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Never trust a voice carried on a sudden breeze. Never heed the cries for help of a person unseen. Never listen to the wind’s wavelength during a purple-cloud eclipse. Never take notice of a flashing point of light in a barren black land. Never presume someone in trouble is someone in need. Never show faith in a blinking light. Gah. My attempts at creating a concise motto of wise warning are pointless, not to mention absurd and unreliable.
Would you believe that I actually arrived at the source of the flashing light. Yes, it’s true. I barely believed I would ever get there. It looked so far away. Between two incurving fangs of the obsidian rock I stopped, only slightly out of breath, and there it was, glaring in close-up, no larger than a coin, switching on and off, held by a seated someone, whom I could just make out in the darkness behind the scintillation.
“Ah, you’ve found me,” he said.
It was a male, old, older than I, bearded and naked, save for a knotted sheet which did nothing to hide his unnaturally long phallus. As he spoke, he lowered the tiny light source, shining it on his grey-haired chest and visible ribcage.
“You’ve found me,” he said. “You’ve found me. Who are you who has found me?”
I’m not sure why, but I did not respond to his question.
“Can you speak?” he said. “Do you understand me? I am old and perhaps nearly deaf. The sounds in this land are few. Where are the birds and the beasts? Where are the trees and the rivers? Where are houses and the people? Are we the only two left? Who are you, my friend? Come closer.”
“I am Glover,” I said. “I saw the light and came here. Who are you, old man?”
“Hello, Mister Glover, hello. Thank you for seeing my light and coming to my aid. My name is Matterbabberruss. No wait, I mean Babbermatterruss. Hm, I seem to have forgotten which way round it goes. Matterbabberruss or Babbermatterruss. Which one do you prefer?”
“Both are a bit of a mouthful,” I said.
He laughed. “They are indeed, my son. You speak the truth. How good it is to hear a different voice other than my own. Perhaps I need a new name. What do you suggest?”
“Something shorter,” I said, “like Babber, or Babbmatt, or Russ, or …” (does it matter, I thought).
“That’s the one!”
“Which?”
“Matter. Because I do, Mister Glover. I do matter. Mister Matter matters. He is alive, he thinks, he hears, he listens, he sees.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Have I offended you?”
He laughed. “No, my son, of course not.” He shone the light onto his face. “I am Matter.” He stared at me. For a second it felt as though our eyeballs touched. “Tell, Mister Glover, where the devil are we?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said.
“Oh dear,” he sighed, “that is not good, not good at all. Is it our destiny to be lost in an endless landscape of nothing but jagged rocks and strangely smooth stone …”
“It is my destiny to find something other than this,” I said. “A village or a town, a settlement of some kind. I will not stop until I do.”
“Then you’ll be walking and searching for the rest of your life.”
“But I have found you,” I said. “My belief is that you will be the first of many.”
He chuckled. “I fear I will be the last.”
“Why do you say that? Why do you sit here flashing your little light? Were you not attempting to attract me or another?”
He switched off the light and scratched his fluffy chin. “I suppose you are right, Mister Glover. But the thing is, I knew you were out there, heading my way.”
“How did you know?” I said. “It is almost as dark as night. An old man cannot have the eyesight of an owl.”
“There are other ways to see in the dark,” he said. “Ways that do not require the eyes below the eyebrows. I knew you were coming, Mister Glover. Why do you think I was flashing my light. The batteries are low. I do not waste them needlessly.”
“If what you say is true,” I said, “then tell me, who are you, and how did you know I was close by?”
“Questions, questions, Mister Glover. Are there really any answers to the questions. Have you not heard that the answer to every question is to cut short one’s answer at the point of invention. Where am I? I am. Who am I? I am. What is the truth? The truth is.”
There was a short silnce.
“The way the world is now,” he continued, “stripped to a bare no-man’s-land under an unreal sky, all I know is that I knew you were coming. An old man like me cannot explain such mysteries. Look around you, Mister Glover, where are the birds and the beasts, the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people? A short time ago they were all here, it was buzzing with life, I’m certain it was, but now, now they are gone, snapped away with the opening of a god’s eye or the click of divine fingers.”
