THE GLASS OF THE WINDOW. EACH ONE BURSTS, THE KISS OF CONTACT A MINIATURE EXPLOSION LEAVING BEHIND A RAINBOW COLOURED STREAK OF MOISTURE. HIS ATTENTION RETURNS TO HIS MAGNIFICENT CREATION. AS HE SITS AND ADMIRES HIS HANDIWORK, HE HEARS A RUSTLING COMING FROM THE TALL GRASS IN FRONT OF HIM. HE LOOKS UP, MOMENTARILY BLINDED BY THE AFTERNOON SUN. HE SHADES HIS EYES, CURIOUS AS TO WHAT IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DISTURBANCE. THE GRASS SEEMS TO SHIVER, STALKS RIPPLING AS IF BEING TICKLED BY SOMETHING INVISIBLE. HE SMILES AGAIN, GLANCES BACK OVER HIS SHOULDER. HIS MOTHER IS NO LONGER AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW. PROBABLY UPSTAIRS, USING THE BATHROOM. HE MULLS OVER THE SITUATION, CONSIDERING THE POSSIBILITY OF MOUNTING AN EXPEDITION INTO THE OVERGROWN VEGETATION.
"PSSST..."
THE NOISE, SO UNEXPECTED THAT IT MAKES HIM JUMP, COMES FROM SOMEWHERE DEEP WITHIN THE JUNGLE OF THE GARDEN.
"WHO'S THERE?"
THERE IS NO REPLY TO HIS QUESTION, ONLY A RETURN TO THE LAZY SILENCE OF A HOT, MUGGY SUNDAY AFTERNOON. THE WHISPERING HAS DECIDED IT FOR HIM. FURTHER INVESTIGATION IS DEFINITELY WARRANTED. HE CLAMBERS TO HIS FEET, STEPS FORWARD AND PUSHES THE GRASS TO EITHER SIDE, SPLITTING THE SEA OF GREEN AND CREATING AN ENTRANCE INTO THE UNDERGROWTH. HE LOOKS BACK. THERE IS STILL NO SIGN OF HIS MOTHER. STILL, HE THINKS, THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT. HE IS, AFTER ALL, TOTALLY SAFE IN HIS OWN BACK GARDEN.
4….
The Vodka has no taste at this time of day. The warmth in her chest is fleeting; not a hug or a kiss, more the red throbbing afterglow of a slapped cheek. Stumbling slightly, she sinks into the sofa in the living room. On the side is his photo. The same one used by the papers. Grinning at her from the past. HI MUMMY! She reaches for him, knocks over the glass. Liquid spills, cascading over the tables edge, drip, drip, dripping to the floor. She clutches his image to her chest. Thinking. I wish I could have him back. I wish I knew. There is no sound, yet something calls out to her. She sits up, suddenly alert, the sanctuary of her haze slipping away like a discarded silken sheet. She feels it in her gut. A tightness, a sense of being pulled, as if an unseen hand has snaked its way through the ether and penetrated her, wrapping its frozen grip around her insides and tugging for all it's worth. She tries but fails to resist. Gives in and allows it to lead her. Back through the silent house. Back towards the abandoned garden.
5….
Memories flood his tired mind; blurred, confused, half formed. When exactly was he last here? He shakes his head, unsure. Time is meaningless, unknown and unimportant to him. All he knows for certain is that he must find it; find it so he can make things good once again. On his hands and knees, he crawls through the vegetation, nose close to the dirt, sniffing, searching. Exhausted, he begins to feel despair spreading through his ancient, tired body. Maybe it is not here, he worries, maybe it is lost forever. He rolls over onto his back, stretching out in the weeds, the heavy smell of the soil comforting. He can hear the sound of birds above, the muffled talk of traffic droning away in the distance. Questions, so many questions. What is this world? he thinks to himself. Where do I belong? What has gone wrong with me? He curls up into a ball, pulls his knees tight to his chest. Wraps an arm around himself, then begins to gently rock. To stop the tears, he slips a thumb into his mouth. Sucks on it. His empty gums and stale saliva quickly wrinkle the skin even further, matching the creases and lines that mark his face. He closes his eyes.
6….
