A Writer's Wonderland [PDF] - University of Portsmouth

They are gone. No word of warning will bring them back. And they will never see their
sister again. But they know nothing of that; only the rotten apple that tumbles from their boot
toes. One by one they pounce over the wall, into Farmer O’Brien’s field. The frail leaves cover
their buds and tremble as the shadows leaps across the sun. The magpie catches his feather on
the drooping beach, his brother’s flying arm pulls him free. The fox leads the pack with long
limbed loping, and the beta howls to the triumphant sky in a running leap, heading up the slope,
further up, up and over.
The circle lies far on the heath, on the edge of the brown cliffs where foamy waves dash
their heads against the crags of man. Six sons leap across chaffing cuts, howling to the wind and
whooping like crows. They throw stones to the sea and climb further, higher. Six pairs of boots
scramble up the pillars of the ancient salt grains, six hands caress the corpse of the aged ones.
Six feet cross the border. The clouds break. A drop of rain catches the cigarette of the eldest son
and the flame goes out. Spiting sprites beat the heads of the young men, amidst the crashing
waves they look down and retch. An ominous mass of pebbles spew in bloody turmoil from their
insides; they scream but the gulls peck out their throats gagging their pleas, and throw their
voices to the crying waves. It’s all over now. Nothing can be heard but the echoes resonating on
the insides of the dark caves where the waves are booming.
Cassie Brethren, excused from church but not from frowns, is the first to cross the stile.
The clouds are torn into shreds, scattered across an icy sky. Where are they Cassie? She crosses
Farmer O’Brien’s field and the furrowed brows muddy her hem, causing her boots to sink. Her
brother’s feathers are fluttering against its bars; the twigs scratch her face but she snaps them
with her washerwoman fingers. The handful for wounded dark nestles in her hand, loose
stitches that she did by candle light not a month ago. Pocket it for now. Further across the field,
the walk is long, her gown is ruined. Six twelve feet stamped this ground; they start deep with
mortal effort. But now they are softer, the pads of prints are indented where the heel
disappeared; they were running. They leapt clean over the lightening log. Here they are again,
now the wall refuses to speak. She looks up and down the road; the left that goes to the end
town, the right to the ridges. No road here leads anywhere. Where did they go Cassie? She opens
the gate and goes through.
Cassie Brethren is the first to climb the cliffs in years. She traces bloody handholds, and
climbs over the edge of the circle. Calling for her brothers, she wonders across the ancient site,
trips on death and rolls over. Black feathers stifle her fall, swamping her mouth, don’t touch
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