“Has the world ended?” I said.
He shook his head. “Perhaps for us it has.”
I sat beside him. “Then what are we to do?”
“We can but wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“A miracle. Some kind of creational shift. A new dream to replace the lost dream.”
“I cannot sit here and just wait for a miracle.”
“That is what the last one said.”
“I don’t understand … the last one …”
“She was here, not long ago.”
“She? but you said we were probably the final two.”
“Yes I did, didn’t I. Oh dear, my memory is not what it should be.”
“This woman, did she have large front teeth?”
“She did.”
“A mop of frizzy black hair?”
“She did.”
“A perfectly toned athletic body?”
“Indeed. She was naked except for running shoes and a pair of hooped hockey socks.”
“Voida!”
“Is that her name?”
“So I was led to believe,” I said. “She must have told you I was coming. You’re nothing but a signal man, flashing your pathetic light on her behalf! Where is she! Which direction did she go! Tell me, old man, or I’ll hurt you!”
“That lump in your neck,” he said.
“What about it!”
“It’s slowly sliding into your chest.”
“What!”
I felt the side of my neck, and at that very moment the old man leapt to his feet, swivelled, and kicked me square in the face. A rock-hard bony instep. -Thwack-. Then he fled, sprinting with long-jumper’s leap, his monstrous tackle swinging like an elephant’s trunk.
Well the wily old wizened git. I wish I could say blood oozed from my nose, dripping into my mouth, spattering my shirt and threadbare cardigan, but as I’ve already established, no blood flows through these veins, it is all coagulated, in places I bet you could cut it with a knife, or sprinkle it like pepper on a steaming dish.
For a short while I was numbed, like a fallen zombie. The fizzy pain in my face was surprisingly sweet. Pain is pleasurable for those who are not quite alive and a jillion miles away from death. Perhaps I should get kicked on the nose more often, I thought, as I lay prone, seeing stars in the dusk-green sky.
I would never see Matterbatterbuttermuss (whatever-his-name-was) again. But who cares about a dotty old goat with a phallus the size of a vacuum-cleaner’s nozzle … Yet he had let slip an interesting snip of information: Voida had passed this way wearing long socks and trainers. She had almost certainly continued her journey by going through the fanged rocks and beyond. With this data stored in my head (from which the cobwebs had been well and truly blown away by the well-aimed kick) I knew that I should turn ninety degrees and steer my shoes in an alternative direction. If she was travelling north then I would go west, if she had gone west then I would go south, if she was running south then I would dart east, so on and so forth.
I picked myself up and set off with a greater vigour than before. Where are the birds and the beasts, the old man had said, Where are the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people … Well my wily old wrinkled fool, I will find them. I will walk until my feet tread on dewy grass, until my face meets a true wind of change, until my gaze falls upon something different, something other than this glassy black rock and the scarred green sky (in which the mysterious purple cloud continued to blot out the eye of heaven).
Would you believe that I actually arrived at the source of the flashing light. Yes, it’s true. I barely believed I would ever get there. It looked so far away. Between two incurving fangs of the obsidian rock I stopped, only slightly out of breath, and there it was, glaring in close-up, no larger than a coin, switching on and off, held by a seated someone, whom I could just make out in the darkness behind the scintillation.
“Ah, you’ve found me,” he said.
It was a male, old, older than I, bearded and naked, save for a knotted sheet which did nothing to hide his unnaturally long phallus. As he spoke, he lowered the tiny light source, shining it on his grey-haired chest and visible ribcage.
“You’ve found me,” he said. “You’ve found me. Who are you who has found me?”
I’m not sure why, but I did not respond to his question.
“Can you speak?” he said. “Do you understand me? I am old and perhaps nearly deaf. The sounds in this land are few. Where are the birds and the beasts? Where are the trees and the rivers? Where are houses and the people? Are we the only two left? Who are you, my friend? Come closer.”
