1912

A Chapter by Phil Smith

The Man has run away from society and is currently being pursued by the police for a crime he cannot remember doing.

It was early afternoon in the Dales. Wild dark-green grass stooped under its own weight, sagging more and more as it got nearer to the edge of a slow, shallow stream. The water was almost still, with patches of algae clinging on to the water's edge. Here and there, rocks poked through its surface, bathing in the last of the autumn sun. On the opposite shoreline stood a dense wood, where damp, dead trees drooped, broken, casting shadows which fell silently onto their unspoken neighbours.

On both sides of the water, the ground was pimpled with trees, and covered with lush wild grasses. A dark figure began to emerge out of the shadows cast by the sycamores. The soft thud of his boots, cushioned by the green carpet, although barely audible, was the only sound.

A man emerged from the wilderness and into the open, pushing hanging branches outwards, like a pair of wild curtains as he stepped into the threshold. The man was slender and small; he was of bony nose and hands, whose veins bulged under the surface of his rough skin. Behind him walked a shaggy black dog, whose mane had been ruffled on the path through the bush.

He strolled towards the stream, his dog overtaking him, galloping like a horse to drink.

“Hey, hey,” said the man. His voice had a calmness that suggested he’d left the rat race long ago. “Hey!” he repeated more sternly as the dog lapped at the black water. At once, the animal stopped gulping and ran back to his master who stroked his head without looking at him. The man's distant eyes looked out to the far mountains in the south, whose blunted peaks arched over the landscape, smothering the misty fields beneath in shadow.

The man crouched by the water and pulled aimlessly at a thick weed. The plant stayed firm in the earth. He tried again, and with a little more strength, he dragged it out, the bulb clinging to its moist, brown shell, its exposed roots pale and bare. The soil fell like raindrops from the weed, destined for the earth. Why did he do that? Why waste effort on such a pitiful act? With a flimsy throw, the plant hit the water with a small, dirty splash. Waves of filth rippled along the surface and reluctantly swam away, eventually breaking against the rocks dotted along the water’s edge. He sat contently and felt his anxiety be released with nothing but a gentle wave of his hand. He began to doze.

The afternoon grew older and colder as one animal after another retreated back to their home in the wild. The drop in temperature woke the man, so he just sat. He ran his fingers through the dog’s knotted hair, but still never looked down at the animal. Once again, the man had no place in the world, no home to return to, or family to love. He was nothing.

The sun was just beginning its descent, the darkness deepening; the sun rays receding on the mountains, bathing the hills in a gentle peach light. In the dying sunlight, the dead of the wood was exposed; the damp, the humid air of decomposing branches. But there the trees were, unmoving; they had given up and accepted their miserable fate.

The sun fell further, dropping behind the craggy peaks, into the blackness which swelled in the sky. And then, the only vehicle of warmth in that hostile place plunged beneath the horizon and only black filled the air, leaving the man staring, straining to see the peaks of those magnificent mountains again, but they had melted into the darkness.

He felt numb. He looked up once more for a glimmer of hope. And there it was, the moon, that silver school of fish, shining in the jet black ocean of the sky.

The moon watched from its safe haven in the depths of space like a shepherd watches over his flock. It lit the way as the man walked back into the trees in search of firewood. He re-emerged minutes later with a large cluster of branches, piled up to the underside of his chin. The dog, too, had a large log enclosed in its jaws; dribble running from its fleshy jowls. The two unloaded their cargo back by the grass and, with an old match, lit the logs. But darkness loomed after the sun gave way to its pale cousin, whose smiling face danced graciously on the small black clearings upon the water's surface.

On the grass, the man lay on his back; legs bent upwards, hands cushioning his head against the bare, black ground. He looked up towards the dark sky, his eyes scanning the distant specks of light. There was nothing therapeutic about the night sky, yet there was in hoping; hoping for a brighter future. But even as he gazed up at the small grains of light which spread along the beaches of space, he saw only vivid images on the canvas of the universe's vast black ocean, vivid images that haunted him. He hated looking into the sky, and yet there was something that held him there.