Emma-Grace Clarke

Christians hate pagans, this much is true. They burned women and men, dunked them under cool waters until their lungs burst like bloody balloons staining the waters crimson.  But the reason for this has been lost to history for centuries, hidden under the masks of science and logic. 

 

It’s because the pagans were right -- tragically. Their gods were monsters.

​

 

 

The Earth turns unbidden to human or divine desire. It falls through the universe at an unobservable speed and Death perches on the edge of it all, watching, held in the embrace of his lover. Death is exactly how authors have described him. All white boned, cowl weaved of shadow and wicked scythe in hand. Why do authors get it right? I have no clue, but I respect it. A sense of imagination can truly be powerful.

 

I am what mortals would call divine or at least I am an impression of what was once divine, and my name is unimportant. I am also overly dramatic. I can accept that for what it is, I was made this way, tis not my fault.

 

Also, I am unsurprisingly a nostalgic creature, to remember is an itch within that I cannot help but scratch. I remember the days of the ancients, eons ago now, when I stalked the mossy forests with great horns that reached into the ashy skies alighting them with thunder. I was created in the times before time, when the Earth had only just started to breathe its first breath and I awakened upon the dew-new earth in the body of a small child, weak and sickly and sacrificial.

 

The whole thing was rather barbaric; I was to consume the child’s essence when they matured to the age of eleven. These infants were the vectors for parasitical deities who wormed their way into material beings, waking from sleep to fulfil their divine tasks. Many of my kind take pleasure in this act tearing away at youthful vitality.

 

If I am truly honest, I loathed it.

 

​

 

My most recent body was a small girl.

 

Born at 4:28pm on 14th February 2007 at Wansbeck General Hospital.

 

She was unaware and innocent as with most children. She sat in her cartoonish room filled with doodles of trees, animals and insects that crawled across the walls. Red crayon in hand, and frizzy head bobbing furiously to unheard music drawing with fervour. She dances (all elbows) as she weaves spindly legs that protrude from a small body upon a rickety desk.  She scrawls underneath the creature Redback Spider (Australia) by Daphne Ashwell 14th Feb - 2018. 

 

She buzzed with unrestrained energy, springing to action disturbing the calm of the frosty morning --this was the most important day of the year after all. Galloping through the shadows tiny feet slapping on hardwood, her destination in sight she runs as if flames are licking at her heels, a door slams open and she was upon him. 

 

“Daph, knock it off,” a wheeze slithering from the sheets.

    

“Da-a-a-a-d get up! Come on!” sticky fingers crawled over his craggy face, the residue said: lollies, chocolate and birthday.

 

 

“Flower! Happy Birthday sweetheart,” the two embraced upon the knitted blankets, “come on then wiggle worm,” he said pulling her up on to her feet.

 

“I’m not a wiggle worm!” she said as she jumped onto the chilly floor following the dark shape of her father who flicked on the lights of the house.  Warm artificial light flooded the hallway as they walked into the kitchen. 

 

Breakfast was a quick pop and sizzle of butter. Syrups, strawberries, blackberries, mulberries all lush and full were placed in neat rows like tiny soldiers.

 

Golden brown pancakes were quickly drowned and burdened with various berries and they disappeared quickly, leaving Daphne stickier than she was before, a ring of syrup clinging around her lips.

 

They were ready for the big day.

 

The sun rose over the rolling hills alighting the house in pillowy soft fire the two stepped into the front garden and onto the slick cobblestones.

 

Petting the leaves of the lettuce in the vegetable patch that had been frosted by the night’s gentle breath, Daphne crunched over the small rocks to the car hidden in the shadow of the great oaks. They were the last remnants of English wilderness that emanated from each feral badger that scuttled through the foliage and in each branch that reached into the sky to meet the clouds. The trees of Kielder Forest constantly whispered to each other without the aid of the wind, the land below her feet thrummed with an ancient vigour through the freeways of fungi.

 

It was her home.

 

The two got into the Cortina as it coughed to life, the rust-and-blue vehicle puttering out of the winding driveway with skilful ease. The sleepy village of Wark was just starting to yawn with wakefulness as small groups of P&C mums with smoothies and coated up dachshunds began to pour from small brightly coloured doors. Eyes bored disapprovingly into the panel beater as it passed them, disappearing into the surrounding countryside with small coughs of exhaust.

