fallslikesnow

She tried to shake off the inhibitions of a lifetime and set off towards the hill. She climbed it feeling fragile and was intensely nervous, filled with thoughts of what she had been told about this mound. That witches gathered there each new moon; that the fairy folk, with their silver skins and strangely jointed limbs, lived beneath it; that it was the centre of the world and the protecting walls of cloud spun slowly around with the top of the hill as their pivot. As she reached the top she saw a fire had been lit in the middle of a wide circle of flat stone slabs. On the other side of the fire from her sat the old man, unexpectedly tall with a face invisible under his thick dirty beard but with eyes a friendly, warm brown. He said nothing, just looked at Ana as though sizing her up for some task. She felt like a free labourer being assessed by a potential client. He began to play on a small drum -- a simple repetitive beat that got inside Ana’s head. She could see the sparks risi...

Into the meeting hall came Theodore, the headman. He was surprisingly small and slender. His eyes, perpetually wide and a deep clear blue, were notoriously poor at seeing, a fact that many miscreant children had taken advantage of. Apart from the eyes he was dark with black hair and skin that looked tanned all the time. He walked off center, a syncopated lurch that was the result of something breaking in his brain some years before. Even his many enemies refrained from mentioning his ailment, partly through compassion, but mainly to avoid the explosive rage he exhibited whenever it was brought up. No matter the clothes he wore he always had his grandfathers belt around his waist. A thick strip of leather held in place by leather thongs through holes. Hanging from it, all the way around, were a score or more glossy black feathers and it was this that caused awe in those open to the emotion. Having seen a bird was singular enough. To kill and eat one, to absorb its power, was both wonder...

The lapwing's poetic meaning is 'Disguise the Secret' and it is her extraordinary discretion which gives her the claim for sanctity . Robert Graves, The White Goddess Ana carried the basket, dry reeds woven together into lines and loops, filled with mushrooms. A basket, she sometimes thought when in one of her down moods, that was sturdy enough to carry her head should one of her frequent migraines cause it to fall off. As always she stopped at the Tall Stone, the prone Lesser Stones scattered around it, paying obeisance. and she put down the basket and walked up to the tall, misshapen spear of rock, bowing a little, respectful of the power in this place. At the height of her head there were carvings, almost invisible after centuries of erosion, covered with lichen. Above there were three spirals in a rough triangle. They were perfect, as though measured out with ruler and string. Their edges were sharp and they were deeply incised, as if with an inconceivably h...

South through the Lake District, the landscape scattered with strange angular Red structures. The dull green grass on the soft hills was covered with these bright red things, collapsed geodetic spires topped with shattered domes. They looked like failed schematics for crimson mushrooms. Somewhere out on the endless prairies of North America was the successful version. A skyhook fifty miles square at the base, topped off at 23,000 high by something that looked suspiciously like a giant starship. No-one went anywhere near the thing. Red seemed to have plans there and they might involve us. We sat drinking whisky in our compartment watching the view. Somewhere around Lancaster Giles and I lit up Cuban cigars ("rolled on the thighs of nubile young puppets," joked Giles) and resumed our argument. "So you think we can't trust the puppets with anything more complex that food preparation and street sweeping?" I looked around the wood panelled ro...

We hit the ground running, popping open the chopper door as soon as it touched the ground and leaping out. As we raced across the tarmac I briefly stopped and looked back. The helicopter was a collection of yellow and black planes, simple, stripped down, like a childs' toy. A slight leak of Red from the bottom glittered in the sunset like a tear of blood. The pilot, huge eyes barely visible under some kind of mask, waved slowly at me. "That one needs a bath" I thought to myself. I rushed to catch up with Steve, dodging the shallow pools of Red on the runway. I had now wish for even a small transformation or revelation right then. We got a cab and once on the back seat resumed our argument. "Look Giles, it was all running fine out there. There's no need for human intervention in the drilling process at all." "A regular supply of Red is too critical to be left to puppets. The only way to run that operation without human pre...

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