What do you think?
Rate this book


30 pages, ebook
First published November 17, 2011


There were once two little girls who saw, or believed they saw, a thing in a forest …
There were no obvious paths. Dark and light came and went, inviting and mysterious, as the wind pushed clouds across the face of the sun.
The chatter and repeated lilt and alarm of invisible birds, high up, further in. The hum and buzz of insects. Rustling in dry leaves, rushes of movement in thickets. Slitherings, dry coughs, sharp cracks. They went on, pointing out to each other creepers draped with glistening berries, crimson, black and emerald, little crops of toadstools, some scarlet, some ghostly-pale, some a dead-flesh purple, some like tiny parasols...
And now as she wandered on, she saw and recognised them, windflower and bryony, self-heal and dead-nettle, and had—despite where she was—a lovely lapping sense of invisible—just invisible life swarming in the leaves and along the twigs, despite where she was, despite what she had not forgotten having seen there. She closed her eyes a fraction. The sunlight flickered and flickered. She saw glitter and spangling everywhere.
The squirrel stopped to clean its face. She crushed bluebells and saw the sinister hoods of arum lilies.
It was dark now. What was visible had no distinct colour, only shades of ink and elephant.
Quite suddenly, over the tree-tops, a huge disc of white-gold mounted and hung, deepening shadows, silvering edges.
Primrose shrugged voluptuously, let out a gale of a sigh, and rearranged her flesh in her clothes.
She told herself stories at night about a girl-woman, an enchantress in a fairy wood, loved and protected by an army of wise and gentle animals. She slept banked in by stuffed creatures, as the house in the blitz was banked in by inadequate sandbags.
I think, I think there are things that are real—more real than we are—but mostly we don’t cross their paths, or they don’t cross ours. Maybe at very bad times we get into their world, or notice what they are doing in ours.
The corner of the blanket that covered the unthinkable had been turned back enough for her to catch sight of it. She was in its world.
The face of the Thing hung in her brain, jealously soliciting her attention, distracting her from dailiness.
“Her name was Alys.”
“With a y.”