A black crow on a winter branch secretly folds one broken wing behind. Her beak shines hard, sharp and crooked for the kill. She has one cold, black eye wide-open, alert, unblinking; deep and sure as death.
O had that dream again last night. The one
with the two children. And their eyes, their eyes huge and black, black and huge, twisting, turning, weaving their ancient
spell, drawing him in, to drop wildly down,
down, down, spiraling down. And
always the pressure of the drums pounding in his temples, and he didn’t know
which way was up. Their eyes, their eyes that mesmerise, that beckon - calling, calling, calling - from the darkness, from
the outworld, from the hinterland, far, far away, over the city walls, far, far
beyond his neat square room, and this tiny, white screen.
Look. There. They're there now. Two little, stone-age savages with screwed-up dirty
faces. A girl and a boy, big sister and her little brother. She holds his hand
tightly, and he fidgets, twists and turns to escape her grasp. And their wiry
bodies are ever-mobile, as they watch and wait, impatiently shifting from foot to
foot. Twigs and branches whip and snap and crackle, under small bare feet.
They’re
dressed today in pale grey animal tatters. They never seem to get any older. They're always
the same, always watching, waiting, and their eyes always calling,
calling, calling: ‘Come hither, come hither, come hither, and join the dance…’
The
girl leans in. See the unscrubbed face of a wild woodland creature,
screwing up her eyes, furrowing her brow, twitching her stubby button nose,
scowling and sniffing; momentarily overcome by curiosity, it seems, momentarily
losing her native caution, as if, for a moment, she can see him sitting there
and wonders what he is. As if for a moment she could press her soft, warm cheek
against his. Her black eyes grow wider and rounder as she leans in. He sees
her lower lip is painted black and swells into a petulant pout. The air becomes
suddenly chill. He feels a wisp of the wind of their world. The white frame clicks
and clears a little, widens, and he glimpses their woodland home.
It
must be autumn there now. Leaves lie russet on the ground in long, slender
barrows by the brook - winking in the breeze, red, yellow, orange, brown - and
here and there the forest floor is flattened cold and grey by the clockwork
footfall of the hunting bands that crossed and recrossed in Indian style not half a day ago.
Now
the girl is distracted by something in the trees. She turns, and crouching low,
she grips her brother’s tiny, grubby hand more tightly, and they slip away in a
rustle of leaves.
O
was a child of six when he first saw them. It was night time, and they were
clanking down a metal fire-escape, then hurtling headlong in a whip and a flap of
heels and cloaks down the cobbles of Gasworks Brew. He thought they
must be child-workers from the mill, fleeing their filthy metal masters, overseers of the clanging machines. He saw them run in terror from
the Time and Motions, from the Clackers. Saw them clunking in clogs, in
tattered shawl and poor coat. Little angels with dirty faces. Saw them as they
scurried frantically along the canal path, under the bridge, along the lane to the cinder path. Watched them disappear somewhere up ahead.
He
can’t see them now. But he knows one is the girl – she’s the taller of the
two, and she’s on the left-hand side of the pair – and one is the boy – he’s the
smaller one on the right. She's his sister, and she lowers a warm, protective wing across his shoulder, in a
motherly gesture. And they are walking away. He hears the boy’s voice sometimes. It’s not a
small child’s voice; it’s the voice of an old man, trying to remember.
It’s
so very long ago, you see. All I know is: she holds my hand so very, very tight and she never lets me go. And I look up to her. Niamh, my sister, so determined, so
very brave. She's much bigger, much stronger than me. And I know she's so
much better than me, in so many ways. And we march out into the night, up the
cinder path, along the lane, and out into the open fields.
O watches two children walk away: a girl and a boy. Black night holds its breath, and
they get further and further off, become indistinct. Like two sooty smudges
in the grate, fragile strangers, as – puff – they are caught in the draught. They swirl and turn and – pop - they disappear up the chimney. Gone, the broken,
black umbrellas, one large and one small. Gone, in tatters, into the night, and
out of sight.
A
black crow on a winter branch secretly folds one broken wing behind. Her beak
shines hard, sharp and crooked for the kill. She has one cold, black eye wide-open,
alert, unblinking; deep and sure as death.