“I am Glover,” I said. “I saw the light and came here. Who are you, old man?”
“Hello, Mister Glover, hello. Thank you for seeing my light and coming to my aid. My name is Matterbabberruss. No wait, I mean Babbermatterruss. Hm, I seem to have forgotten which way round it goes. Matterbabberruss or Babbermatterruss. Which one do you prefer?”
“Both are a bit of a mouthful,” I said.
He laughed. “They are indeed, my son. You speak the truth. How good it is to hear a different voice other than my own. Perhaps I need a new name. What do you suggest?”
“Something shorter,” I said, “like Babber, or Babbmatt, or Russ, or …” (does it matter, I thought).
“That’s the one!”
“Which?”
“Matter. Because I do, Mister Glover. I do matter. Mister Matter matters. He is alive, he thinks, he hears, he listens, he sees.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Have I offended you?”
He laughed. “No, my son, of course not.” He shone the light onto his face. “I am Matter.” He stared at me. For a second it felt as though our eyeballs touched. “Tell, Mister Glover, where the devil are we?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said.
“Oh dear,” he sighed, “that is not good, not good at all. Is it our destiny to be lost in an endless landscape of nothing but jagged rocks and strangely smooth stone …”
“It is my destiny to find something other than this,” I said. “A village or a town, a settlement of some kind. I will not stop until I do.”
“Then you’ll be walking and searching for the rest of your life.”
“But I have found you,” I said. “My belief is that you will be the first of many.”
He chuckled. “I fear I will be the last.”
“Why do you say that? Why do you sit here flashing your little light? Were you not attempting to attract me or another?”
He switched off the light and scratched his fluffy chin. “I suppose you are right, Mister Glover. But the thing is, I knew you were out there, heading my way.”
“How did you know?” I said. “It is almost as dark as night. An old man cannot have the eyesight of an owl.”
“There are other ways to see in the dark,” he said. “Ways that do not require the eyes below the eyebrows. I knew you were coming, Mister Glover. Why do you think I was flashing my light. The batteries are low. I do not waste them needlessly.”
“If what you say is true,” I said, “then tell me, who are you, and how did you know I was close by?”
“Questions, questions, Mister Glover. Are there really any answers to the questions. Have you not heard that the answer to every question is to cut short one’s answer at the point of invention. Where am I? I am. Who am I? I am. What is the truth? The truth is.”
There was a short silnce.
“The way the world is now,” he continued, “stripped to a bare no-man’s-land under an unreal sky, all I know is that I knew you were coming. An old man like me cannot explain such mysteries. Look around you, Mister Glover, where are the birds and the beasts, the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people? A short time ago they were all here, it was buzzing with life, I’m certain it was, but now, now they are gone, snapped away with the opening of a god’s eye or the click of divine fingers.”
“Has the world ended?” I said.
He shook his head. “Perhaps for us it has.”
I sat beside him. “Then what are we to do?”
“We can but wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“A miracle. Some kind of creational shift. A new dream to replace the lost dream.”
“I cannot sit here and just wait for a miracle.”
“That is what the last one said.”
“I don’t understand … the last one …”
“She was here, not long ago.”
“She? but you said we were probably the final two.”
“Yes I did, didn’t I. Oh dear, my memory is not what it should be.”
“This woman, did she have large front teeth?”
“She did.”
“A mop of frizzy black hair?”
“She did.”
“A perfectly toned athletic body?”
“Indeed. She was naked except for running shoes and a pair of hooped hockey socks.”
“Voida!”
“Is that her name?”
“So I was led to believe,” I said. “She must have told you I was coming. You’re nothing but a signal man, flashing your pathetic light on her behalf! Where is she! Which direction did she go! Tell me, old man, or I’ll hurt you!”
“That lump in your neck,” he said.
“What about it!”
“It’s slowly sliding into your chest.”
“What!”