 

​

 

Hours passed in near silence, anxiety charging the air settling its claws into the wiring of the Ford, the fluttering eyelashes of Daphne and the right leg of Dad. They all jumped in unison, but car wiring is not meant to jump or be anxious or fearful or feel any real emotions at all. 

 

The Cortina was very jittery and very emotional.

 

Not good. 

 

Some of us turn to smoking when we get too emotional-- the Cortina was the same in this respect. Smoke billowed from the bonnet, coughing and spluttering the car crawled to the roadside of the A1 convulsing to its final shuddering breath as horns blared behind it from begrudged drivers. Dad and Daphne caught each other’s eyes panic settling into their bones as her eyelashes no longer fluttered and his legs no longer bounced.

 

“Oh…bugger,” Dad sighed, his forehead meeting the steering wheel.

 

“Erm dad?” Daphne said, watching the cars tease her as they zipped by on the freeway.

 

“Better get out the car check out the engine, get out on the passenger side though Flower, away from the road and we’ll give it a squiz.” leaving the car the bitter winds bit at their cheeks as they looked out onto the bleak endless fields with frustration pulsing in their veins. It was always there of course, right on the periphery.

 

This was a rare occasion for me, feeling another potent emotion seep through into my sleeping psyche’s cocoon. I stirred but not the rolling over dreamy feeling of warmth that occurs rarely in sleep cycles. For the first time in Daphne’s short life she invaded my dreams with images of pearlescent plastics, dirty used cups and bags caught in brambles like jellyfish caught in fishing line. Fury coursed through us, a vicarious nightmare.

 

“Dad…look,” gesturing to the waste that was sitting uncaring and unapologetic.

 

Dad looked up from his puzzlement over the engine, with a face of sour milk, “I know sweetheart, how about while I try to fix this piece of rubbish you pick up a bit of that rubbish? Just be very very careful! You know these drivers are a bit mental sometimes,” a ghost of a wink passed across his face. 

 

Stamping her booted feet Daphne got to work.  

 

Greasy crisp packets and soggy coffee cups and grimy pie packets and frayed bags and ripped blankets were her most common treasures. She attempted an extraction with a mangled tire but with minimal straining against the damp rubber it obviously wished to stay and watch the day go by. Kicking it with all her might she picked up a discarded Jammy Dodger packet and sat on the dark rim of the tyre turning it over in her hands, eyebrows pulled tight. The wind whispered in tongues, as an enormous grubby truck slowed to a stop behind the rust-blue box that was their car. Daphne hoped that this person was here the help them barely able to hear their approach over the screams of the wind.

 

The great behemoth billowed smoke as the cab door swung open revealing Paul’s written in grimy gold upon the door. Stepping out was a short man and from what Daphne could tell he was entirely made from grease. His hair a dark oil slick that slid down to a beard of gelatine that came to a sharp, dripping point. His skin was corpse-grey and beady dark eyes peered from sunken holes. 

    

“Got a flat have you sir?” the tiny man strode past Daphne eyes jumping over her. Dad’s eyes flickering in concern as a plastic smile fell onto his mouth.

 

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Dad said staring into the car with a steely eye, “think she just needs a jump start.”

 

Daphne did not like this man one bit, he was a snake of a man, a snake in a man-suit and she was mighty surprised that his tongue was not spilt. All greased and slick as if he had rolled around in the Gulf of Mexico, strangling the birds with a smile of puce upon his face.

 

The man in question wheeled to the engine, the smell of petrol and rot emanating from his steaming breath, hums purring from his mouth the whole while as his critical eye turned to the Cortina.

 

“Humpft, looks like you might need a bit more than a jump start Mr….”

 

“Ashwell,” Dad said with no hesitation.

 

“Mr Ashwell. Let me give it a good look over and see what I can do,” running tongue over teeth he begun to pull rusted tools from what seemed to be bottomless pockets.

