After the rain
Brae's meteorite
“Who are you?” I asked.
Hello lovely reader.
This is an entry from my novella, Brae’s meteorite.
The very first entry and the table of contents can be found in the links below, though it is always my hope that you can dip straight in and still feel some sense of the story.
It has been many a month since I hefted the thick tome of Renn’s diary onto my desk, to wonder at the ink-encrusted parchment and the meaning behind each cryptic swirl. Over a number of recent days I have translated what I deem to be the latest entry in his tale, though I note that once again several pages were torn from the spine—an act, I can only assume, born of frustration or despair.
Darn, 20-on-Rye, 568
She was gone.
I have written and rewritten my account of that moment, here in these pages, tearing up each one. Even with the long distillation of time, none bring me closer.
And so I will try again.
*
After Brae vanished, the rain stopped. In its place came the steady drip-drip of water falling from leaves. I don’t know how long I remained in place, crouched between the trees, unmoving as though waiting for her return. But Brae didn’t return. She was gone, leaving an eerie quiet that hung in the air, accompanied by the fear and confusion that swam beneath my skin.
For the first time since we left Toör, I was alone.
Except I wasn’t, for my eyes trailed to the spot where Brae had been. A man was there, lying on his back, staring straight up at the night sky, and I may have thought him dead were it not for the blink of his eyes and twitch of his arms.
I wondered on what to do, yet after some moments found myself moving through the trees to the edge of the clearing, straining my eyes to get a better look. He appeared to be older, his thirtieth year, near enough, and under the fading glaze of stars I could see he wore a rugged set of clothes—a thick, fur-lined jacket, dark leggings and insulated boots. Winter clothes, I realised. What business does a man have in winter’s clothing?
I took another few steps, emerging into the clearing. Inept as I was, I did so without the silent skill of Brae, my feet squelching through the fresh puddles and mud. The man stirred, turning his head in my direction.
“Who’s there?” he said, his voice husky and dry.
Now that I was closer I could make out the deep red of his hair, like soil rich in clay, with a beard the same colour that sprouted eagerly from his face.
“Renn,” I proffered, walking closer still. “I am Renn.” With no idea what else to say, I added, “Are you hurt?”
“Hurt?” he asked, confused.
“Can you move?” I corrected. “Are you injured?” By now I assured myself that this man was no threat, that he may actually be hurt and need my assistance. I moved forward, crouched near to him, but not so near that I was within his reach.
He lifted his head from the ground so that his chin touched his chest and he could look down at his body. “I feel stiff,” he said, letting his head drop back. “I—,” and then he whipped his head from left to right, panic within his eyes. “Where is she?” His head did another desperate sweep, hands scrabbling at the sodden ground in an attempt to sit up. “Where is she?”
I stood and took a step back, nervous of his erratic movements.
“Where’s who?” I asked.
Fear was writ into his face. He managed to push himself up onto his elbows. “I thought I saw …” He stopped, shaking his head.
Thought you saw what? I wondered, my own mind racing through everything that had happened. Brae, the oracle, this man. I couldn't understand, not then, and without realising I moved away to the eastern edge of the clearing, looking through the thin line of trees to where the barest hint of dawn tinted the horizon. The stars had begun their retreat, leaving a canvas ready to be painted by the day’s light. I turned away, made my way back to the man, fuelled by a sudden conviction.
“What happened? What did you do?” I said, voice raised and not at all confident in my tone. It was as pointless a question as any in my life.
“Me?” The man shot a glance my way as he struggled to his feet, wiping his muddied hands on his jacket. “What did I do?” he asked, incredulous. “I saw her. Right here.” He looked down, scanning the ground as though it held some answer. “Mara was here,” he said. “I saw her, and then she … and then I …”
Mara?
A sudden cold clarity swept through me. I reached out, clasped both his shoulders in my hands and locked my eyes to his.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He frowned, tried to release himself from my grip.
“Who are you?” I repeated.
His frown deepened, but his movement stopped.
“Alistair,” he said. “Alistair, of the village Toör.”
I understand it has been a little while since there was some Brae, and even then it has been spread over a long number of months (far longer than originally envisaged), so some of the puzzle pieces may not immediately fall into place. Or maybe they will.
As always, I love any and all of your thoughts.
Peace, love and meteorites x☄
Nathan, the language you use to craft this world is so rich and lustrous. The writing stands alone as a tone poem, even without the mystery and intrigue. One day I went to hold the volume in my hand and read it from front to back but until now these little sips are fantastic.
"I couldn't understand, not then, and without realising I moved away to the eastern edge of the clearing, looking through the thin line of trees to where the barest hint of dawn tinted the horizon. The stars had begun their retreat, leaving a canvas ready to be painted by the day’s light."
Such eloquence in a sunrise. Another splendid morsel, the father returns, but where is Brae? Did she take her father's place? I believe in Renn, he'll solve the puzzle.