Read Online The Fetch by Robert Holdstock - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Holdstock
Tags: Science-Fiction
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anguish, he flung the object far into the distance. It vanished into the fern and leaf mould at the base of the earth wall.
In the sudden silence, all they could hear was a strange wind in the branches of the trees above and around them, and the sound of someone scrabbling through the bracken.
They turned towards Michael and all four of them started to run. The boy was halfway up the slope, crawling and dragging himself up and away from the enclosure as if being hauled by a rope. He ascended the earth bank in seconds, stood tottering at the top, his arms stretched to the sides as he faced into the distance, a moment only, a moment in which he was silhouetted against the green brightness of sun through leaves …
Then he was gone.
Richard reached the top of the earth wall first. Michael had rolled down the far slope and now was up and running again, through the crowded saplings, through the yellow and green light. He was clutching the back of his head with both hands, but making no sound.
‘He’s been stung. A bee sting!’
Richard slipped down the steeper bank, and raced the few yards to Michael’s staggering shape. He reached towards the child, reached to sweep him up into secure arms.
The wood around him erupted, an explosion of windthat uprooted saplings, flung dirt, leaves and clumps of fern at him. The great trees swayed and bent, their branches waving frantically against the flickering brilliance of the sky.
Michael had fallen once more, but again was running. Richard staggered after him through the shadows and light, pistol-whipped by the lashing saplings, calling for the screaming infant who seemed to move with impossible speed through the dense leaf mould and waving ferns. Leaves, earth and chunks of wood swirled around the two of them like a tornado. The wind boomed and groaned, and the taller beeches cracked and screamed as their wood was torn and they bent against the hurricane.
Somewhere, Susan’s voice was a cry of despair, but Richard was half-blind with the leaf matter that smacked at his face and clogged his mouth and eyes.
The boy was running
faster
than him!
He pursued. The gale swept around them, moving with them.
They crossed the damp stream. Spouts of muddy water streaked high above him, briefly taking on the shape of trees before shattering, spinning and swirling down to drench the man as he fell to his knees, scrambling to dry land.
As quickly as the storm had come, so it vanished. Michael was wailing, face down, half buried in leaves. Richard crawled towards him, vaguely aware that Susan was splashing through the stream behind him, and that his father in-law was shouting encouragement from further back.
His head straining up above the leaf mould, his eyes closed, his mouth open, Michael shrieked his pain. When his father picked him up he kept crying but curled up into a ball, clinging to the man’s chest.
His face was cut, a nasty slash abovethe right eye, two inches long. A beech leaf had stuck to the flow of blood, and Richard pulled it away. He looked at the back of the child’s neck, but saw no sign of a sting.
The others had followed through the line of devastation, shocked and frightened by the gale-force wind that had struck so suddenly in this summer wood. Susan’s eyes were haunted as she reached for Michael, staring all the time at her husband.
‘Dear God,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Dear God … she’s back …’
Richard said nothing for the moment, but shook his head. He reached to touch the cut on his son’s face. What had done this?
And as if the thought drew his attention to the implement of attack, he saw the glitter of metal from the corner of his eye. He took two steps away from Susan and stooped to brush aside the leaves and broken ferns.
It was a fragment of bronze, once part of a broad spearhead. Michael’s blood still glistened freshly on the sharp side that remained. It had been leaf-shaped, four inches long, and still had a part of the wooden haft
In the sudden silence, all they could hear was a strange wind in the branches of the trees above and around them, and the sound of someone scrabbling through the bracken.
They turned towards Michael and all four of them started to run. The boy was halfway up the slope, crawling and dragging himself up and away from the enclosure as if being hauled by a rope. He ascended the earth bank in seconds, stood tottering at the top, his arms stretched to the sides as he faced into the distance, a moment only, a moment in which he was silhouetted against the green brightness of sun through leaves …
Then he was gone.
Richard reached the top of the earth wall first. Michael had rolled down the far slope and now was up and running again, through the crowded saplings, through the yellow and green light. He was clutching the back of his head with both hands, but making no sound.
‘He’s been stung. A bee sting!’
Richard slipped down the steeper bank, and raced the few yards to Michael’s staggering shape. He reached towards the child, reached to sweep him up into secure arms.
The wood around him erupted, an explosion of windthat uprooted saplings, flung dirt, leaves and clumps of fern at him. The great trees swayed and bent, their branches waving frantically against the flickering brilliance of the sky.
Michael had fallen once more, but again was running. Richard staggered after him through the shadows and light, pistol-whipped by the lashing saplings, calling for the screaming infant who seemed to move with impossible speed through the dense leaf mould and waving ferns. Leaves, earth and chunks of wood swirled around the two of them like a tornado. The wind boomed and groaned, and the taller beeches cracked and screamed as their wood was torn and they bent against the hurricane.
Somewhere, Susan’s voice was a cry of despair, but Richard was half-blind with the leaf matter that smacked at his face and clogged his mouth and eyes.
The boy was running
faster
than him!
He pursued. The gale swept around them, moving with them.
They crossed the damp stream. Spouts of muddy water streaked high above him, briefly taking on the shape of trees before shattering, spinning and swirling down to drench the man as he fell to his knees, scrambling to dry land.
As quickly as the storm had come, so it vanished. Michael was wailing, face down, half buried in leaves. Richard crawled towards him, vaguely aware that Susan was splashing through the stream behind him, and that his father in-law was shouting encouragement from further back.
His head straining up above the leaf mould, his eyes closed, his mouth open, Michael shrieked his pain. When his father picked him up he kept crying but curled up into a ball, clinging to the man’s chest.
His face was cut, a nasty slash abovethe right eye, two inches long. A beech leaf had stuck to the flow of blood, and Richard pulled it away. He looked at the back of the child’s neck, but saw no sign of a sting.
The others had followed through the line of devastation, shocked and frightened by the gale-force wind that had struck so suddenly in this summer wood. Susan’s eyes were haunted as she reached for Michael, staring all the time at her husband.
‘Dear God,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Dear God … she’s back …’
Richard said nothing for the moment, but shook his head. He reached to touch the cut on his son’s face. What had done this?
And as if the thought drew his attention to the implement of attack, he saw the glitter of metal from the corner of his eye. He took two steps away from Susan and stooped to brush aside the leaves and broken ferns.
It was a fragment of bronze, once part of a broad spearhead. Michael’s blood still glistened freshly on the sharp side that remained. It had been leaf-shaped, four inches long, and still had a part of the wooden haft
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