Daphne waddled over to her father and nestling into his side watching this new creature with undisguised suspicion, he oozed—she could feel it. He was all over the road like an oil slick, sliding into the ever crevasse and pouring fear into her mind.

 

Grunts and quiet clangs came from within the bonnet and something glinting in the man’s hand dark like obsidian. Daphne rushed over to catch the man everything felt wrong wrong wrong! Every step wrought change as if reality could not be bothered to hold together for this man wavering before her the world completely spun making her head spin.

 

His head rose as she approached, “It’s almost time oldtimer,” his voice seemed to reverberate through Daphne as he reached his full height towering above her, elongating like an afternoon shadow. His form sagged and coagulated, his eyes large glistening spheres the colour of peat as his hair drizzled down his face leaving dark oily smears. Daphne was frozen in her horror as the scabbed gash of what was once his mouth gushed with an onyx, aqueous slop that fell from his mouth as he spoke. “But I’ve gotta make it a little more difficult,” teeth burst from the slash in his face, all rotten and fetid and brown, gnashing together and sending Daphne into the spin from the smell, “it’s in the job description,” holding up his hands wearing gloves of oily night and sewer water he placed them onto the engine with a sizzle.

 

“Wha’ are ya doin’? What do ya mean?” consternation stuck in Daphne’s throat.

Paul ignored her, the engine rattled, groaned and screamed.

 

Silence. 

 

Physics decided that was enough of that and Paul had boarders again, no longer a puddle incarnate. Just a regular man as Daphne could only barely manage to keep her legs from turning into brittle glass and cracking beneath her.

 

“Well Mr. Ashwell,” now it was just one voice speaking, as Daphne sputtered like a drowning man, “mind my language but your car looks completely bollocksed,” eyes cold and hungry stared at Daphne, “I could give you a lift somewh—”

 

“No! Dad! He did something…to…the” peering into the engine it was warped like a piece of chewing gum, but all dark metals and plastics, “engine! Dad look,” Paul’s smile widened all teeth and gums. Dad investigated the car worrying his lip.

 

“Flower…it looks pretty fine to me.”

    

“I guess kids just see what they want to see, my daughter’s the same. Got a very active imagination,” Paul laughed however his eye’s never left Daphne’s, hands still sodden slightly as oil dripping onto the dewed grassed.

 

“No!” Daphne ran and jumped into the driver’s seat the car rocking with the impact, “come on you stupid thing! Work!” her voice for a single second reverberated through the car feral and unhinged with panic. The car shuddered and whirred, as Daphne slammed her hands upon the wheel her palms stinging.

 

“Daph! What are you doing? Get out of there!” Dad started to walk over to the driver’s side, reaching for her. The car shook and trembled, then purred.

 

Daphne wide eyed looked at the wheel, held together by duct tape and love, then her mouth upturned into a smug smile. She sashayed from the car and into her father’s arms who starred gormlessly at the rusted bucket of sky blue with four wheels.

 

Looking towards Paul his face was a mask of pleasant surprise, but his eyes were hard coal.

 

“I guess it’s working now. The old beater’s still got it. Thank you for your help Mr…Paul was it?” dad said holding out his hand.

    

“Yes Mr Paul,” reaching into dirty denim jeans and pulling out a white card, “here’s my card,” handing it to Dad with a smile made of mud, “give me a call if you ever need a hand with rubbish. I can be quite the collector,” he began to walk around the car inspecting the rusted exterior, “looks like it’s running even better than before, these older models normally belch smoke, now seems to be running smooth as silk.” his eyes slid over Daphne, “On your way out then I suppose? Won’t be too long now. I best be off anyways lots of litter to attend to,” he said lovingly.

 

“We’ll give you a call if we ever need...refuse refining,” dad said confusing laced into his voice looking down at the card.

 

“You do that Mr. Ashwell,” he said sauntering back to the truck, stepping in and disappearing, not a smile in sight. The truck roared to life blowing dark smoke and with a howl the truck made its way back onto the freeway joining the swarm of motorists.

 

“Well…what a strange fellow,” dad said scratching he head, “best be off Flower, we’re going to be late at this rate,” pulling her towards the car by the hand.

 

“Dad did you see what that man did? At all?” confusion was etched between her eyebrows that were drawn together tightly.

