In the darkness

Brae's meteorite

Hello.

This is an entry from my novella, Brae’s meteorite, which takes the form of words translated from a diary I found.

The very first entry and the table of contents can be found here:

Introducing: Brae's meteorite

Brae's meteorite | Table of contents

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The pages of this entry were crumpled, as though they had been torn out and then put back at a later stage. In places, Renn had repeatedly scribbled over the text, obliterating the words underneath. What thoughts were written there originally I will never know, but those I could decipher have been transcribed below.

I had a lot of fun using DALL-E 3 to try to create images for this post. There were many contenders and although this doesn’t quite hit everything, it’s the one that I liked the most.

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Arando, 19-on-Rye, 568

After her kiss, Brae slipped away towards the hill. With each step, the grass seemed to part, letting her pass in silent reverie as the stars kept on their eternal watch.

I was left numb and alone, my eyes half-closed as the taste of her lips lingered, the soft finality of that moment caught in a place that persists even now. In my mind, her warning echoed raw and real: You can’t come. It’s not safe for you.

But what safety would I have against guilt if I stayed?

So I moved, silent and swift as I could, the grass showing far less respect for my own intrusion—the long, prickly stems lashed and scratched and I may have let out a yelp as a thorn sliced my arm. If Brae heard, she did not turn. She kept on and up the hill, seeking the place where colours shifted, where the oracle whispered in shrieks, until, having reached the huddled and looming treeline, she passed out of sight.

I scrambled up the rise after her, stopping at the largest oak to peer around its ancient trunk, my hand resting upon rippled bark. At my feet, long and gnarled roots threaded through the soil. Above, a mass of clouds rolled in, intent to shutter out the stars. And there, ahead, motionless in the circular clearing, was Brae. The grass around her was flattened, as though a giant and invisible rock lay across the ground.

Next to her, a form flickered.

I looked at it, trying to grasp what I saw, the prismatic shift of a being indefinable. It was seamless; it oscillated between substance and nothing, etching itself into reality before returning amorphous to the night. I edged closer, remaining crouched, just as lightning flashed through the sky. With it, the wind strengthened. It swirled around me, eddies of cold that came from nowhere. A few loose rocks dislodged and tumbled down the hill. Boughs overhead began to strain, creaking with each gust. Then came the thunder, so deep it threatened to rend the very fabric of the night.

Through all this, Brae didn’t move. She was transfixed.

Another brilliant flash. A sudden clap of thunder. This was enough, it seemed; perhaps the sky had been torn, for suddenly there came the rains, droplets that slapped against my skin, beat against the ground. Puddles formed at my feet that in an instant birthed runnels down the slope. I wiped at my eyes in an attempt to keep them clear and dared to look on at the scene before me: Brae remained unmoving in the lashing rain. Her hair, already stuck against her cheeks in wet strands, had darkened to deep copper. Opposite her, outlined in the downpour, something—someone—took shape. Brae’s hand moved, reached out, her fingers spread as though to touch. She smiled, a smile so pure that if it had been directed my way it would have crushed my heart.

Then the form, the oracle, became something that made my hand slip free, moving instead to cover my mouth.

The oracle became Brae.

Brae was not gone. Not yet. She was still there, speaking words I could not hear. Yet, there also she stood. It was Brae, sure as any day I could swear by. Had she a twin, not even that would have sufficed as explanation. This was Brae, there in perfect profile, staring at herself—at the real Brae. They looked at each other, almost frozen. But then Brae’s mouth moved and I caught one word, carried to me by the wind. One lone, solitary, impossible word.

“Father,” she said. In her tone lay an ecstasy, an elation, and even though the rain streamed down, I am certain she was crying.

I made to move and the world crunched beneath my feet. The oracle—the oracle’s Brae, or was it already my Brae?—turned and saw me, paralysing me with its look. She contorted into anguish, into pleading realisation. Her eyes looked into mine and then she let out a scream. A scream that challenged all but the night’s thunder, one that ran through me, through my ears and into my spine, spreading to my chest like poison, expunged into the very air I was pounding through my lungs as I continued to watch, unable to move, unable to understand.

“Renndon!” she screamed. “I thought I could—”

And then it was all gone. The oracle. Its Brae. My Brae. Everything.

Not everything.

In its place, something new stirred.

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It’s taken a while to get to this moment, I realise. But we’re here now. Whatever “here” is. This scene was particularly difficult to write, for all manner of reasons. If you have thoughts, conjecture, speculation, any-kind-of-feelings-at-all … well, you know how much I love it when you drop by for a comment.