Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a religious man, but I must admit to some bemused enjoyment at watching the angels swoop low over the water - like dragonflies hunting for insects. Others soar high into the cloudless sky, then hurtle downwards and crash into the fjord and evaporate with a hiss and a puff of incense. Sometimes they beckon me to join them, and sometimes I do, but usually I just sit here on my jetty, skimming stones across the water. Skip, skip, skip. They always skim three times, without exception. Curious, don't you think ?
The wooded slopes that surround my fjord are similarly colonized by mythical creatures that I wouldn't ordinarily believe in. Over the course of the days that I've been here, I've seen triple headed stags chasing embarrassed looking panthers along the shore. Small birds heavy with precious stones, ruby and sapphires in their belly, flitting between the trees. Once, as dusk was approaching, I watched as a Buffalo chronicled his experiences with the Indians to a group of naked porcelain dolls, huddled around a fire at the limit of tree-line. Griffins, Satyrs, Sirens and their haunting songs. I've seen them all, with my own eyes. To a sceptic like me, you might imagine that I find all of this disturbing, but I don't. Curious, yes, but not disturbing. I have, however, seen one thing that doubted the total exquisiteness of this place. A day or two ago I noticed a man squatting on the rocks that extend out into the fjord, relieving himself with a look of extreme distaste on his face. He noticed my attention and quickly pulled up his trousers and ran into the woods, stopping briefly to lick some moss that grows on the south side of the trees. I've never seen him again.
The sky above my fjord is no stranger to wonders either, especially at night. Flying saucers practise impossible manoeuvres, Spitfires and Messershmits have playful dogfights, their gunfire echoing across the valley. Stars fall, Pegasus takes bites out of the moon like it were nothing more than an apple, clouds wrapped with silver linings. At night the fjord is lit by countless Chinese lanterns that bob slowly on the swell. Who puts them there I've never found out.
Ah, well, no rest for the weary. I pick myself up and walk the few steps (sometimes the walk along the jetty can take hours, days, depending on my mood) to my house on the fjord. Considering the nature of this place, it's a fairly ramshackle affair - nothing more than a shack on a concrete base. The walls are made of burnt oak, which steam in the sun, and above the door is the husk of a long dead lizard, a lop-sided grin on its toothless face. The inside of my house is a sparse affair. Four walls lined with books, clever books that I am unable to read, a small bed in the corner, meagre but functional. In the middle of the floor is a trap door that leads down to a cellar where, well, there are things I'd rather not talk about. Perhaps, with time and courage, I'll tell you later.
I don't have many visitors. However one morning I heard a whimpering outside my door. Sitting there was a young woman in a red dress, her toe caught between the gaps in the jetty. She looked up at me ruefully.
"Can you help me out here?"
"Of course," I said.
The jetty responded to my whimsy and freed her toe. She yanked it free, rubbing the soreness away.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
She stared at me for a few moments then handed me a plain white envelope. Frowning, I opened it to find it full of a sparkling white powder. I dipped my finger into it and ran it across my tongue. It tasted like sherbet.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The remains of the angel."
? 2001 Martin Horton
The wooded slopes that surround my fjord are similarly colonized by mythical creatures that I wouldn't ordinarily believe in. Over the course of the days that I've been here, I've seen triple headed stags chasing embarrassed looking panthers along the shore. Small birds heavy with precious stones, ruby and sapphires in their belly, flitting between the trees. Once, as dusk was approaching, I watched as a Buffalo chronicled his experiences with the Indians to a group of naked porcelain dolls, huddled around a fire at the limit of tree-line. Griffins, Satyrs, Sirens and their haunting songs. I've seen them all, with my own eyes. To a sceptic like me, you might imagine that I find all of this disturbing, but I don't. Curious, yes, but not disturbing. I have, however, seen one thing that doubted the total exquisiteness of this place. A day or two ago I noticed a man squatting on the rocks that extend out into the fjord, relieving himself with a look of extreme distaste on his face. He noticed my attention and quickly pulled up his trousers and ran into the woods, stopping briefly to lick some moss that grows on the south side of the trees. I've never seen him again.
The sky above my fjord is no stranger to wonders either, especially at night. Flying saucers practise impossible manoeuvres, Spitfires and Messershmits have playful dogfights, their gunfire echoing across the valley. Stars fall, Pegasus takes bites out of the moon like it were nothing more than an apple, clouds wrapped with silver linings. At night the fjord is lit by countless Chinese lanterns that bob slowly on the swell. Who puts them there I've never found out.
Ah, well, no rest for the weary. I pick myself up and walk the few steps (sometimes the walk along the jetty can take hours, days, depending on my mood) to my house on the fjord. Considering the nature of this place, it's a fairly ramshackle affair - nothing more than a shack on a concrete base. The walls are made of burnt oak, which steam in the sun, and above the door is the husk of a long dead lizard, a lop-sided grin on its toothless face. The inside of my house is a sparse affair. Four walls lined with books, clever books that I am unable to read, a small bed in the corner, meagre but functional. In the middle of the floor is a trap door that leads down to a cellar where, well, there are things I'd rather not talk about. Perhaps, with time and courage, I'll tell you later.
I don't have many visitors. However one morning I heard a whimpering outside my door. Sitting there was a young woman in a red dress, her toe caught between the gaps in the jetty. She looked up at me ruefully.
"Can you help me out here?"
"Of course," I said.
The jetty responded to my whimsy and freed her toe. She yanked it free, rubbing the soreness away.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
She stared at me for a few moments then handed me a plain white envelope. Frowning, I opened it to find it full of a sparkling white powder. I dipped my finger into it and ran it across my tongue. It tasted like sherbet.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The remains of the angel."
? 2001 Martin Horton