 

“You mean fixing the car? Well yes, I did indeed it was very nice of him even if he was a bit…erm bizarre. Now get in and we’ll get going.”

 

With a considerable amount of protesting from Daphne they both climbed into the car, which upon entry they both noticed that it had lost its petroleum air, as if it had been sucked out with a straw. Dad allowed a goofy grin to spread across his face, “As good as new. Lets go,” as he gunned the engine back into the traffic of the A1 Daphne holding onto the door handle white knuckled. 

 

The journey continued and with each passing minute tension left muscles and knuckles became more flesh colours and words of no consequence were thrown through the car with shining smiles.

 

However, something followed. 

 

Daphne felt this deep sense of wrongness—dread that slithered over her and settled right in her stomach like a writhing snake wishing to tear through her skin for air. Dad was unaware of his daughter’s growing turmoil, humming the theme to Only Fools and Horses as they now sat stationary at the entry of the M25.

 

“Hmm at this rate we’re never going to make it. Tube?” Dad questioned looking over and her pallid daughter, whose eyes kept looking over her shoulders.

 

“Tube.” Daphne responded now looking and the clouds. Dad knew that look, it was her pondering look, the look you did not disturb until the pondering was over or you would face her tiny wrath.

 

He let her be.

 

​

 

Daphne stepped onto the train as if she was in a dream, following the musty scent of her father as a compass in her travels. The bright flickering light of the tube made no mark upon Daphne’s one-thousand-yard stare, eyes scanning the tube with disinterest. 

 

They landed upon a boy around twelve who appeared to be made of tatters staring out the window noticed by no one despite his central position in the carriage surrounded by surly looking business men. Slightly tossed from her meditative state, she finally batted an eyelid and stared at the boy. 

 

The florescent lights flickered as he pivoted on his heels, Daphne pulling on her father’s holey sleeve. His face elongated just for a moment, ivory spiderwebs crawled across his face, clawing from his eyes and mouth now dark and endless. Filled with space that was nothing, he tapped his wrist inclining his body towards Daphne as some bastardisation of a bow.

 

There was a click and a whoosh of the doors as they reached the next station, the boy of bones disappeared into the wave of people alighting from the train. South Kensington. The train began to whir, scrambling to the window, snotty nose pressed against the grimy glass, Daphne stared out but all she saw was the dirty tiles and one even dirtier man waving the train goodbye in painful ecstasy with tears falling from his eyes. Then darkness invaded her vision as the train short forward into the warrens of tunnels that was the London Underground.

 

“Daph! Get back here! Jesus H. Christ!” pulled back from her kneeling position within an old woman’s personal space who looked at her like a lizard would a fly. Her eyes glassy, oozy and dark, her body retched and decrepit. Crawling up the wall, her head turned at the wrong angles and her tongue lolling out of her mouth dark viscous saliva dripping down with a hiss onto the seat.

 

There was a sharp scream cut off before it became too blood curdling and Daphne shook like a leaf, “Hey, hey…what’s going on?” there was someone stroking her hair, one hand over her mouth with familiar hard calluses hugging against her shielding her from the old broken woman.

 

Silence.

 

“Come on…this is our stop then we can have a sit down,” and she was led off the busy train onto the even busier platform, a sign stuck out that read Westminster.

 

Walking through the station Daphne was a pink fleshy nerve -- all feeling and no understanding. Eyes closed she silently follow the calm of her father, hoping that when she opened her eyes reality was back in motion.

 

“Daph,” she felt herself being lowered onto a seat, “come on now flower open your eyes, it’s all alright,” eyes stayed closed, “I’ll call us a taxi and we’re going to go home. We won’t go on the train again, lord knows why you even agreed,” the deep voice coloured with a humourless smile.

 

“No!” large moss like eyes flicked open and Looking about, the tiles did not shiver or shimmer or warp. Men did not walk as beasts and all was right again, “I want to go! We’ve got go today! It’s the only day!”

