away for me to hear her voice. For this I must wait another billion years.
Only when she is close enough, when I am looking into her glazed milky white eyes and can feel her breath on my face, am I rewarded with a sound so quiet as to be almost undetectable but still entirely human. It is pure and intelligent and achingly beautiful.
On she comes and nothing is left in my field of vision but her mouth, her perfect white teeth and glistening tongue. Compared to her I am nothing: bacteria; a mote of dust. At the back of her throat I glimpse something unexpected: a black polished shape like a beetle's shell. This, too, draws closer as the woman envelopes me, taking the whole of me inside her cavernous mouth. I was mistaken: it is not a shell but the horn of a phonograph, the source of the singing voice. The sound is so unguarded and simple it breaks my heart.
At length the mouth of the horn swallows me too and I am left hanging in emptiness with nothing but the song. Finally it weakens and dies, as all things must...
… The smell of burning coal. I am in my chair at home by the hearth. David is sat opposite me, a glass of wine in one hand and his cherry-wood pipe in the other. Outside the window fog swirls under the street lights. Miss Morley clatters pans in the kitchen downstairs.
“David,” I say.
He has aged little since we last met. His hair is as untameable and his eyebrows as arched as ever. Lit by the crackling fire he breaks into an easy smile.
“David,” I say. “I'm so glad you're here.”
He looks as if he is about to reply but thinks better of it. Again he smiles, more to himself than to me. Somehow sensing I may not be here for very long I resolve to make the most of my visit and settle into my old familiar seat, enjoying the leather creaking under my weight. A full glass of red is waiting for me on the table. I pick it up and take a sip. Outside, the fog continues to swirl.
David coughs to get my attention and nods at something over my shoulder. I ask him what he wants me to do. He nods again.
Looking behind me I see a large mahogany wardrobe taken from my bedroom, crammed into the corner and completely blocking the bookshelves.
“Did you move that? Thank you, but I think I preferred it where it was. It's of no use to me here.”
My companion takes the pipe from his mouth and points the stem at the round-cornered doors.
“You want me to open it?”
I get up, cross the rug and take hold of the brass handles. A formidable presence waits for me within, something dark and heavy, something massive enough to distort time. I brace myself and pull.
What confronts me is a solid wall of mud. A scattering of loose dirt falls to the carpet but otherwise it is packed in tightly, filling the space's every inch. I look to David for an explanation but he is busy savouring his tobacco and displays no interest. I scratch the surface with my forefinger and more dirt falls away. Diligently rolling up my shirt sleeves I briefly notice a small puncture wound in the crook of my arm. Then I grab a fistful and let it drop. Miss Morley will be angry with me in the morning but I have no choice. Using of both hands now I dig out a hole. Before I know it I am up to my elbows, then my shoulders, burrowing like a dog and pushing towards the back. When the hole is sufficiently wide I place my knee on its lip and haul myself inside.
The glossy mud reaches farther than I had anticipated, far beyond where the bookshelves should be. Soon I am able to stretch my entire body out flat with no trouble at all. More and more deeply I delve, excavating as I go, the tunnel collapsing in my wake. I dig around rocks, and pipes, and the roots of trees. Then, just as I think I will never come to the end, I see sunlight.
The soil around my fingers crumbles away and fresh air rushes in. With surprising ease I am able to lift myself from the ground, disoriented to find I have been digging not horizontally, but vertically. Brambles
Only when she is close enough, when I am looking into her glazed milky white eyes and can feel her breath on my face, am I rewarded with a sound so quiet as to be almost undetectable but still entirely human. It is pure and intelligent and achingly beautiful.
On she comes and nothing is left in my field of vision but her mouth, her perfect white teeth and glistening tongue. Compared to her I am nothing: bacteria; a mote of dust. At the back of her throat I glimpse something unexpected: a black polished shape like a beetle's shell. This, too, draws closer as the woman envelopes me, taking the whole of me inside her cavernous mouth. I was mistaken: it is not a shell but the horn of a phonograph, the source of the singing voice. The sound is so unguarded and simple it breaks my heart.
At length the mouth of the horn swallows me too and I am left hanging in emptiness with nothing but the song. Finally it weakens and dies, as all things must...
… The smell of burning coal. I am in my chair at home by the hearth. David is sat opposite me, a glass of wine in one hand and his cherry-wood pipe in the other. Outside the window fog swirls under the street lights. Miss Morley clatters pans in the kitchen downstairs.
“David,” I say.
He has aged little since we last met. His hair is as untameable and his eyebrows as arched as ever. Lit by the crackling fire he breaks into an easy smile.
“David,” I say. “I'm so glad you're here.”
He looks as if he is about to reply but thinks better of it. Again he smiles, more to himself than to me. Somehow sensing I may not be here for very long I resolve to make the most of my visit and settle into my old familiar seat, enjoying the leather creaking under my weight. A full glass of red is waiting for me on the table. I pick it up and take a sip. Outside, the fog continues to swirl.
David coughs to get my attention and nods at something over my shoulder. I ask him what he wants me to do. He nods again.
Looking behind me I see a large mahogany wardrobe taken from my bedroom, crammed into the corner and completely blocking the bookshelves.
“Did you move that? Thank you, but I think I preferred it where it was. It's of no use to me here.”
My companion takes the pipe from his mouth and points the stem at the round-cornered doors.
“You want me to open it?”
I get up, cross the rug and take hold of the brass handles. A formidable presence waits for me within, something dark and heavy, something massive enough to distort time. I brace myself and pull.
What confronts me is a solid wall of mud. A scattering of loose dirt falls to the carpet but otherwise it is packed in tightly, filling the space's every inch. I look to David for an explanation but he is busy savouring his tobacco and displays no interest. I scratch the surface with my forefinger and more dirt falls away. Diligently rolling up my shirt sleeves I briefly notice a small puncture wound in the crook of my arm. Then I grab a fistful and let it drop. Miss Morley will be angry with me in the morning but I have no choice. Using of both hands now I dig out a hole. Before I know it I am up to my elbows, then my shoulders, burrowing like a dog and pushing towards the back. When the hole is sufficiently wide I place my knee on its lip and haul myself inside.
The glossy mud reaches farther than I had anticipated, far beyond where the bookshelves should be. Soon I am able to stretch my entire body out flat with no trouble at all. More and more deeply I delve, excavating as I go, the tunnel collapsing in my wake. I dig around rocks, and pipes, and the roots of trees. Then, just as I think I will never come to the end, I see sunlight.
The soil around my fingers crumbles away and fresh air rushes in. With surprising ease I am able to lift myself from the ground, disoriented to find I have been digging not horizontally, but vertically. Brambles
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