THE CHILD SHUFFLES THROUGH THE LONG GRASS, AMAZED AT HOW IN JUST A FEW FOOTSTEPS HE HAS BECOME TOTALLY CUT OFF FROM THE REAL WORLD. THE GREENERY SURROUNDS HIM ON ALL SIDES, TOWERING SKYWARD LIKE AN ENCHANTED FOREST, COMPLETELY BLOCKING ANY VIEW OF THE HOUSE. THIS FACT DOES NOT SEEM TO BE OF ANY IMPORTANCE. HIS THOUGHTS ARE FILLED PURELY WITH AN ALL-CONSUMING DESIRE TO LOCATE WHOEVER OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR MAKING THE NOISE THAT HE HAS HEARD. AS HIS FACE SPLITS WITH A GRIN SO HUGE ITS SIZE SEEMS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE, HE FEELS HIS TUMMY TIGHTENING; A THOROUGHLY PLEASING SENSATION THAT HE HOPES IS SIMPLY EXCITEMENT AND NOT THE BEGINNINGS OF THE NEED TO GO TO THE TOILET. HE PAUSES AND TAKES A SLOW LOOK AROUND, SCANNING EVERYTHING WITH CARE.
"PSSSST!"
HE DROPS ONTO HIS BELLY, THE SOUND COMING FROM SOMEWHERE DOWN LOW. THE GRASS RUSTLES JUST A FEW FEET IN FRONT OF HIM. HE SHUFFLES FORWARD, PROPELLING HIMSELF ALONG WITH HIS ELBOWS, JUST LIKE THE CUNNING SNIPERS HE HAS SEEN ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON MATINEE'S. HE ENJOYS THESE MOVIES MORE THAN ANY OTHER, AS WHEN HE WATCHES THEM HE FEELS A CONNECTION WITH HIS FATHER. HE REMEMBERS HOW HIS MOTHER GENTLY EXPLAINED TO HIM THAT HIS FATHER WAS A SOLDIER BEFORE GOING UP TO HEAVEN. WHEN HE IS ALL GROWN UP, HE WANTS TO BE A SOLDIER. AND NOW, JUST LIKE HIS DAD, IT WOULD APPEAR THAT HE IS HAVING AN EXCITING ADVENTURE. AN ADVENTURE ALL OF HIS OWN.
7…
She opens the door and stands there, focusing on the wilderness. A sharp intake of breath, a curious shiver of Deja' vu. In the first few months after he had vanished, in those precious few hours when consciousness would finally give up on her and allow the blessed release of sleep, she would see this. Picture standing in this very spot, looking out onto her garden. And he would be there. All smiles and dimples, giggling at his silly mummy for crying and for being so soppy. When she awoke from these images, she would lie on her back, tracing the subtle cracks in the plaster ceiling above her bed. Trying to calculate if it was a dream or a nightmare that she had experienced, then deciding it was both. A joy to see his face once again; a horror to awake and know that it had not been real. She closes her eyes.
8….
THE STALKS OF GRASS AND TIGHT CLUMPS OF WEED BRUSH AGAINST HIS BODY, HIS MAD SCRAMBLING KICKING UP DUST PARTICLES AND FRAGMENTS OF POLLEN INTO THE AIR. HIS NOSE BEGINS TO ITCH, BOTH NOSTRILS QUIVERING, AS THE NEED TO SNEEZE STARTS TO BURN HIS FACE AND LIPS. HE FIGHTS AGAINST THE DESIRE, EYES SCREWED UP TIGHTLY, PULLING THE SNOT TO THE BACK OF HIS MOUTH WITH A SINGLE SNORT. HE FROWNS, THE TASTE OF THE FLUID DRAWING A GRIMACE AS IT GRADUALLY TRICKLES DOWN HIS THROAT.
"PSSST..."
THE NOISE IS NOW DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF HIM; ONLY A FEW INCHES AWAY AT A GUESS. HE FREEZES, SUDDENLY UNSURE OF WHAT TO DO. FOR THE FIRST TIME, DOUBT CREEPS INTO HIS MIND. AS IF TO SETTLE EVERYTHING FOR HIM, A VOICE DRIFTS THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH.
"wHat YoU WaNtSsss?"