I felt the side of my neck, and at that very moment the old man leapt to his feet, swivelled, and kicked me square in the face. A rock-hard bony instep. -Thwack-. Then he fled, sprinting with long-jumper’s leap, his monstrous tackle swinging like an elephant’s trunk.
Well the wily old wizened git. I wish I could say blood oozed from my nose, dripping into my mouth, spattering my shirt and threadbare cardigan, but as I’ve already established, no blood flows through these veins, it is all coagulated, in places I bet you could cut it with a knife, or sprinkle it like pepper on a steaming dish.
For a short while I was numbed, like a fallen zombie. The fizzy pain in my face was surprisingly sweet. Pain is pleasurable for those who are not quite alive and a jillion miles away from death. Perhaps I should get kicked on the nose more often, I thought, as I lay prone, seeing stars in the dusk-green sky.
I would never see Matterbatterbuttermuss (whatever-his-name-was) again. But who cares about a dotty old goat with a phallus the size of a vacuum-cleaner’s nozzle … Yet he had let slip an interesting snip of information: Voida had passed this way wearing long socks and trainers. She had almost certainly continued her journey by going through the fanged rocks and beyond. With this data stored in my head (from which the cobwebs had been well and truly blown away by the well-aimed kick) I knew that I should turn ninety degrees and steer my shoes in an alternative direction. If she was travelling north then I would go west, if she had gone west then I would go south, if she was running south then I would dart east, so on and so forth.
I picked myself up and set off with a greater vigour than before. Where are the birds and the beasts, the old man had said, Where are the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people … Well my wily old wrinkled fool, I will find them. I will walk until my feet tread on dewy grass, until my face meets a true wind of change, until my gaze falls upon something different, something other than this glassy black rock and the scarred green sky (in which the mysterious purple cloud continued to blot out the eye of heaven).
Made me go 'oooh'. Excellent read. Mr Matters seems like a frustrating character but one you can't help but love. Good use of the topic, your title is perfect for the story.
Bizarre, as always, but I struggled to get into this one.
I want to know what happened next now. lol.
Oh I don't know about that. But thanks for the comment.
I loved reading that, you have a way with descriptive prose.
All I can say was that the script-writer of 'I am Legend' should have asked you for help. I'd have much preferred to see this as a film...
All I can say was that the script-writer of 'I am Legend' should have asked you for help. I'd have much preferred to see this as a film...
Never trust a voice carried on a sudden breeze. Never heed the cries for help of a person unseen. Never listen to the wind’s wavelength during a purple-cloud eclipse. Never take notice of a flashing point of light in a barren black land. Never presume someone in trouble is someone in need. Never show faith in a blinking light. Gah. My attempts at creating a concise motto of wise warning are pointless, not to mention absurd and unreliable.
Would you believe that I actually arrived at the source of the flashing light. Yes, it’s true. I barely believed I would ever get there. It looked so far away. Between two incurving fangs of the obsidian rock I stopped, only slightly out of breath, and there it was, glaring in close-up, no larger than a coin, switching on and off, held by a seated someone, whom I could just make out in the darkness behind the scintillation.
“Ah, you’ve found me,” he said.
It was a male, old, older than I, bearded and naked, save for a knotted sheet which did nothing to hide his unnaturally long phallus. As he spoke, he lowered the tiny light source, shining it on his grey-haired chest and visible ribcage.
“You’ve found me,” he said. “You’ve found me. Who are you who has found me?”
I’m not sure why, but I did not respond to his question.
“Can you speak?” he said. “Do you understand me? I am old and perhaps nearly deaf. The sounds in this land are few. Where are the birds and the beasts? Where are the trees and the rivers? Where are houses and the people? Are we the only two left? Who are you, my friend? Come closer.”
“I am Glover,” I said. “I saw the light and came here. Who are you, old man?”
“Hello, Mister Glover, hello. Thank you for seeing my light and coming to my aid. My name is Matterbabberruss. No wait, I mean Babbermatterruss. Hm, I seem to have forgotten which way round it goes. Matterbabberruss or Babbermatterruss. Which one do you prefer?”
