Naturans | Naturata

Part 1

David had trailed the Gypsey Race six miles or so when he conceded he was lost. The fog hugged the flat between the chalky S of the wolds either side of him, mystifying his map's reference points; the clear-watered stream his only guide now, any mobile signal mislaid somewhere back in Thixendale with his car. Rather than commit the true trekker's sin of turning back, though, he continued, sure the circular route would make good its promise.

Then, an unexpected fork, gentle bubblings of water over rock breaking in two veiled directions. Saving his boots the potential watery ingress required to cross the unleapable stream, he stayed to the right, following a hundred metres more before struggling against muddy scrub – tufts of long grass side-by-side with boggy foot traps – and losing sight and sound of his aquatic guide. He vainly squinted into grey obscurity, a double-back resignation growing inside.

Turning back to the direction of the fork, he heard a soft baritone bark to his back, the nearness impossible to judge. One growl, at first, then another, then a chorus of them, dispersed in all directions behind him, curiosity immobilising him. He glanced over his shoulder, more trepidation with each rotating degree, as pairs of golden eyes glowing like ethereal beacons in the haze stared back at him. He hadn't a clue about wildlife beyond a passing admiration, so he counted the sets, measured their distance in his mind, making an assessment of the risk he faced if any, deeming it negligible.

His neck stretched against its limit, marvelling and assessing, when he found a pair of horrific yellow globes staring only steps away. Sounding a low growl, the beast's barely visible frame rose tall, the height of him, and lunged forward, emitting a piercing shriek. He stumbled over as he ran from the creature, mud caking his knees, hands scratching purchase at the ground, metre-by-metre finding firmer foundation as he fled the scrub toward the fork. Fearful heartbeats drummed at his temples with one ear-splitting, shrill cry after another behind him, only quietening as the distance from that terrible bog grew. He leapt boots-be-damned into the Gypsey Race, tracing the left fork this time with heedless speed. Eventually, the wold-bound echoes of the monstrous screams dissipated entirely, and his pace slowed to re-fill emptied lungs.

Sunlight started to stab at the dishwater air, and the husks of a village materialised ahead of him: a church, windowless and roofless, baby-teeth granite slabs poking up through weedy overgrowth in the foreground; ivied blocks of chalk long crumbled in the remains of a stable; a dusted placard, The Dale Heron in gothic letting, rusted bracket yet attached, mossy and forgotten on what could have been a street once; one-time hedges over-matured to untidy trees.

He grabbed for his phone. No signal now, no sign of where he was, but a message had gotten through at some point. Baby shower went great. Lots of clothes for Baby Sarah or Baby Adam. Even more diapers... GULP. Your mother says Daddy should have been there, but I told her you needed the break. Love you – enjoy the walk! X. As he tucked the phone in his back pocket, he paused, bewildered by the house before him that was not there seconds before. Double-fronted, double-chimneyed with a yellow door just behind a neat post and rail fence punctuated by copper-kissed roses, the house refuted all the neglect he'd already ascribed to the village. He knocked – the weary pilgrim in need of aid.

An elderly man, perhaps the oldest David had ever seen, pulled back the door. If he was surprised by this unexpected visitor, it was impossible to tell. His salted eyebrows so like the hedges of the village overgrew his eyes, obscuring all but a pinprick of blue in each. His face must have been capable of emotion, the skin so haphazardly riven attesting to decades of feeling, but no show was made. He simply nodded as if in some prayer to himself, pushed the door wide and walked back into the house.

Hesitant but necessary steps drew David across the threshold, even as the odour of the place repulsed him, the comingling smell of burning and diarrhoeal excrement and ammonia-sharp disinfectant. The rooms he could see shared none of the tamed, genteel beauty of the exterior and more so mirrored the decay of the village. Chaotic brown splatters dried on surfaces with bits of black string hanging off many. Jaundiced grapes lie forgotten under side tables and beside lines of shoes in the hall. Feathers fell from binbags and littered the floor, stirring like dandelion heads into a cottony air as David pressed forward.

He found the old man in a cracked leather armchair the colour of oxblood next to an unlit fireplace. A large object, perhaps two metres high, loomed by the window, concealed by a brocade curtain. Hinged boxes lay about the room, dirtied metal implements of unknown purpose within, and a potter's wheel at the wall furthest from the window. There was no other furniture in the room save a stool with a tidy paper stack upon it, stapled in one corner.

David was about to speak, when the elderly man tapped his finger on the stool, knuckles disfigured with bruises and grime. David took the pages in his hand and read.