THE WORDS SOUND ALMOST LIQUID; DAMP, MOIST AND MOULDY. HE THINKS OF THE BELCH AND GURGLE OF FILTHY BLACK BATHWATER AS IT DISAPPEARS DOWN A PLUGHOLE. FOR A MOMENT HE FEELS A SLIGHT TOUCH OF FEAR. A COLD CHILL; A HANDFUL OF SNOW BEING SLIPPED DOWN THE BACK OF HIS SHIRT, THE FROZEN CRYSTALS DELICATELY FREEZING THE LENGTH OF HIS SPINE. IT IS A STRANGE FEELING, A NEW EMOTION THAT HE IS UNUSED TO. SO MUCH SO, THAT HE QUICKLY SHAKES IT OFF. ANY CONCERNS HE MAY HAVE HAD ARE INSTANTLY FORGOTTEN. HIS WORRIES BREAK UP QUICKLY, SEPARATING INTO COUNTLESS TINY PIECES THAT SCATTER AND SPREAD THEMSELVES AMONGST THE DIRT, LIFTING OFF INTO THE AIR THEN DANCING AWAY ON THE HINT OF A PASSING BREEZE.
"HELLO...IS SOMEONE HIDING?"
FOR A SECOND THERE IS NOTHING. THEN, LIKE A DRIZZLE OF OIL;
"iS soMe OnEs LoOookinNgg?"
9….
A slight breeze tickles her nose, bringing with it the cloying scent of wild flowers. She opens her eyes, her vision drenched by piercing rays of sunlight. For the briefest of moments, a legion of multi-coloured spheres seem to dance before her. Then, they are gone; her surroundings drowned out by a wash of whiteness. Nausea sweeps over her. For a second the world seems to tip; her sense of balance, of place, obliterated within the overwhelming emptiness. Before she even realises it, she is on her knees. As she struggles to hold back the vomit that has risen from within her, she folds like a broken clothes horse, crumbling completely in a heap on the floor.
10….
He hears a noise. His rheumy eyes flicker open, his senses frustratingly slow in their analysis of his surroundings. He rolls onto his side; the sharp jab of flint and pebble as they poke into his skinny ribs almost soliciting a cry from his dry and cracked lips. Biting down hard onto his tongue, he peers out from the grass. He is careful to keep his wispy head down. He spies her, sprawled on the patio, skirt hitched up so high that he can plainly see her underwear. He is filled with the urge to be beside her, to hold her, to touch her. He squashes down these impulses, mindful of the consequence of such actions. As he stares at her, unsure of what to do, he hears another noise from behind him. A distinct rustling. He slowly turns, seeking the source of the movement. Terrified that any sudden activity on his part will be his undoing. With a stealth that he was not even aware of being capable of, he crawls closer towards the sound. And, there. There it is.
11….
The image that comes to her out of the darkness is so distinct it is almost blinding in its brightness, in its clarity, in its definition and yet the nature of the scene is still unclear to her. Is this a dream? A memory? A vision of things to come? Perhaps, perhaps not, yet the sound of her own voice, floating somewhere in the cloud with her or maybe even within her, tells her not to dwell upon such details. The calmness in her own tone is surprising, for what she really feels inside is constant motion. An internal whirlwind that unsettles and upsets. She is not even sure if she should trust the voice that she hears. She thinks of the few rare times when she has really heard herself. An answering machine message played back on a crackling tape; the unseen commentary from behind the lens of a video camera; a repeated clip looped on every news channel, tearfully begging for answers. Upon each of those occasions all she could seem to think of was just how stupid and backwards she sounded when she spoke, her voice an excruciatingly dull and lifeless drone. But here, here and now, she questions whether it is right of her to put any faith at all into the sound of her words, into the sound of this voice; so familiar and yet, at the same moment, so strange and so alien. What choice, she wonders, does she have? She has no choice. She surrenders.
12….
He stretches out a trembling hand, slowly reaching for it, each movement delicate; the bend and twist of his arthritic fingers slow and deliberate. He knows inside that this may be his only chance. Suddenly, before he can make contact, an explosion in his temple. White light, then white heat, and he is seeing everything again, remembering a memory that shouldn’t even be.
In the mornings he has taken to shaving in the kitchen sink, cold water and soap lather upon fold after fold of leathery skin, the first rays of morning sun bleeding through the four squares of frosted window, umpteen tiny rectangles of peach tissue to staunch the beads of crimson blood. The face in the mirror no longer interests him and he finds it a chore to concentrate upon the features presented. Something about the vacant look in the eyes unsettles him and he has slowly become convinced that the man who gazes back at him laughs and sniggers every time he turns away. There is no way of knowing this for sure of course, but still, he has his suspicions.
