or twice, Faith raced with her, a faint air of confusion on her doggy features even as she enjoyed the thrill of the chase, or the dance, whichever it was.
But the monster was quite, quite different.
For it, clouds would usually be the first sign, as they darkened the sun: as if that somehow made a space, a hole where the monster could slip out from its hiding place and into the world. The next sign was always a stillness, a silence. And a coldness, too. Always, then, the others fled, leaving the wind curiously hollow: just air blowing, joyless and busy, hurrying on its way from somewhere to somewhere-else.
The sounds would drop, too. First the birds and other animals. Then the insects would falter and fall silent.
Usually, it would just move in a straight line, before fading out. Or, sometimes, it would instead double back, and she'd sense it marching back the way it came, then reversing its path, over and over again. Times like that, she thought it was confused. Or, maybe, not properly awake.
She called it Robo.
A few times, when it was doing its silly back-and-forward sleep-marching, she'd fired her arrows at it. Though she still wasn't sure when it was that her uncle's magic worked , and when it didn't. It wasn't always easy to know when she'd shot it, of course, since it was in visible. But often she was sure she'd hit it, yet it would just march straight on anyway, completely ignoring both her arrow and her. ’Course, that might just be because it was hard to know whether she'd shot it in a deadly place or just “winged” it. After all, it was invisible.
Sometimes, though, it was very much awake. Then, there'd be an extra coldness to it and a purpose. And she knew it Hunted, then. Then, it didn't seem either silly or harmless. Then, she sensed a strange kind of danger to it like her uncle had said. A wrongness. She'd follow, as silent as she could be, stepping carefully and breathing lightly. Not looking at it directly, ’cause then you'd lose it. You had to see it by its edges, by how the things around it moved; or stopped moving; or slowed and kind of saddened. It always moved in straight lines, though it could angle off in a new direction at any moment.
Mostly, she felt a bit sad for it and just followed.
This one day, though, it seemed different: really intense. Determined. Brutal in the way it stomped through the Jungle, bringing Winter early, to turn it into the Forest. It was a little scary, to tell the truth. She wanted to fire an arrow, but she wanted even more to know what it hunted with such concentration. Besides, she still felt kinda sorry for it, for all the times it had prowled, confused, back and forth like a broken cleaning bot.
And, yeah, maybe she was just a little bit scared to shoot.
And as she followed, gradually she sensed something else.
Something else, with sharp edges; which twisted and coiled through the trees more like oil flowing in air, showing off as it tweaked the world that had stilled and hidden, hoping to escape its notice, but jerking and quivering when it jabbed, or it looped and tangled and squeezed. Twisting and tying fronds. Tumbling and trapping drier shoots. Blowing leaves into the middle of spiders' webs, or just pinching the wind to make it gust and tear them. It felt not just Wrong, but Bad. Wrong, and mean, and cruel.
And then it found her.
She looked around, but too hard, and suddenly she couldn't see it anymore.
« Oh. You're like me. Did you know? » Sara wasn't sure if she had thought that, or it had.She giggled, inside, but again wasn't sure if that was really her .
«Y es, it's just me. I've thought of a new game. I'm just talking to myself. Pretending. »
Sara wasn't sure. She didn't really-
«Oh, poo,» she interrupted herself. Or did she? She didn't say poo.
«Oh, d on't be silly. I 'm just playing a new game I thought up. A fun game. I 'm pretending she's
But the monster was quite, quite different.
For it, clouds would usually be the first sign, as they darkened the sun: as if that somehow made a space, a hole where the monster could slip out from its hiding place and into the world. The next sign was always a stillness, a silence. And a coldness, too. Always, then, the others fled, leaving the wind curiously hollow: just air blowing, joyless and busy, hurrying on its way from somewhere to somewhere-else.
The sounds would drop, too. First the birds and other animals. Then the insects would falter and fall silent.
Usually, it would just move in a straight line, before fading out. Or, sometimes, it would instead double back, and she'd sense it marching back the way it came, then reversing its path, over and over again. Times like that, she thought it was confused. Or, maybe, not properly awake.
She called it Robo.
A few times, when it was doing its silly back-and-forward sleep-marching, she'd fired her arrows at it. Though she still wasn't sure when it was that her uncle's magic worked , and when it didn't. It wasn't always easy to know when she'd shot it, of course, since it was in visible. But often she was sure she'd hit it, yet it would just march straight on anyway, completely ignoring both her arrow and her. ’Course, that might just be because it was hard to know whether she'd shot it in a deadly place or just “winged” it. After all, it was invisible.
Sometimes, though, it was very much awake. Then, there'd be an extra coldness to it and a purpose. And she knew it Hunted, then. Then, it didn't seem either silly or harmless. Then, she sensed a strange kind of danger to it like her uncle had said. A wrongness. She'd follow, as silent as she could be, stepping carefully and breathing lightly. Not looking at it directly, ’cause then you'd lose it. You had to see it by its edges, by how the things around it moved; or stopped moving; or slowed and kind of saddened. It always moved in straight lines, though it could angle off in a new direction at any moment.
Mostly, she felt a bit sad for it and just followed.
This one day, though, it seemed different: really intense. Determined. Brutal in the way it stomped through the Jungle, bringing Winter early, to turn it into the Forest. It was a little scary, to tell the truth. She wanted to fire an arrow, but she wanted even more to know what it hunted with such concentration. Besides, she still felt kinda sorry for it, for all the times it had prowled, confused, back and forth like a broken cleaning bot.
And, yeah, maybe she was just a little bit scared to shoot.
And as she followed, gradually she sensed something else.
Something else, with sharp edges; which twisted and coiled through the trees more like oil flowing in air, showing off as it tweaked the world that had stilled and hidden, hoping to escape its notice, but jerking and quivering when it jabbed, or it looped and tangled and squeezed. Twisting and tying fronds. Tumbling and trapping drier shoots. Blowing leaves into the middle of spiders' webs, or just pinching the wind to make it gust and tear them. It felt not just Wrong, but Bad. Wrong, and mean, and cruel.
And then it found her.
She looked around, but too hard, and suddenly she couldn't see it anymore.
« Oh. You're like me. Did you know? » Sara wasn't sure if she had thought that, or it had.She giggled, inside, but again wasn't sure if that was really her .
«Y es, it's just me. I've thought of a new game. I'm just talking to myself. Pretending. »
Sara wasn't sure. She didn't really-
«Oh, poo,» she interrupted herself. Or did she? She didn't say poo.
«Oh, d on't be silly. I 'm just playing a new game I thought up. A fun game. I 'm pretending she's
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