A Time of Running
After she has gone, he stands and listens...To the water, the trees, the insects. Autumn is coming. Autumn...and something else. Something dark. In the corner of his eye, a sudden blur of grey, moving through the treetops, up to the right. He turns, focusing. It's gone. He stands. He wonders...What comes with the autumn?
It's ten minutes after five and the shadows are growing longer. Something is wrong. Something's been wrong all day. The birds are silent in the branches. The 'gators stay close to the bank, stomachs full of rocks and broken turtle shells. Troubled, he sits and sleeps. And dreams. It is a dream of someone else, someone who wore flesh and not foliage. A frightened man. A man in a furnace. Alec Holland.
He can hear the roar of the explosion, hear the dreadful sizzling and bubbling and popping. He is propelled, a blazing stringless puppet through the flames like some chaotic martyr. And he screams..and falls...and wakes. And thinks: What is it that comes with the autumn? And knows: It is fear.
Yes, for every child, rich or poor, there's a time of running through a dark place; and there's no word for a child's fear, and no ears to hear it if there was a word, and no one to understand it if they heard. God save the little children. They abide and they endure.
It began with a death...it began with blood. It began with blood, I guess it'll probably end the same way. Until then, I keep running. There's a stitch in my side. My chest hurts and my saliva tastes funny. I wish there was a barrier, a fallen tree, an excuse to just stop and sit down and cry and give up. I wish. We're almost there. At the heart of it. I can feel it. I can feel it in the air. Dry, prickly, a leaden pressure on the eardrums. A fat, dark worm that writhes in your gut. It thickens the night into cold, congealed gelatin. It stops the hearts of birds. I used to think I knew from fear, I didn't. All I knew were the suburbs of fear and now here I am, in the big city.
In Roberta's room, something small and cold clambers across the counterpane. There is a sound...polyethylene going in and out, very fast.
It's ten minutes after five and the shadows are growing longer. Something is wrong. Something's been wrong all day. The birds are silent in the branches. The 'gators stay close to the bank, stomachs full of rocks and broken turtle shells. Troubled, he sits and sleeps. And dreams. It is a dream of someone else, someone who wore flesh and not foliage. A frightened man. A man in a furnace. Alec Holland.
He can hear the roar of the explosion, hear the dreadful sizzling and bubbling and popping. He is propelled, a blazing stringless puppet through the flames like some chaotic martyr. And he screams..and falls...and wakes. And thinks: What is it that comes with the autumn? And knows: It is fear.
Yes, for every child, rich or poor, there's a time of running through a dark place; and there's no word for a child's fear, and no ears to hear it if there was a word, and no one to understand it if they heard. God save the little children. They abide and they endure.
It began with a death...it began with blood. It began with blood, I guess it'll probably end the same way. Until then, I keep running. There's a stitch in my side. My chest hurts and my saliva tastes funny. I wish there was a barrier, a fallen tree, an excuse to just stop and sit down and cry and give up. I wish. We're almost there. At the heart of it. I can feel it. I can feel it in the air. Dry, prickly, a leaden pressure on the eardrums. A fat, dark worm that writhes in your gut. It thickens the night into cold, congealed gelatin. It stops the hearts of birds. I used to think I knew from fear, I didn't. All I knew were the suburbs of fear and now here I am, in the big city.
In Roberta's room, something small and cold clambers across the counterpane. There is a sound...polyethylene going in and out, very fast.