Breakfast has always been a modest affair, still is, so after simple egg and soldiers and a chipped mug of brick-red tea (two sugars please), he feels prepared to face up to the horrors of the day. He still wears his favourite blue suit and polka-dot tie, still sports his trilby at a jaunty angle, still wields an umbrella whatever the weather and all of this makes things a little bit better. This is his uniform, his colours, his armour. Without it, an exit, a step through the front door, would be impossible.
The bus ride to town just isn't the same anymore, and the sadness he feels at this soon turns to red raging anger. It may be free, he mutters to himself, but do we really have to put up with such nonsense? Pimple faced teenagers with their dyed hair, ridiculous music and foul language. It makes him fume. They will find out for themselves in time, he mumbles just a little too loudly, old age will make a stranger of them all eventually.
In town. A bag of boiled sweets to softly suck, he sits in the same spot on the same bench, watching the pigeons dance for an hour or two. An ache in the bones, a heavy sigh. He trudges to the library. More minute’s pass by as he tears out the final pages from a paperback murder mystery. Whodunnit? Who cares? A weak bladder gets the better of him. Toddlers only allowed in the toilet. He pisses in a plant pot then gets escorted out.
And now the escalator, like a seaside ride, a helter- skelter. Roll up, roll up, don't throw up. He utilises his umbrella to slyly lift the skirts of the women who stand in front of him. A hint of skin, a glimpse of knicker, they are none the wiser. He window shops for utensils he really cannot afford, engages in pleasantries with shop assistants who all look rather bored, argues with a panicked street preacher about our father the lord, brandishes the umbrella like a deadly fencing sword, all to delay the inevitable. He pinches a posy of flowers from outside of the florists, swears out loud at a passing group of Japanese tourists, wants to avoid his final destination but never, ever can resist the almighty pulling power of the place.
And so. He goes.
In the cemetery he sits slumped at their graveside.
Runs a trembling hand across their epitaph.
Unfolds and holds a crumpled photograph.
Tries, but fails to remember the sound of their laugh.
Cries for a little while. Salt tears flow freely, falling to the earth. All the years gone. Everything lost. So much lost. So, so, so much lost. He may be haunted. But it is he who is the ghost.
13….
She moans, her body giving a tiny shudder, the movement weak and hopeless, like a dying fish drowning in the sweltering afternoon air on the muddy shore of some forgotten riverbank. She is not there. She is elsewhere.
14….
THE FOLIAGE SUDDENLY SPLITS OPEN, A PAIR OF TINY HANDS EMERGING FROM THE DARK UNDERGROWTH. THIN FINGERS CLUTCH AT THE GRASS TIGHTLY; THE DIRTY BROWN AND GREEN FLESH WRINKLED AND PITTED. THE JITTERY DIGITS EAGERLY CURL THEIR SPINDLY LENGTH AROUND THE VEGETATION. SLOWLY THE PLANTS SPREAD WIDE. HE THINKS OF MUMMY, THROWING OPEN HIS BEDROOM CURTAINS IN THE MORNING. PART OF HIM WANTS TO YELL "RISE AND SHINE!"
THE FACE THAT SUDDENLY LURCHES INTO VIEW MAKES HIM FLINCH.
"HeLLo dEaRiE!"
IT IS NOT A MAN, OF THAT HE IS CERTAIN, EVEN THOUGH IT SEEMS THAT IT IS TRYING ITS BEST TO LOOK LIKE A MAN. THE HEAD IS TOO SMALL FOR A START, ITS FEATURES SQUASHED TIGHTLY INTO THE MIDDLE OF ITS FACE. ALTHOUGH HE CANNOT FIND THE WORDS TO ARTICULATE IT, THERE IS SOMETHING RECOGNISABLE ABOUT THE CREATURE. IF AN ADULT WAS TO VIEW IT, THEY WOULD PERHAPS COMPARE IT TO A CHILD’S WORK OF ART; A RUSHED DRAWING SCRAWLED BEFORE HOME TIME, OR A HALF-FORGOTTEN MODEL PINCHED AND POKED OUT OF LEFTOVER PLASTICINE. ITS SKIN IS THE SAME SHADE OF BROWN AND GREEN AS ITS HANDS. BUT THERE IS SOMETHING ELSE.
