The leather bound notebook was closed, the strap wrapped around the pages. When Jesse first bought it, it was new and crisp and hardly looked like something that might be meaningful. But the pages were now used; the cover well-thumbed. The leather was starting to become less stiff. It was starting to look like something that was meaningful, as its pages filled up with meaning.
Except, Jesse Fforde didn’t know whether there was any meaning to the words he wrote, scratched into the paper with black ink in writing that hadn’t lost its perfect lines. Once upon a time, this was all that he did. He communicated via the written word. People had to understand. So his writing had to be perfected. Print, not cursive. Square, the letters each set apart from each other rather than running into each other, so as not to be misunderstood.
Spoken word was so often misunderstood. Maybe the words blurred. The meanings twisted. The tone added an extra element that writing lacked. And maybe that just made everything all the more complicated. Jesse had never perfected his tone, perhaps?
The fog thickened around Jesse. He couldn’t see the lights from Third Circle anymore. He had his back to the city, anyway – he was looking out through the wilderness, into the gloomy darkness. When he’d stopped writing, he tucked his phone into his pocket, and his journal into the back of his pants, hidden there beneath his jacket. Where was the fear? There should have been fear. As the heavy blanket twisted and furled around him, he couldn’t see beyond the tree directly in front of him. He couldn’t see the lions, or the bears. He definitely could not see the Fae, if they were lurking.
In the distance a branch snapped.
A bird called.
Something, closer by, skittered through the leaves on the forest floor. A lizard, perhaps. Mandy, sitting on Jesse’s shoulder, didn’t move at all.
Jesse stood, and stretched. He wasn’t thinking. Or maybe he was. He was thinking of the key sentences that had stood out, when Clover showed him her journal. It was hard for her. She was struggling. All he could think was how happy she would be if he was happy. But he couldn’t be happy. He couldn’t force it. How happy would she be if he let her go? If she didn’t have to hold to any promises because he wasn’t there? She wouldn’t have to look after him if he was dead.
Maybe she would hate him for it. Maybe she would think she had failed, if he succeeded. Maybe she would think it was her fault, but it wasn’t, was it? She hadn’t left him alone. Jesse was the one who’d left her in Larch Court. He’d used his tome to get to Third Circle and the rituals table; Kaelyn was making him feel guilty. Why didn’t he physically go and check on Victor? Why didn’t he offer to just go, rather than to do a ritual to find out where Victor might be? But it didn’t matter. Kaelyn didn’t need Jesse to do any ritual; she found out where Victor was on her own. Took care of it herself.
In his own misery, Jesse realised he wasn’t paying any attention to anyone else. He couldn’t help anyone else when he could hardly help himself. But this was what it had come to. They didn’t need him to help them. They had each other.
The first attack came from a wolf. Slightly larger than was natural, with gleaming red eyes and teeth too large for its maw. It wasn’t an ordinary wolf. It was a Fae, in wolf’s clothing. It surged from the fog, the white smoke billowing in beautiful swirls as the atmosphere was disturbed. It knocked Jesse to the ground, and though Jesse’s fingers closed into the thick fur, trying to kick the beast off in a last attempt at a defence mechanism, it tore into his throat anyway. It was gone as soon as it had come, and Jesse was left, wide-eyed and gurgling, on the forest floor. He rolled onto his side. He could taste blood on his tongue. Cold air hit the open wound, and Jesse could feel his skin gaping. Ripped out. He wanted to laugh. There was that pain he had been craving so badly, and it was as if they could read his mind. He’d wanted to stop talking. And now they had given him an excuse. No sound issued from his lips as his body twitched with laughter. Tears of pain sprung to his eyes as his fingers curled, unconsciously, into the leaves and dirt. Blood poured from the wound, seeping into the earth beneath him. He could smell it. Not just his blood, but the earth. It was wet, from recent rain, and rich.
He felt like he was high. He felt like he was hallucinating. Around him, the grass came to life again – as if his blood were warm, and it saved the undergrowth from the threatening cold. He blinked into the darkness, watching. He focused, willing the grass to grow, and so it did. Slowly but surely it began to rise. A green, swaying wall around him, oblivious to the danger that still lurked in the fog.
Mandy was no longer with him. Maybe the Salamander, realising there would be no fire, crawled away through the stalks.
