Instinctively I reach for my arm. My fingers strike a bulb of bandage which pushes into the wound. It hurts, but not as much as I think it should.
I sit up. The leaves fall away. The forest is quiet and once again there is no sign of the Photographer. She follows a pattern it seems - help me, disappear, rescue me, and vanish.
There's no sign of any giants either. Two down. I smile as I remember how Loneliness evaporated in the firelight.
The fire over there is a pile of ash now. Tiny white wisps of smoke spiral into the daylight. Bits of splintered arrow lie charred nearby.
I scrabble to my feet, ready to make a plan. My bag is safe, my Hope is safe, I am safe, at least for now. But Hopelessness and Lustfulness know this place, and they will certainly be back.
I pace between the trees. One has a dark open wound, much like my own. Blood has stained the bark.
They will seek me out. They will certainly find me. They will...
What's that?
Half buried in the earth, sticking vertically out of the ground I see a black disc glinting. I peer at it for a while and then tug it out from the soil. It is one half of a vinyl record; the vinyl record. And it has been snapped into two pieces - the other, flung somewhere else.
There's more. Shards of varnished wood lie just a short distance away and a bronze needle is twisted into the mud. Whatever it was that played the record last night has been splintered, smashed to pieces. By a giant.
They were here then. They came back, looking for me.
My heart beats a little faster. What happened? Had I been hidden by the Photographer? Had she fought them and disappeared? Or had they smashed the phonograph in anger when they couldn't find me?
The half-record slips into my bag. I look for more clues.
After a few minutes, I find something else hidden in the bracken. It's a box, a wooden crate with an iron clasp. It looks old - rough wood and rusty hinges. There's an outline of a cross and a skull on the lid but it's faded with age. I open it carefully.
Rows of tiny bottles. Each carrying the same emblem, the skull and a cross. There are sixteen of them - blue, green, translucent, and a sickly yellow colour.
Developing fluids? Do these belong to the Photographer? What are they for? Why would she leave them for me? What happened? The broken record? The smashed machine? I drop a blue bottle into the bag.
There's something else there in the bracken though. Something that makes my heart stop beating for a moment. I quietly close the lid and stare at it, unblinking. What does it mean?
It's a shoe. I pick it up. Well, a boot really; brown and laced with a slender heel; a lady's Victorian boot. Her boot.
They have her.
Half buried in the earth, sticking vertically out of the ground I see a black disc glinting. I peer at it for a while and then tug it out from the soil. It is one half of a vinyl record; the vinyl record. And it has been snapped into two pieces - the other, flung somewhere else.
There's more. Shards of varnished wood lie just a short distance away and a bronze needle is twisted into the mud. Whatever it was that played the record last night has been splintered, smashed to pieces. By a giant.
They were here then. They came back, looking for me.
My heart beats a little faster. What happened? Had I been hidden by the Photographer? Had she fought them and disappeared? Or had they smashed the phonograph in anger when they couldn't find me?
The half-record slips into my bag. I look for more clues.
After a few minutes, I find something else hidden in the bracken. It's a box, a wooden crate with an iron clasp. It looks old - rough wood and rusty hinges. There's an outline of a cross and a skull on the lid but it's faded with age. I open it carefully.
Rows of tiny bottles. Each carrying the same emblem, the skull and a cross. There are sixteen of them - blue, green, translucent, and a sickly yellow colour.
Developing fluids? Do these belong to the Photographer? What are they for? Why would she leave them for me? What happened? The broken record? The smashed machine? I drop a blue bottle into the bag.
There's something else there in the bracken though. Something that makes my heart stop beating for a moment. I quietly close the lid and stare at it, unblinking. What does it mean?
It's a shoe. I pick it up. Well, a boot really; brown and laced with a slender heel; a lady's Victorian boot. Her boot.
They have her.
No comments:
Post a Comment