"caT gOts yA TonGuE?"
HE REALISES WHAT IT IS THAT IS BOTHERING HIM. THE FACE SEEMS TO CONSTANTLY SHIFT, THE SKIN SUBTLY CHANGING FROM MINUTE TO MINUTE. IT'S LIKE STARING AT THE SURFACE OF A GLASS OF FROTHY LEMONADE, THE BUSY BUBBLES POPPING AND FIZZING WITH EACH PASSING SECOND. LOOKING AT IT FOR TOO LONG MAKES HIM FEEL A LITTLE PECULIAR. IT IS AN ODD SENSATION, AS IF HE HAS EATEN ONE TOO MANY JAFFA CAKES.
"sAid Cats gOt ya TOngUE LitTle MAnnn..."
HE KNOWS THAT HE IS NOT SUPPOSED TO TALK TO STRANGE MEN. MUMMY HAS TOLD HIM THIS MANY, MANY TIMES. BUT HOW CAN IT COUNT, HE THINKS, IF THE THING HE IS TALKING TO ISN'T EVEN A PROPER MAN? SURELY, HE ASKS HIMSELF, SOMETHING SO SMALL CAN BE OF NO REAL HARM.
"NO" HE FINALLY REPLIES, "WE HAVEN'T EVEN GOT A CAT, COS MUMMY SAYS THEY MAKE HER SNEEZE"
THE THING (THIS IS ALL HE CAN THINK OF TO CALL IT; TO DESCRIBE IT) SMILES AT HIM, REVEALING A SET OF BLACK, RUINED TEETH. IT GIGGLES.
"tHatS aLL gOod ThEn... mAyBe We'S cAn haVe A liTtLe ChAt, Eh?"
THE CHILD SLOWLY NODS.
15….
An incalculable distance seems to stretch out before him, and yet, simultaneously, everything still appears to be just within reach. He can taste it upon the very tip of his tongue, the stench of it flooding his nostrils; an assault upon his senses that is almost unbearable. But it is enough to drive him onward. Another atomic bomb detonates, the sudden pain a blistering mushroom cloud that envelopes and enfolds his entire mind.
A howling wind blows, carrying his limp body along with it, scraping him off the sole of its shoe like a piece of unwanted muck.
He blinks.
Looking out onto the beach, a shimmering figure winks out of existence.
16….
"WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU?"
THE THING STEPS FORWARD, EMERGING FROM THE WILDERNESS. IT STANDS ON TWO LEGS, ITS TINY BODY HUNCHED FORWARD AS IF IT IS SUFFERING FROM A BAD CASE OF LUMBAGO. ITS NAKEDNESS IS HIDDEN, ITS BODY CLOTHED IN TATTERED RAGS. THE STAINED, DIRTY FABRIC IS SO FRAYED AND RIPPED IT IS DIFFICULT TO IDENTIFY. AND YET, THE TORN MATERIAL SEEMS SUSPICIOUSLY FAMILIAR. A SECOND LATER HE REALISES WHERE HE HAS SEEN SUCH AN OUTFIT BEFORE.
IT IS WEARING A DOLLS DRESS.
HE SMILES.
"wHaTS yA gRiNninG aT bOY?"
"YOU...YOU'RE FUNNY LOOKING..."
THE THING EYES HIM UP AND DOWN.
"YoU LiKe FunNy tHinGs, dO yA?"
HE NODS HIS HEAD FURIOUSLY. HE LOVES TO LAUGH. HE THINKS OF BLISSFUL BEDTIMES, ROLLING AROUND UNCONTROLLABLY ON HIS BED, HIS MUMMY TICKLING HIS TOES AND TUMMY BEFORE TUCKING HIM IN AND READING HIM FAIRY TALES. THE THING SHUFFLES A LITTLE CLOSER TOWARDS HIM.
"oOHhhH! sO YA liKeS fAirYtAleS tOo?"
HIS MOUTH PUCKERS INTO A PERFECTLY FORMED "O" OF SURPRISE.
"HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?"
THE THING WINKS AT HIM.
"mAgiC Me bOy... MaGiC!"
THE BOY QUICKLY SUCKS IN A LUNGFUL OF AIR, A HEAVING WHOOSH SIGNIFYING A STATE OF TOTAL AMAZEMENT.
