Image: Oer Wout
Prequel: “Three months later, she sat on the swing, her mind flurrying around the news. Shy, quiet Lindsay was going to have a fairy spirit’s baby. The back door remained open, a dark space against the house’s peeling paint. Smiling to herself, she stood up. “I hope that is the road to Pendora,” she said to no-one in particular.”
As she crossed the grassy wilds from backyard rusty swing to door-space, she remained resolute. She accepted the role of single parent. But Rogan needed to know he was the father. Given his seductive appeal to women, he might have 100 children. But their mother wasn’t Lindsay.
She ventured inside the darkness. Barely visible in pale light through grimy windows, a trail worn into a carpet of thick dust. Step upon step, interlaced with prints not made by human shoe or foot. Lindsay wanted to close her eyes. To pretend she was in an Alice-dream. “This must be the road to Pendora,” she thought, “And I’m not the only traveller.”
Up the staircase that leant to the left then right, she climbed higher into the stifling air of the house. Past rooms with doors open. Lonely spaces calling out to be found. Missteps retraced to travel-way. Staircase narrowing towards what must be the attic door, left slightly ajar. “For the baby,” she whispered. To her off-rhythmic heart beat, she slipped through a crack widened by her push against the door.
She breathed in the rain-drip smell of damp earth and mushrooms. She was on an unmarred leaf-covered path. “Why hadn’t some one shuffle-kick-shuffle through such an inviting avenue of leaves?” Lindsay wondered. She was almost tempted to.
Sentinel trees stood guard along it’s perimeter. Silence. No rush of wind swaying branches. No bird song. No small scuttle of creatures through the dry leaf forest bed. The path took a straight route towards a hint of light. “Pendora,” she hoped.
Her steps crunkled and thundered, echoing back and forth against the line of trees. She expected, awakened by her noisy entrance, the trees would shift, talk, reach down in anger or in love. They remained centuries-still. “Too much JRR!” An incredible self-analysis to have just then.
Far off, in the distant right, a noise was growing. A dead-leaf tornado heading to the path. Heading towards her. Time to run, retrace her steps back to the warm sun and hum of bees. Turning, a mirror of the path lay behind her. No quick exit through to her world. A frightened rush towards Pendora the only choice.
Someone was whispering to her. Trying to gain attention in the chaos of her mind. “Destiny.” Rogan voice so close to her. Yet, she remained alone on the path. “Stand your ground,” he said. “Lindsay, you must hold your ground.”
Visible now; a maelstrom of leaves, of wind, of noise. Shakedly readied herself on the road to Pendora.
© Phylor, 2015