“Both are a bit of a mouthful,” I said.
He laughed. “They are indeed, my son. You speak the truth. How good it is to hear a different voice other than my own. Perhaps I need a new name. What do you suggest?”
“Something shorter,” I said, “like Babber, or Babbmatt, or Russ, or …” (does it matter, I thought).
“That’s the one!”
“Which?”
“Matter. Because I do, Mister Glover. I do matter. Mister Matter matters. He is alive, he thinks, he hears, he listens, he sees.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Have I offended you?”
He laughed. “No, my son, of course not.” He shone the light onto his face. “I am Matter.” He stared at me. For a second it felt as though our eyeballs touched. “Tell, Mister Glover, where the devil are we?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said.
“Oh dear,” he sighed, “that is not good, not good at all. Is it our destiny to be lost in an endless landscape of nothing but jagged rocks and strangely smooth stone …”
“It is my destiny to find something other than this,” I said. “A village or a town, a settlement of some kind. I will not stop until I do.”
“Then you’ll be walking and searching for the rest of your life.”
“But I have found you,” I said. “My belief is that you will be the first of many.”
He chuckled. “I fear I will be the last.”
“Why do you say that? Why do you sit here flashing your little light? Were you not attempting to attract me or another?”
He switched off the light and scratched his fluffy chin. “I suppose you are right, Mister Glover. But the thing is, I knew you were out there, heading my way.”
“How did you know?” I said. “It is almost as dark as night. An old man cannot have the eyesight of an owl.”
“There are other ways to see in the dark,” he said. “Ways that do not require the eyes below the eyebrows. I knew you were coming, Mister Glover. Why do you think I was flashing my light. The batteries are low. I do not waste them needlessly.”
“If what you say is true,” I said, “then tell me, who are you, and how did you know I was close by?”
“Questions, questions, Mister Glover. Are there really any answers to the questions. Have you not heard that the answer to every question is to cut short one’s answer at the point of invention. Where am I? I am. Who am I? I am. What is the truth? The truth is.”
There was a short silnce.
“The way the world is now,” he continued, “stripped to a bare no-man’s-land under an unreal sky, all I know is that I knew you were coming. An old man like me cannot explain such mysteries. Look around you, Mister Glover, where are the birds and the beasts, the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people? A short time ago they were all here, it was buzzing with life, I’m certain it was, but now, now they are gone, snapped away with the opening of a god’s eye or the click of divine fingers.”
“Has the world ended?” I said.
He shook his head. “Perhaps for us it has.”
I sat beside him. “Then what are we to do?”
“We can but wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“A miracle. Some kind of creational shift. A new dream to replace the lost dream.”
“I cannot sit here and just wait for a miracle.”
“That is what the last one said.”
“I don’t understand … the last one …”
“She was here, not long ago.”
“She? but you said we were probably the final two.”
“Yes I did, didn’t I. Oh dear, my memory is not what it should be.”
“This woman, did she have large front teeth?”
“She did.”
“A mop of frizzy black hair?”
“She did.”
“A perfectly toned athletic body?”
“Indeed. She was naked except for running shoes and a pair of hooped hockey socks.”
“Voida!”
“Is that her name?”
“So I was led to believe,” I said. “She must have told you I was coming. You’re nothing but a signal man, flashing your pathetic light on her behalf! Where is she! Which direction did she go! Tell me, old man, or I’ll hurt you!”
“That lump in your neck,” he said.
“What about it!”
“It’s slowly sliding into your chest.”
“What!”
I felt the side of my neck, and at that very moment the old man leapt to his feet, swivelled, and kicked me square in the face. A rock-hard bony instep. -Thwack-. Then he fled, sprinting with long-jumper’s leap, his monstrous tackle swinging like an elephant’s trunk.
Well the wily old wizened git. I wish I could say blood oozed from my nose, dripping into my mouth, spattering my shirt and threadbare cardigan, but as I’ve already established, no blood flows through these veins, it is all coagulated, in places I bet you could cut it with a knife, or sprinkle it like pepper on a steaming dish.
