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November 8, 2007

Nanowrimo: the fetch II

She starts to look around and sees the pathway that takes you down the cliff and ends crumbling right in to the sea. It’s partially hidden by undergrowth, and for an adult would be an annoyance, scratching and forbidding at chest and head height. She and Dog Robert can just slip under the prickles and spins and branches, ducking only now and then, the roots underfoot not a problem but a playground. Much of the soil has crumbled away as well, leaving lattice work of root systems as the pathway on their own. She likes walking over the roots- they are so closely packed that there’s no danger of her getting her tiny foot trapped. Dog Robert has problems though- his feet are smaller than anyone’s feet that she knows. Small feet with dark brown velvet pads and pearly grey fur over the claws. She knows this because sometimes she shakes his paws to say hello and he does it because he wants his dinner.

So they start down the cliff. There is somewhere she wants to go, a point just of the path about two heights of her above the sea, where it’s flat and grassy and she can lay back against the angle of the cliff and fall asleep without worrying about rolling on down. The grass and sedges are soft as well, and don’t prickle her through her clothes. As well as sleeping, she sometimes gets a glimpse of the beach and people camping there, building fires, cooking fish and swimming. There’s another dog, a spaniel, called Toby, and some women in bikinis. When they are there, the world goes dual again, with the sky brilliant blue over the dull current mist, the sea jade as well as metal grey, and sand as well as the high lapping shoreline. If she squints she finds she can flick between the two visions, and she’s never sure which is now and when the other one is. But the other one has warmth and laughter and Dog Robert sees the other and wants to join, so she has to hold on to his collar and even though she’s heard Midge say he’s a runt of a dog, he doesn’t feel like a runt and he can pull her over maybe.

She hops down to her special spot and settles down. She’s learnt that you can’t force the visitors or the new scenes. They either come or they don’t. She mostly hopes they do, at least here, ‘cos here they are always sunny and fun and with people messing and playing and calling to each other. She saw them at night once, and the moon was huge and creamy in the sky and gave a road of silver to the campers. She could hear faint clinking and laughing and realised even though it is and was late, they were not sleeping but sitting round the glowing fire (and it is glowing, a sweet pink orange jewel- at some points it seems to be underwater), drinking beer and talking in low voices. One of the girls is lying wrapped up in a blanket, curled against a rock. At night it is harder for Rowan to distinguish between the two realities, so the girl is curled on sand, 5 metres below the sea. It is the saddest sight Rowan has ever seen, this drowned girl, hair gently moving with the current on this still day.

Posted by scumkitten at November 8, 2007 8:00 AM

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