out there. Somewhere nearby, unblinking eyes are trained on me. Doesnât matter how firm my mind is, how insistent it is that this is all nonsense. The eyes are back.
I feel it is important for me to resist the urge to run. I donât know why, but I know it. Running would not be good. But I increase my pace. Iâm no longer so bothered about finding the right direction. I just want to get lower and I donât know why I think that either. I have to trust my instincts. Even when I see movement off to my right, a swaying of branches that could be a gust of wind, I keep the pace consistent. If itâs a gust of wind it keeps an uncanny pace with me. The branches move as I move. Itâs as if itâs linked to my movement. Iâve never heard of gusts of wind that move so slowly.
Something crashes and I stop.
There is no wind at all now. Nothing moves and the only sound is water dripping from leaf to leaf. I turn slowly in a circle, scanning three hundred and sixty degrees. There is a rustle in the undergrowth to my left. Behind me now. Nothing could move that quickly. Off to my right one moment, in front of me the next. I gaze out over a large clearing Iâve just crossed without ever being aware of having done so. A bird call rises. It is the moaning call I heard yesterday. It sounds unutterably sad and mournful. No other birds sing. The rustling gets louder. Large leaves sway at the far end of the clearing. Something is moving towards me. A line from a book comes to me. I donât know why.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
I feel an incredible urge to stand and wait for it. I want to see it part the final branches and reach the clearing. I want to see its eyes, rather than just feel them.
But that doesnât happen. I turn and run, and this time I have no control, make no attempt to pick safe ground. Whatever is in front of me, I jump. I plough through brambles, get smacked in the face by branches. On a couple of steep inclines I fall again, slide down on my side or my rear end, spring to my feet, run without breaking rhythm. I keep looking over my shoulder, but I canât see anything. Iâm making too much noise myself and the forest is dense here. The swaying branches behind me are the ones Iâve pushed through. I have a stitch and my breathing is ragged. Itâs the only time in my life Iâve regretted wagging so many Phys. Ed. classes. I slow.
I donât see the log. If I had I would have at least tried to jump it. My left foot smacks into it, but I donât feel any pain. Not then. But it takes me down, on my back. I slide for a few metres and thump my head on something incredibly hard. Seeing stars is not just a sad cliché; itâs true. Fireworks go off in my brain. I donât know how long I lie there waiting for my head to clear, but it canât be more than twenty seconds or so. I sit up and listen. Nothing, except the sound of my own breathing.
When my phone beeps, I scream. I swear. I donât know what frightens me more, the sound of the incoming text message or my scream. I scrabble around in my pocket, pull out the phone and check the screen. My thumb chooses âread messageâ automatically.
Witetrees .
What the hell? I stop. Witetrees? White trees? I check the screen again, but itâs gone dark. And when I look up there is a tree with a white trunk about thirty metres to my right. I cross to it. Why not? Another white tree â the only white tree around â is down a slope far to my right. I run the line between the two of them. My sense of being watched has eased, but Iâm not taking any chances. I keep checking behind, but there is no untoward movement in the foliage. Past the second white tree there is a large clearing, down a dip in a ridge. I wouldnât swear to it, but this one does look familiar. Maybe itâs wishful thinking.
It isnât. Three minutes later I see the roof of
I feel it is important for me to resist the urge to run. I donât know why, but I know it. Running would not be good. But I increase my pace. Iâm no longer so bothered about finding the right direction. I just want to get lower and I donât know why I think that either. I have to trust my instincts. Even when I see movement off to my right, a swaying of branches that could be a gust of wind, I keep the pace consistent. If itâs a gust of wind it keeps an uncanny pace with me. The branches move as I move. Itâs as if itâs linked to my movement. Iâve never heard of gusts of wind that move so slowly.
Something crashes and I stop.
There is no wind at all now. Nothing moves and the only sound is water dripping from leaf to leaf. I turn slowly in a circle, scanning three hundred and sixty degrees. There is a rustle in the undergrowth to my left. Behind me now. Nothing could move that quickly. Off to my right one moment, in front of me the next. I gaze out over a large clearing Iâve just crossed without ever being aware of having done so. A bird call rises. It is the moaning call I heard yesterday. It sounds unutterably sad and mournful. No other birds sing. The rustling gets louder. Large leaves sway at the far end of the clearing. Something is moving towards me. A line from a book comes to me. I donât know why.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
I feel an incredible urge to stand and wait for it. I want to see it part the final branches and reach the clearing. I want to see its eyes, rather than just feel them.
But that doesnât happen. I turn and run, and this time I have no control, make no attempt to pick safe ground. Whatever is in front of me, I jump. I plough through brambles, get smacked in the face by branches. On a couple of steep inclines I fall again, slide down on my side or my rear end, spring to my feet, run without breaking rhythm. I keep looking over my shoulder, but I canât see anything. Iâm making too much noise myself and the forest is dense here. The swaying branches behind me are the ones Iâve pushed through. I have a stitch and my breathing is ragged. Itâs the only time in my life Iâve regretted wagging so many Phys. Ed. classes. I slow.
I donât see the log. If I had I would have at least tried to jump it. My left foot smacks into it, but I donât feel any pain. Not then. But it takes me down, on my back. I slide for a few metres and thump my head on something incredibly hard. Seeing stars is not just a sad cliché; itâs true. Fireworks go off in my brain. I donât know how long I lie there waiting for my head to clear, but it canât be more than twenty seconds or so. I sit up and listen. Nothing, except the sound of my own breathing.
When my phone beeps, I scream. I swear. I donât know what frightens me more, the sound of the incoming text message or my scream. I scrabble around in my pocket, pull out the phone and check the screen. My thumb chooses âread messageâ automatically.
Witetrees .
What the hell? I stop. Witetrees? White trees? I check the screen again, but itâs gone dark. And when I look up there is a tree with a white trunk about thirty metres to my right. I cross to it. Why not? Another white tree â the only white tree around â is down a slope far to my right. I run the line between the two of them. My sense of being watched has eased, but Iâm not taking any chances. I keep checking behind, but there is no untoward movement in the foliage. Past the second white tree there is a large clearing, down a dip in a ridge. I wouldnât swear to it, but this one does look familiar. Maybe itâs wishful thinking.
It isnât. Three minutes later I see the roof of
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