17….
She struggles for oxygen, clawing her way back towards consciousness. Fighting to return, knowing that something is calling her back. But there is still a little more left for her to see; to remember that which was once forgotten.
18….
"MAGIC? YOU KNOW MAGIC?"
THE THING ROCKS ON ITS HEELS, INSPECTS THE TIPS OF ITS FINGERS.
"CoURse i DO... i KNow MaGIc... JuSt LiKe I kNoW YoU WaNTs thINgS... "
HE GASPS AGAIN.
"LIKE WHAT?"
THE THING GRINS AND HE NOTICES SOMETHING FOR THE FIRST TIME; THAT THE LITTLE CREATURES SMILE IS CERTAINLY NOT A NICE SMILE. NOT VERY NICE AT ALL. AND THEN THE THOUGHT IS GONE, BOUNCING AWAY AS CHILDREN’S THOUGHTS DO, AND A MILLION OTHER IMAGES SEEM TO FLASH THROUGH HIS MIND. FLICKERING PICTURES, BROKEN AND DISJOINTED, AS IF VIEWED THROUGH A SPINNING ZOETROPE. SWEETIES AND CHOCOLATE, BUILDING BRICKS AND TOYS, BICYCLES AND PUPPY DOGS. THE DREAMS AND HOPES OF A THOUSAND BIRTHDAYS, OF A LIFETIME OF CHRISTMASES WHIZZING THROUGH HIS BRAIN. HIS HEAD BECOMES SUCH A JUMBLE OF DELIGHTS THAT HE BEGINS TO FEEL A LITTLE DIZZY. THE THING CLAPS ITS HANDS TOGETHER, CLASPING THEM TIGHTLY OVER ITS FACE, CONCEALING ITS MOUTH, STIFLING THE BEGINNINGS OF A HICCOUGH OF GIGGLES.
"yOU's LiKes aLL ThAt, aLL tHeM PretTy, PReTty tHinGs..." IT HISSES THROUGH ITS FINGERS.
THE CHILD LURCHES, SWAYING ON THE SPOT LIKE A DRUNKARD, OUTSTRETCHED ARMS CLUTCHING AT THE EMPTY AIR. HIS KNEES BUCKLE AS HE COLLAPSES TO THE FLOOR, LANDING WITH A THUMP ON HIS BEHIND. THE SUDDEN SLAP OF SOLID GROUND AGAINST HIS BUM SENDS A JOLT OF ROARING PAIN COURSING THROUGH HIS BODY. TEARS WELL IN HIS EYES, CLOUDING HIS VISION. HE IS SO FOCUSED UPON THE HURT, HE FAILS TO REALISE THAT THE IMAGES THAT WERE RACING THROUGH HIS MIND HAVE VANISHED. THE THING SLIDES OVER TO HIM. PLACES A HAND ON TOP OF HIS.
"tHeRe ThEre LiTtLe MaN, NO neEDs tO Be uPsET... biG BoYs dOn'T cRy!!!... aNyWAys, i'M HeREs tO hElp yA..."
THE CHILD SUCKS BACK HIS TEARS. LOOKS UP AT THE WRINKLED, BUBBLING FACE.
"HOW... HOW CAN YOU HELP ME?"
THE THING STICKS OUT IT'S TONGUE, A DISMAL, GREY PIECE OF MUSCLE COATED IN STREAKS OF YELLOW FUR. THE LUMP OF FLESH PROTRUDES FROM IN-BETWEEN A SET OF DIRTY INCISORS, WAGGLING FROM SIDE TO SIDE. THE BOY THINKS OF THE MOVEMENTS OF A SERPENT, A FLICKERING FORK EMERGING FROM A SCALY HEAD, SNIFFING OUT IT'S SUPPER ON THE BREEZE. A SECOND LATER AND IT DISAPPEARS BACK INTO THE DARK CAVERN OF THE CREATURE’S MOUTH.
"LiKe i SaiD... MaGic!"
19….
Shaking his head, the view slips away; dirty melting frost, consumed by the first weak rays of the dawns rising sun. He is back in the now; heart crashing in his ears, pounding loudly, the heavy thumping a rhythmic reminder to hold on tightly to this fragile moment, to what he must believe is real. A goal that must not be forgotten. He struggles, every movement a trek to the summit of the highest mountain. Releasing a scream that has been waiting a lifetime to be unleashed, he launches forward, falling to his knees like a zealous penitent, outstretched arms wrapping themselves around the hunched figure that cowers before him.