Jesse was quite comfortable there, in the grass. Maybe he could finally sleep, he thought. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he would not just be sleeping if he stayed here. He would be dead. But that was a kind of sleep, wasn’t it? He drifted in and out of consciousness.
He thought he dreamed about the snake. It was just like Jormun, except grotesque. He thought he was dreaming that his arm was turning into a snake. Maybe he was half dreaming, but it was the pain that finally woke up. Pain that wasn’t throbbing in his gaping throat, but instead sent sharp pangs up his arm, into his shoulder. He tried to clench his hand into a fist, but he couldn’t feel his fingers. Opening his eyes wide, he shifted for the first time in god knows how long.
The snake wound its way over Jesse’s prone body. There was a lump in its otherwise lithe form; and when it disappeared, when Jesse finally turned to try to find his fingers, he realised that his hand was gone. Now he didn’t think he was dreaming. He felt like he was in the middle of some kind of nightmare; and again, as if they were reading his thoughts, the nightmare got worse. Looming over him was a creature made entirely of shadow. Like a fadebeast, but ten times worse. Not gruesome, but it struck fear, finally, into Jesse’s soul. Fear of what?
He was failing everyone. That’s what he was doing, out here in the wilderness. He was making up excuses; imagining they would all be better off without him. With his good hand, he tried to reach into his pocket for the tome, never taking his eyes from the behemoth above him. As he moved, the beast moved too. It snarled, a darkness darker than black opening where its mouth should be. It smothered Jesse, who tried to scream. The maw closed around his head, and he felt pressure, like his skull was pressed in a vice. There was a horrible clicking noise; the creature, maybe, enjoying its meal. Jesse thought that this was it. He was dead. He had failed.
But the darkness soon dissipated. He was again surrounded by grass and fog. His fingers curled tightly around the tome and he had enough energy, at least, to recite the words he had memorised, and knew like the back of his own palm.
Within seconds he was inside, in the dry warmth, even though his hair was wet with either rain or just accumulated fog and dew. His clothes were saturated with blood and water. The blood still oozed from his many wounds.
He dreamed that he crawled to the elevator and went down. He dreamed that he crawled into bed and finally went to sleep. Except he hadn’t gone anywhere. He had passed out, right in the middle of limbo. And his consciousness was flung into oblivion.
Except, Jesse Fforde didn’t know whether there was any meaning to the words he wrote, scratched into the paper with black ink in writing that hadn’t lost its perfect lines. Once upon a time, this was all that he did. He communicated via the written word. People had to understand. So his writing had to be perfected. Print, not cursive. Square, the letters each set apart from each other rather than running into each other, so as not to be misunderstood.
Spoken word was so often misunderstood. Maybe the words blurred. The meanings twisted. The tone added an extra element that writing lacked. And maybe that just made everything all the more complicated. Jesse had never perfected his tone, perhaps?
The fog thickened around Jesse. He couldn’t see the lights from Third Circle anymore. He had his back to the city, anyway – he was looking out through the wilderness, into the gloomy darkness. When he’d stopped writing, he tucked his phone into his pocket, and his journal into the back of his pants, hidden there beneath his jacket. Where was the fear? There should have been fear. As the heavy blanket twisted and furled around him, he couldn’t see beyond the tree directly in front of him. He couldn’t see the lions, or the bears. He definitely could not see the Fae, if they were lurking.
In the distance a branch snapped.
A bird called.
Something, closer by, skittered through the leaves on the forest floor. A lizard, perhaps. Mandy, sitting on Jesse’s shoulder, didn’t move at all.
Jesse stood, and stretched. He wasn’t thinking. Or maybe he was. He was thinking of the key sentences that had stood out, when Clover showed him her journal. It was hard for her. She was struggling. All he could think was how happy she would be if he was happy. But he couldn’t be happy. He couldn’t force it. How happy would she be if he let her go? If she didn’t have to hold to any promises because he wasn’t there? She wouldn’t have to look after him if he was dead.
Maybe she would hate him for it. Maybe she would think she had failed, if he succeeded. Maybe she would think it was her fault, but it wasn’t, was it? She hadn’t left him alone. Jesse was the one who’d left her in Larch Court. He’d used his tome to get to Third Circle and the rituals table; Kaelyn was making him feel guilty. Why didn’t he physically go and check on Victor? Why didn’t he offer to just go, rather than to do a ritual to find out where Victor might be? But it didn’t matter. Kaelyn didn’t need Jesse to do any ritual; she found out where Victor was on her own. Took care of it herself.