 

Dad sighed, a long tired sad sigh that breezed through the two of them like a winter wind, “Not for long. Okay, we’re here we’ll go out, but I want to get you home as soon as possible.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The two stood Dad holding a still fearful Daphne and like Moses parting the sea, people moving for them as they saw Daphne’s tear stained cheeks -- no one wants to get involved with a kid crying. 

 

After wrestling with the ticket machine (they’re always angry at the rurals who come in and don’t understand them) they scaled the stairs with relative ease, people wearing face paint of greens and blacks around them, angry and defiant, climbing with them. Pushing them along with their waves of passion.

 

As the sun kissed them there was a roar of multiple voices churning and singing around them into the clear air, “HELL NO WE WON’T GO! DO NOT CHOP US DOWN!” a repeated mantra that filled the city streets, a hypnotising rhythm that overtook the small family flooding their veins, lighting zipped through their bodies and adrenaline fogging their minds.

 

The streets of Westminster we inundated, green of all shades bled together as a verdant tapestry of anger and defiance. It crashed against the black steel gates of parliament screaming in desperation, tears flowed, voices hoarse, rising like an unstoppable wave.

 

This was my moment. These were my people.

 

I awoke.

 

Daphne in her final moments of consciousness knew this was fated, she was not stupid. From what I could tell her emotions were ones of joy intermingled with the sharp sting of loss that sprung from her like leaks in a ship. She was barely holding together, the timber that held back the truth of what was to happen was rotten and bending, ready to snap at any moment. Her eyes and mine now entwined found her father, worn but smiling -- distorted and swimming before us. He looked upon the crowd that fought and cried for the future he so wished to happen, that we wished to happen. The crowd fell away, fading into a cloud of grey mist, his face hung there for a moment but then was gone, lost to the tide.

 

The fog tumbled into this new world of unreality held within the space between space with a silent lake standing between us. Her small body was so tiny against the dark body of water that stretched before her lapping at her toes. It was a natural rhythm, those tiny waves in the dark abyss and it was the bringer of the chill that spread across her skin in fractals of ice.

 

“You know what is asked.”

 

Saplings the colour of viscous, aged blood burst from the earth behind her, they took shambling steps forward, growing from saplings to large oaks casting shadows over us both as I stood upon the dark water before her, phantasmal toes just dipping into the lake, darkened faces peaceful in the quiet floating below me in the murk. I knew them all, for they were past bodies --past thefts. But fear did not colour her face, it was as if chiselled from pale marble.

 

The new trees hummed like mummers in an indistinct crowd swaying slightly they continued their march forcing her closer to the water. Their branches brushing at her back with whispers and kisses.

 

“This is not your fault.” It was not one voice, but a tapestry of voices all swirling from Daphne’s mouth. No one and everyone spoke.

 

She descended now into the water, the trees and I watching in stoic masochism from above. Her hair fanning out in the water like a blooming water lily. As quickly as she was there, she was gone. Consumed into the murk, into the depths.

 

Shifting and soaring the shadows elongated, and trees grew teeth that gnashed at their own bark. The fog cleared to reveal great expanses of nothingness, just water and trees and earth. The lake bubbled and churned, now a terrible swirling whirlpool that looked as if descended forever and I in the middle floating just above it. I felt my mouth forced open by unseen hands but I did not panic, the water shot towards me, filling me over and over again, vitality gushing through me until I could take no more, the aching and the straining was too much. For a moment there was nothing, just suspension then I fell weightless down into the deep that bellowed around me like thunder.

 

 

​

 

The world snapped back into view like a television flicking on, screams and yells slapping against my new ears, sweat and passion assaulting my nose causing me to scrunch it all up. I stood at the feet of my body’s father, a man named Dad.

 

I yanked at his arm leading him into the sweaty mass of people that pressed up against each other with no ability to tell whose arm was whose, or which leg went where. But I could see, all of them, my warriors spread out before me begging and fighting against the cold steel of parliament for the remnants of our ancient wilds. Banners and warpaint and stomping and chants, a great ritual that sunk into the Earth casting compassion upon their apathetic kin. And these people knew, they knew there was no way to return the ancient ways of the forests or the wilds, that they would never see its beauty, its wonder. All that was left to them was thinning woods filled with dog paths and rope swings of children. But a small chance lies here in these people, a spark of flint unto embers. In the swell of beating breasts and harsh cries that wash over me like a rising tide.