And clutches the writhing thing tightly to his chest in a smothering embrace.
20….
A muffled yell. A distorted voice, clawing at the edges of her perception. A feeling of trepidation; the sickening sensation of fear as it churns in her gut, knotted stomach turning multiple somersaults.
A startling moment of bright white burning illumination as everything is revealed. She rolls onto her side, lightning bolts of pain shooting through every limb. She welcomes the suffering. It is a reminder that she is alive; that she is here, really and truly here.
An attempt to push herself her upright fails, stick thin arms frighteningly weak, shaking as they struggle to support her weight, the muscles finally giving in as she collapses back to the ground with a grunt. Her attention shifts to the scene before her. Her features shift once again, gnarled expression of hurt twisting, swiftly replaced by a grimace of total and absolute confusion.
She cannot fathom the reasons why a decrepit pensioner is sitting in her garden, cradling such an ugly looking baby. Nor can she understand the reasons why both are howling.
A frozen moment as her breath is snatched away from her. She knows them.
She knows them both.
21….
“I CaN mAKe YOur WiSh coMe TrUE…”
THE BOY GIVES A NERVOUS SMILE, SHAKES HIS HEAD GENTLY.
“NO WAY! … THAT JUST HAPPENS IN FAIRY TALES,”
THE THING RETURNS A GRIN. SHUFFLES UPON THE SPOT, CLASPED HANDS ROTATING AS THEY RUB TOGETHER. HE OFFERS A SUBTLE WINK.
“whAT mAkES yA ThInK thIS IsN’t oNE? yOU hAve dREaMs. sTAnDS To rEASoN. wHaT IS iT? wHaT Do yOU wiSH FoR? whAT IS it ThAT You wAnT?”
THE CHILD GAZES AT THE DIRTY GROUND HE IS SITTING UPON. YANKS UP TUFTS OF GRASS FROM THE SOIL. STILL SNIFFING, HE PONDERS THE QUESTION DURING A SLOW MINUTE OF STILL SILENCE. EVENTUALLY, HE LOOKS UP. THE THING LEANS IN, VOICE A HUSHED WHISPER.
“gO oN. SaY iT. I cAN gIvE it To yOU…”
IN THE CHILD’S MIND HANG HEAVY THOUGHTS OF THE INDIGNITIES OF YOUTH; THE COUNTLESS HUMILIATIONS ENDURED BY THE YOUNG. A DECISION IS MADE.
“I WANT TO BE A BIG BOY”
THE THING CLAPS ITS HANDS, ITS GLEEFUL CACKLE CAUSING THE BOY TO SHIVER.
THE TRANSFORMATION IS THE MOST PAINFUL THING HE HAS EVER ENDURED.
22….
He clings onto…
THE BODY…. IS BENT AND TWISTED… IS NO LONGER HIS OWN
She can only sob as the struggle unfolds, voices inside and outside her head….
A fragrant petal withers and dies…
“GIVE… ME…. BACK…”
“Give me back…”
“Please give me him back”
A SHIMMERING GLIMPSE OF THE GIFT THAT IS GIVEN, THE THING THAT IS TAKING.
“yOu WaNts iT?”
“give me back, thief!”
Time unfolds again and again, she screams at them to remain the same.
“yOu waNTs It?”
PLEASE!
PLEASE!
Please!
He slips a worm into his mind and allows them both a delicate taste of what could be a final thought.
“TAkE iT! iTs YoUrs!”
An eye blinks, then closes forever.
23…
All is calm after the storm.
She stands alone in her garden, relishing the smell of ozone that lingers in the atmosphere. Nature surrounds her on all sides, continuing to play its constant soundtrack; invisible wind sighing, unseen birds singing, beetles in the grass going about their business. A constant reminder that everything is ongoing, that moments rarely have a beginning or end.
That nothing is ever certain.
She feels that something of significance has occurred; that she should be more aware of the importance of such simple things.
The thought teases her for a second longer before it escapes forever.
She shrugs, smiles.
Places a hand upon her swollen belly, feels the sudden sharp kick of the life that hides within her.
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