My Mother Divinity [Unedited]

Chapter Nine

Ollie's spare horse has trekked through hundreds of miles of mountains and valleys, bore my weight as I struggled to read the map across the Highlands, watched on fearfully as I ran low on supplies. I would wash my hair in the lochs and avoid the towns unless I needed to ask a shopkeeper for water. Often I was refused, and often I was given dirty looks for the way I covered my face. But for the most part, it's almost winter and most others are also heavily clad with synthetic furs and wool.

The pylons have fallen; wind-turbines have grown over with foliage, their blades are still and unnatural and I'm reminded of a distant fear of large manmade objects, probably stemming from something sinister in my forgotten childhood. I wonder what happened to all of the nuclear power stations when the electricity ran out. How did humanity survive? By the will of the Gods and nothing else - that would likely be the proper answer.

Riding into the village is the hardest part. The sign itself feels like home. Maybe I'm ridiculously optimistic to hope that seeing it will bring the memories back like a crashing wave, and when it doesn't I try not to be disappointed. The fog is thick. The place I see in my dreams, however, that same home with the rolling hills and the fields and trees, that was bright and warm and sticky with welcome.

I make a point not to bother anyone. I've gotten this far without speaking more than one word, 'water', thus far. No, in fact - the word 'please' has been thrown around. I don't want to appear rude. I keep to myself as I've been taught and learned to, and the horse trots down a path stained with fresh blood.

The familiar feeling of horror swells in me like a foreign growth but it's only chickens. Chickens, their feet cut off, the slits throat like the sheep's were up north. There are patterns and spots across what used to be the pavements but now I assume everything is free to walk or canter on. There's not an abandoned car in sight.

I know I'll have to ask directions to get to the exact address. The paper is still in my - Lenny's - jacket pocket but I've memorised it by now. I don't wish to make a fool of myself by expecting anyone to be at this address, except for maybe the nomads that frequent the ruins just to paint over the symbol I've been told is there. I can only hope they're not hostile and I can scare them away with my knife... with my gun.

Ollie gave me a brief rundown on how to use it. It made me sad to think how he came upon this information, how it was probably George and Lenny that had to teach him how to reload the thing. I don't remember guns from my childhood, not even in the possession of farmers. Now it's like another country where I feel the need to keep one close to me at all times for fear I might not otherwise be able to protect myself.

I tug the zipper of the jacket up so it covers my mouth like a mask. I'm used to the feeling of the fabric against my nose, keeping in the warmth of my body, keeping myself safe from the outside world. The village is no different from the rest - it has a square and that's where I head straight into so I can bump into someone and ask them where to go. They'll be suspicious - why would anyone want to go up there? It's probably taboo to even think of it by now. And part of me hopes I will run into the rebellious, vandalising pricks just so I can demand what the hell they're doing with my childhood home.

"You'll not find anything up there." An elderly woman appears at the horse's hooves. She startles me, though not enough for me to slide off to the ground. "That's all the travellers want, to see that house. It's become something of a legend, you could say."

"How many others have passed through to see it?" There's no point in beating around the bush; I know she knows. She gives me a little hum of understanding, understanding that I'm going to ask all the same questions others before me have tried, and failed, to answer themselves. "Why would they go there?"