 

But days do not last forever.

 

​

 

“You’re a soft touch,” the whisper seeps into the darkness filling the small bedroom, “Leave! Your masquerade is over, and your responsibilities await,” the hissing voice pressed on. I bought the green downy duvet to my chin, a useless shield.

 

“He deserves a goodbye. He’s all alone,” I called out into the shadows. The hoot of an owl was my only response and a flutter of feathers careened onto the windowsill alighting with a fragile screech from an ancient looking tawny owl. Its head turned, amber eyes glowing in the high moonlight. It had no beak; it’s face was that of a woman’s with papery white skin that sagged in bags across her cheeks and jowls.

 

“Humans destroyed what you held so dear…I thought you would finally crack this time. I was hoping you’d show us a bit of the old you. So full of hatred for humans but…it looks like you’re quite cosy,” she said with a sneer, her thin lips barely moving. I edged away as she flapped her receding wings, crossing the short distance to land upon my chest on top of the blankets, she rose and fell quickly with my breath, “your whole existence is contingent upon your protection of your domain which lies un—”

 

“But I have already failed Ma’am, the forests are almost gone,” I said my voice trembling like a leaf.

 

“Almost Cernunnos, but not quite yet. You of all people should know of rebirth,” she hissed, scratching her talons into the blankets, “LEAVE!” her voice tripled, and her weight fell onto me like a stone, crushing my chest.

 

“I will-I will, Christ. Just—” an involuntary sigh escaped from my lungs, “just let him say goodbye.”

 

“You are a fool,” She hopped towards my face and stared into my eyes piercing my retinas, “but I can see you in the young face, that you mean what you say…I will allow you one day. But I warn you this growing attachment to your vessels is dangerous,” her voice cut into my being like knives as if she was attempting to rend me from this body with only her voice, “the longer you stay the more that you cause this man pain,” eyes large and gleaming she turned, eyes still on me and the feathery body turned away, “If you are not gone by tomorrow I will have to tear you from this house by force and you do not wish for that. Do you?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Good.”

 

She was gone on silent wing and then I was alone with only a stuffed rabbit for company its glassy eyes casting judgement in the darkness. I let sleep take me slowly and I dreamt fitfully of rabbits with the faces of Dad crying.

 

​

​

Rain pattered against the rippled glass like tiny drums playing just for us and giants stomped on clouds as thunder rumbled across the clouds. In all my time upon Earth, I had never had orange juice, which was at the centre of my musing as Dad placed the bright orange drink in front of me. It felt wrong to see a perfectly good orange liquidated, I mean isn’t it quite unnecessary? Just eat an orange. 

    

I looked up from my contemplativeness to see Dad cluttering around the kitchen with seemingly no real aim in mind as the radio whispered to us, gardening I think however I only heard snippets like, “mulching,” and, “petunias.”

I continued to look at this tall glass of orange willing myself to take just a sip

one…

tiny…

sip…

 

“Flower, you’re not drinking your juice! Need your vitamin C,” a smile bloomed on his face he swung around the kitchen counter kissing my hair. He was making this leaving business very difficult.

 

I nodded.

 

The rain began to fall harder, drowning out the indistinct voices of the BBC that were just making the claims about the wonders of meditation.

 

“Well, rainin’ all day. Telly?” Dad inquired.

 

I nodded again and we amble into the lounge, to experience something I have never done before, sitting and watching a square.

 

I realise that I do not like it as it blinks to life a few dead pixels in the top left-hand corner that draw my eye. The news flares onto the screen a severe looking woman stares at us, talking of political upheaval as we settle into the lumpy couch with two grooves made just for us.

 

“In other news,” the fuzzy voice drones from the woman, “despite large protests in Westminster yesterday. The bill for logging in English forests has been passed by Parliament with a majority vote.”

 

Oh. Humans. 

 

A brick dropped into my stomach.

 

“Oh Flower, I’m so sorry,” he held me to his side, and I felt the top of my head become quickly damp.

 

Looking out the window at the rolling hills that swelled like waves. I stood, legs weak like a fawn freshly entering the world.