For a short while I was numbed, like a fallen zombie. The fizzy pain in my face was surprisingly sweet. Pain is pleasurable for those who are not quite alive and a jillion miles away from death. Perhaps I should get kicked on the nose more often, I thought, as I lay prone, seeing stars in the dusk-green sky.
I would never see Matterbatterbuttermuss (whatever-his-name-was) again. But who cares about a dotty old goat with a phallus the size of a vacuum-cleaner’s nozzle … Yet he had let slip an interesting snip of information: Voida had passed this way wearing long socks and trainers. She had almost certainly continued her journey by going through the fanged rocks and beyond. With this data stored in my head (from which the cobwebs had been well and truly blown away by the well-aimed kick) I knew that I should turn ninety degrees and steer my shoes in an alternative direction. If she was travelling north then I would go west, if she had gone west then I would go south, if she was running south then I would dart east, so on and so forth.
I picked myself up and set off with a greater vigour than before. Where are the birds and the beasts, the old man had said, Where are the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people … Well my wily old wrinkled fool, I will find them. I will walk until my feet tread on dewy grass, until my face meets a true wind of change, until my gaze falls upon something different, something other than this glassy black rock and the scarred green sky (in which the mysterious purple cloud continued to blot out the eye of heaven).
Would you believe that I actually arrived at the source of the flashing light. Yes, it’s true. I barely believed I would ever get there. It looked so far away. Between two incurving fangs of the obsidian rock I stopped, only slightly out of breath, and there it was, glaring in close-up, no larger than a coin, switching on and off, held by a seated someone, whom I could just make out in the darkness behind the scintillation.
“Ah, you’ve found me,” he said.
It was a male, old, older than I, bearded and naked, save for a knotted sheet which did nothing to hide his unnaturally long phallus. As he spoke, he lowered the tiny light source, shining it on his grey-haired chest and visible ribcage.
“You’ve found me,” he said. “You’ve found me. Who are you who has found me?”
I’m not sure why, but I did not respond to his question.
“Can you speak?” he said. “Do you understand me? I am old and perhaps nearly deaf. The sounds in this land are few. Where are the birds and the beasts? Where are the trees and the rivers? Where are houses and the people? Are we the only two left? Who are you, my friend? Come closer.”
“I am Glover,” I said. “I saw the light and came here. Who are you, old man?”
“Hello, Mister Glover, hello. Thank you for seeing my light and coming to my aid. My name is Matterbabberruss. No wait, I mean Babbermatterruss. Hm, I seem to have forgotten which way round it goes. Matterbabberruss or Babbermatterruss. Which one do you prefer?”
“Both are a bit of a mouthful,” I said.
He laughed. “They are indeed, my son. You speak the truth. How good it is to hear a different voice other than my own. Perhaps I need a new name. What do you suggest?”
“Something shorter,” I said, “like Babber, or Babbmatt, or Russ, or …” (does it matter, I thought).
“That’s the one!”
“Which?”
“Matter. Because I do, Mister Glover. I do matter. Mister Matter matters. He is alive, he thinks, he hears, he listens, he sees.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Have I offended you?”
He laughed. “No, my son, of course not.” He shone the light onto his face. “I am Matter.” He stared at me. For a second it felt as though our eyeballs touched. “Tell, Mister Glover, where the devil are we?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said.
“Oh dear,” he sighed, “that is not good, not good at all. Is it our destiny to be lost in an endless landscape of nothing but jagged rocks and strangely smooth stone …”
“It is my destiny to find something other than this,” I said. “A village or a town, a settlement of some kind. I will not stop until I do.”
“Then you’ll be walking and searching for the rest of your life.”
“But I have found you,” I said. “My belief is that you will be the first of many.”
He chuckled. “I fear I will be the last.”
“Why do you say that? Why do you sit here flashing your little light? Were you not attempting to attract me or another?”
He switched off the light and scratched his fluffy chin. “I suppose you are right, Mister Glover. But the thing is, I knew you were out there, heading my way.”