In his own misery, Jesse realised he wasn’t paying any attention to anyone else. He couldn’t help anyone else when he could hardly help himself. But this was what it had come to. They didn’t need him to help them. They had each other.
The first attack came from a wolf. Slightly larger than was natural, with gleaming red eyes and teeth too large for its maw. It wasn’t an ordinary wolf. It was a Fae, in wolf’s clothing. It surged from the fog, the white smoke billowing in beautiful swirls as the atmosphere was disturbed. It knocked Jesse to the ground, and though Jesse’s fingers closed into the thick fur, trying to kick the beast off in a last attempt at a defence mechanism, it tore into his throat anyway. It was gone as soon as it had come, and Jesse was left, wide-eyed and gurgling, on the forest floor. He rolled onto his side. He could taste blood on his tongue. Cold air hit the open wound, and Jesse could feel his skin gaping. Ripped out. He wanted to laugh. There was that pain he had been craving so badly, and it was as if they could read his mind. He’d wanted to stop talking. And now they had given him an excuse. No sound issued from his lips as his body twitched with laughter. Tears of pain sprung to his eyes as his fingers curled, unconsciously, into the leaves and dirt. Blood poured from the wound, seeping into the earth beneath him. He could smell it. Not just his blood, but the earth. It was wet, from recent rain, and rich.
He felt like he was high. He felt like he was hallucinating. Around him, the grass came to life again – as if his blood were warm, and it saved the undergrowth from the threatening cold. He blinked into the darkness, watching. He focused, willing the grass to grow, and so it did. Slowly but surely it began to rise. A green, swaying wall around him, oblivious to the danger that still lurked in the fog.
Mandy was no longer with him. Maybe the Salamander, realising there would be no fire, crawled away through the stalks.
Jesse was quite comfortable there, in the grass. Maybe he could finally sleep, he thought. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he would not just be sleeping if he stayed here. He would be dead. But that was a kind of sleep, wasn’t it? He drifted in and out of consciousness.
He thought he dreamed about the snake. It was just like Jormun, except grotesque. He thought he was dreaming that his arm was turning into a snake. Maybe he was half dreaming, but it was the pain that finally woke up. Pain that wasn’t throbbing in his gaping throat, but instead sent sharp pangs up his arm, into his shoulder. He tried to clench his hand into a fist, but he couldn’t feel his fingers. Opening his eyes wide, he shifted for the first time in god knows how long.
The snake wound its way over Jesse’s prone body. There was a lump in its otherwise lithe form; and when it disappeared, when Jesse finally turned to try to find his fingers, he realised that his hand was gone. Now he didn’t think he was dreaming. He felt like he was in the middle of some kind of nightmare; and again, as if they were reading his thoughts, the nightmare got worse. Looming over him was a creature made entirely of shadow. Like a fadebeast, but ten times worse. Not gruesome, but it struck fear, finally, into Jesse’s soul. Fear of what?
He was failing everyone. That’s what he was doing, out here in the wilderness. He was making up excuses; imagining they would all be better off without him. With his good hand, he tried to reach into his pocket for the tome, never taking his eyes from the behemoth above him. As he moved, the beast moved too. It snarled, a darkness darker than black opening where its mouth should be. It smothered Jesse, who tried to scream. The maw closed around his head, and he felt pressure, like his skull was pressed in a vice. There was a horrible clicking noise; the creature, maybe, enjoying its meal. Jesse thought that this was it. He was dead. He had failed.
But the darkness soon dissipated. He was again surrounded by grass and fog. His fingers curled tightly around the tome and he had enough energy, at least, to recite the words he had memorised, and knew like the back of his own palm.
Within seconds he was inside, in the dry warmth, even though his hair was wet with either rain or just accumulated fog and dew. His clothes were saturated with blood and water. The blood still oozed from his many wounds.
He dreamed that he crawled to the elevator and went down. He dreamed that he crawled into bed and finally went to sleep. Except he hadn’t gone anywhere. He had passed out, right in the middle of limbo. And his consciousness was flung into oblivion.
