Shimmering dunes stretched hungry fingers towards the towers of Theros, false water threatening illusory floods in the blinding sunlight. Aspasia watched the travellers trudge across the sands day and night, huddled beneath meagre shade-cloths even as their sprawling caravans stretched out towards infinity.
Apparently, a long time ago, shooting stars were seen as omens of death or bad luck. When he heard that, Murad was struck by the thought that time had a way of sometimes changing things for the better.
I have the most marvellous brush, you see. Look here, look closely. The handle is made from densest wood, pitch black as the void yet light as the gleam of distant stars.
Everyone knew the Vickers house. No-one went near it, because if it wasn’t haunted to start with it surely had to be now. No non-haunted house looked like the old Vickers house.
Who is it? was the question unspoken; the light of dawn would illuminate who was missing. But until then, only one dorm knew who owned the voice, bundled up in shadows and carried far below, where the rats gnawed on the pipes and some mysterious, terrible dish awaited.
News networks latched onto the story like leeches on an unprepared bushwalker, warnings flashing in lurid hues across the screen. Phrases like ‘once in a lifetime’ or ‘largest in a century’ were bandied around, as though the newsreaders were discussing an upcoming sports tournament. Gleeful for the furore and the boost to their ratings.
If you went far enough down, you could actually hear the silence. That was what they said. Werrinbae didn’t think it was true at all, and no-one went deeper than him.
Spring wind carried the scent of apples through the windows, so strong it seemed that they were close enough to bite. Firm, crisp flesh and fresh juices just a bite away, red and golden skin breaking beneath teeth to spill sweetness over lips and down chins.
To look at, it’s nothing special at first glance. Agriculture, with cows and sheep plodding over gently rolling green fields, golden swathes of grains hemmed in by low rock walls on one side, wire or trees on the other. Oats, obviously. They grow a lot of them here.
The old oilskin had been cold and greasy to the touch when he’d put it on, but now as the wind dug icy claws into his skin and sought the cracks in his clothes, he was thankful for it. The old castle loomed above him, dark even against the blackened sky, and before him lay the path.