“How did you know?” I said. “It is almost as dark as night. An old man cannot have the eyesight of an owl.”
“There are other ways to see in the dark,” he said. “Ways that do not require the eyes below the eyebrows. I knew you were coming, Mister Glover. Why do you think I was flashing my light. The batteries are low. I do not waste them needlessly.”
“If what you say is true,” I said, “then tell me, who are you, and how did you know I was close by?”
“Questions, questions, Mister Glover. Are there really any answers to the questions. Have you not heard that the answer to every question is to cut short one’s answer at the point of invention. Where am I? I am. Who am I? I am. What is the truth? The truth is.”
There was a short silnce.
“The way the world is now,” he continued, “stripped to a bare no-man’s-land under an unreal sky, all I know is that I knew you were coming. An old man like me cannot explain such mysteries. Look around you, Mister Glover, where are the birds and the beasts, the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people? A short time ago they were all here, it was buzzing with life, I’m certain it was, but now, now they are gone, snapped away with the opening of a god’s eye or the click of divine fingers.”
“Has the world ended?” I said.
He shook his head. “Perhaps for us it has.”
I sat beside him. “Then what are we to do?”
“We can but wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“A miracle. Some kind of creational shift. A new dream to replace the lost dream.”
“I cannot sit here and just wait for a miracle.”
“That is what the last one said.”
“I don’t understand … the last one …”
“She was here, not long ago.”
“She? but you said we were probably the final two.”
“Yes I did, didn’t I. Oh dear, my memory is not what it should be.”
“This woman, did she have large front teeth?”
“She did.”
“A mop of frizzy black hair?”
“She did.”
“A perfectly toned athletic body?”
“Indeed. She was naked except for running shoes and a pair of hooped hockey socks.”
“Voida!”
“Is that her name?”
“So I was led to believe,” I said. “She must have told you I was coming. You’re nothing but a signal man, flashing your pathetic light on her behalf! Where is she! Which direction did she go! Tell me, old man, or I’ll hurt you!”
“That lump in your neck,” he said.
“What about it!”
“It’s slowly sliding into your chest.”
“What!”
I felt the side of my neck, and at that very moment the old man leapt to his feet, swivelled, and kicked me square in the face. A rock-hard bony instep. -Thwack-. Then he fled, sprinting with long-jumper’s leap, his monstrous tackle swinging like an elephant’s trunk.
Well the wily old wizened git. I wish I could say blood oozed from my nose, dripping into my mouth, spattering my shirt and threadbare cardigan, but as I’ve already established, no blood flows through these veins, it is all coagulated, in places I bet you could cut it with a knife, or sprinkle it like pepper on a steaming dish.
For a short while I was numbed, like a fallen zombie. The fizzy pain in my face was surprisingly sweet. Pain is pleasurable for those who are not quite alive and a jillion miles away from death. Perhaps I should get kicked on the nose more often, I thought, as I lay prone, seeing stars in the dusk-green sky.
I would never see Matterbatterbuttermuss (whatever-his-name-was) again. But who cares about a dotty old goat with a phallus the size of a vacuum-cleaner’s nozzle … Yet he had let slip an interesting snip of information: Voida had passed this way wearing long socks and trainers. She had almost certainly continued her journey by going through the fanged rocks and beyond. With this data stored in my head (from which the cobwebs had been well and truly blown away by the well-aimed kick) I knew that I should turn ninety degrees and steer my shoes in an alternative direction. If she was travelling north then I would go west, if she had gone west then I would go south, if she was running south then I would dart east, so on and so forth.
I picked myself up and set off with a greater vigour than before. Where are the birds and the beasts, the old man had said, Where are the trees and the rivers, the houses and the people … Well my wily old wrinkled fool, I will find them. I will walk until my feet tread on dewy grass, until my face meets a true wind of change, until my gaze falls upon something different, something other than this glassy black rock and the scarred green sky (in which the mysterious purple cloud continued to blot out the eye of heaven).