“Goodbye,” I whispered, and I walked away.

 

He did not stop me, only watching me with sad eyes. The backdoor creaked as I stepped out onto the slick cobblestone my new feet taking me past the veggie patch water hitting me like tiny pins. I ran, tripping to the edge of the forest, Daphne’s body made of elbows and knees was slower going that I had hoped, leaves crunching under foot. Hair plastered to my face and my sock adhered to my feet I reached out for the craggy bark of the dark oaks. Their branches surged forward in desperation jerkily embracing in the damp we held each other. Water fell like an uncontrollable typhoon and for the first time in centuries I allowed tears to well, hidden in the rain. They surged forth from my eyes accompanied by hiccupping sobs. But when the tears broke the dam of lashes they fell at funeral’s march, clinging to my face.

 

The world went still, raindrops suspended before me as if caught in a snow globe before gravity took hold. Crystals that hung upon sky-strings twinkling in the opaque light hidden by ashy clouds. I sigh, allowing reality to slip from my grasp like silk, unweaving and unravelling and becoming undone. Skin breaking like too tight elastic, snapping bands across my back as capillaries ruptured and webs of crimson danced across the thin membrane. My bones shifted, pushing through muscles with caustic pressure, splitting and burning with spurts of ichor upon the wet earth, bathing the roots of the dark oak that greedily drank the coppery fluid.  Heavy antlers burst unbidden, a natural weight pushing through the skin like centipedes crawling through the ground in search of clear air. Slick and glistening with gore that seeped from every jagged tear in my skin. The frizzy hair of Daphne’s retracted burrowing into skin like thousands of tapeworms finding their way to my arms and legs and teeming from the bloodied human pelt. Bending and writhing and screaming and begging and breaking. The world stopped, the falling at an unimaginable rate stopped, the spinning now for this second adherent to divine desire. As I stood, free.

 

I rose to my full height, antlers reaching into the unending slate skies dripping with blood in the frozen rain and with dark lidless eyes I looked upon my kin, rotting before me like fetid bodies discarded without care. Reaching out I place my hand on a growth of yellow oak bracket the sponge was soft, and it lapped at the gore that covered each finger, desperate for the sustenance that I could provide. Each living thing sung a slow march that keened of fate, love and decay.

 

Then as I slowly looked upon my kinfolks, my betters, they stepped from within them, seamless appearing from the rugged bark.

 

There they were, standing was not quite the right word as they seemed to be in motion but perfectly still as if their existence was movement and stillness and time. They were attendants, observers in this great game. Ethereal and ephemeral they looked upon me and smiled. Death and his lover, there before me. The greatest of lovers and the greatest of foes.

 

“So, is this your decision?” not a voice but truth.

 

“Yes.”

 

“It will be done.”

 

I readied myself, within this realm of unbeing of unlife and undeath. I cupped my hands to my mouth looking upon the lovers and beyond them to the last of my kin who cry out in great pain, whispering, screaming my name, ‘Cernunnos’ lightning striking the sky with each heart wrenching roar. But they were to stay, unable to choose until the humans came with great machines to destroy them and choose for them. They always chose death: take them, raze them, make them and use them and love them more when their dead rather than alive. Because they were useful, nice chairs and tables they were these great oaks. These great ancestors. These great sedentary beasts.

 

I screamed as blue light shone from between my rent lips, blood pouring from my gums in painful waves that light the forest as the world screamed my name, the grass, the deer, the badgers, the sky, the sun, the moon, the ants, the worms, the foxes all wondered but they knew, they saw.

 

A panicked scream cut across the chaos, “Daph! Daphne! Where are you?” the poor pawn of the gods, left in death’s skeletal hands, “Come inside!”

 

He could not see.

 

“Join us.”

 

The steps were agonising, rain turned to hail, the wind to knives, the world twisting into a feral creature.

 

“They have betrayed you.”

 

“They have indeed,” the whisper escapes into the storm unheard, the oaks crowding forward nearly ripped from the ground by the wind and their own determination.

 

I continue and I enfold myself in their embrace and sigh, held between them like a small wounded animal.

 

“Let go.”

 

And so, I did.