Oddly Enough, page 26
They emerged out of the murk, a woman with her head down and a man swinging his arms enthusiastically to stay warm. Two. Two was dicey, and Arlene glanced at Stella. She was peering down the lane that ran to the village, but it was impossible to say if there was anyone coming. There could have been an army of walkers on the way up and they’d never have spotted them.
Stella looked around finally. “Block the gate,” she said, and Arlene took a deep breath, not sure if she was relieved or horrified. Both, she supposed. Always both.
“Hey, Ames,” Toby said, closing the gate behind them as she pushed on through the rain. Ahead, the path split in two, one branch running straight ahead while the other turned to the left through a second gate which would take them to the village. “There’s a really cool sinkhole just over there. Want to take a look?”
Amy tried to convey with a glare just what she thought of that idea, but the effect was ruined somewhat by the rain blowing in her face and making her squint. Instead she said, “I’m wet, cold, and completely over this, Toby. I do not want to go look at some hole.”
He rubbed the back of his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it’d be this bad.”
“Forecast. This was on the forecast.”
“Yeah, but weather people get it wrong all the time.”
She wondered briefly if she should try pushing him into a ditch, but he’d probably just think it was hilarious. That was who he was. “I’m going to the pub,” she said. “Go look at the hole if you want.”
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll take pictures for you.”
“Can’t wait.” She marched to the next gate as he veered down a sheep track to the right, splashing through puddles with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old. Sheep watched him pass with that odd mix of boredom and alarm that seemed to be their perpetual outlook on life, water dripping from their ears and bellies. There were a few sheltering from the wind in the lee of the wall, and a couple blocking the gate. “Shoo,” she told them, and they stared at her. Poor sodden creatures. She hoped their wool was doing a better job than her thermals.
“Let her go,” Stella said. “He’ll do.”
Arlene and Patricia ran stiff-legged away from the gate as the woman pushed through and latched it behind her. Arlene turned to watch as she stomped along the path, head down against the wind. The woman didn’t pause or look back, her hands stuffed in her pockets and her shoulders a stiff line of fury.
“Come on,” Patricia called. “He’s almost there!”
Arlene broke into a trot, squinting against the wind. They had to get this right. If they didn’t, there’d be no second chance. The light was all but gone, the rain stealing the day, and the man was slowing as he neared the hole, peering into the dimness and picking his path carefully. The long grass washed right to the brink, to where the earth crumbled to nothing and the rain ran in mini waterfalls over the edge to join the stream that washed the bottom. There were plants down there, clinging precariously to the sides, and piles of stone like dragon treasure, and bones. Always plenty of those. Arlene never liked to get too close. It made her stomach swoop and her head spin, until she wasn’t sure if she was frightened or exhilarated by the idea of the plunge to the bottom. She supposed that was all part of the hole’s magic.
Now she joined the others, shoulder to shoulder, forming a rough half-moon around the man as he peered into the depths and tried to shelter his phone from the worst of the rain.
“Awesome,” he mumbled, and crouched down to take another photo.
They edged closer, no one speaking, a wall of warm bodies with their eyes on the man.
“Amy would have liked this,” he announced to the late afternoon, and stood up, still looking at his phone as he turned. He took a step forward, and bumped into Stella. “What—?”
He lowered the phone and stared at them. They stared back, yellow-eyed and silent, feet planted firmly on the sodden ground, bodies round and unmoving.
“Shoo,” he said.
No one moved.
“Go on, get out of here!” He clapped his hands.
They were still.
He looked at the tiny space of grass around his feet, then tried to push his way through them.
They pushed back.
Amy looked at her watch and shook her head. She’d tried Toby’s phone three times already. He might have no signal, of course, but the odds were he’d dropped it in a puddle or down his silly hole. Still, he should have been here by now. She got up and went to the bar.
“Hi,” she said to the landlady. “Do you know of some sinkhole up near the last gate?”
“Of course,” the landlady said. “It’s only a few hundred metres off the track.”
Amy sighed. “My … friend went to take a look at it, and I left him to it. Is there another way down from there or something? It’s just he shouldn’t have been far behind me.”
The landlady looked at a man sitting on one of the bar stools, his fingers wrapped around a large mug of tea. He looked back at her, expressionless. “There’s another track,” she said eventually. “He could well have gone that way. Takes a wee bit longer, but comes into the village all the same.”
Amy tapped her fingers on the bar. “Maybe I should go back up.”
“No, don’t do that,” the woman said. “You’ll just get wet and cold, and if he’s taken a different track, you’ll miss him anyway. I’m sure he’ll turn up, and if he’s not here in an hour I’ll get one of the boys to take a quad bike up.”
“Thank you,” Amy said. “I’m sure he’s just gone on some detour.”
“I imagine so,” the landlady said, and went back to stacking glasses.
The man at the bar said, “Autumn’s done, then.”
“Sounds like,” the landlady said, and Amy wandered back to her table by the fire.
Autumn’s done? It was only September. She supposed it was a local thing. She took her phone out and tried calling again, but it went straight to voicemail. Silly sod had the car keys, too.
Products of Unknown Origin
There are two parts to the story of this story, and possibly some anecdotal evidence regarding genetic predispositions to not entirely thinking things through when it comes to small, mysterious creatures.
I’ve lived and worked in the tropics for a lot of my life, so when, while working on a catamaran in the Caribbean, I discovered a small caterpillar on the saloon table, I didn’t think much of it. Food would often come with passengers, whether it was weevils in the flour or small inhabitants in the fruit. Sieve the flour, wash the fruit, and as long as you don’t let any ants or cockroaches aboard, it’s all good.
So I popped the caterpillar in a jar with a lettuce leaf inside and a tea towel over the top, and decided to put him ashore at the next bay.
And then there was another, so he joined his buddy.
And then there was another.
And another.
And another half-dozen, by which point I realised that, unless I planned on switching profession to become a home for stray caterpillars, I needed to find where they were coming from. I waited until the guests were ashore and pulled all the lockers out, eventually finding a bag that had once held muesli, but now held a thriving metropolis of moths and caterpillars. Which was … not ideal.
I did get them all cleared up before the guests got back, but it was a near thing.
I told this story to my dad and his girlfriend not long after, only for her to burst out laughing and tell me, over Dad’s protests, about how he had just recently rescued a stray caterpillar and kept it in a jar until he could take it ashore and set it free.
He chose a nice tree to do this, and wished the caterpillar a happy life.
The next time they went back to that harbour, the tree was no more.
Let this be your lesson, lovely readers.
Never trust a caterpillar.
“Oh, that bloody shop,” Nora said, peering into the muesli packet. “Look at this!”
“What?” George poured boiling water over the tea leaves and turned to look at his wife. She was glaring at the cereal quite furiously.
“There’s only a caterpillar in it.”
“A caterpillar? Really?” He leaned over her, one hand on her shoulder. “Aw, there is too.”
“Don’t ‘aw’ it. What am I supposed to have for breakfast now?”
“He won’t have eaten much.”
“Oh, ha. I’m not eating caterpillar leftovers.”
“Toast, then?” George suggested, and pulled the loaf out of the cupboard.
They drank their tea as they watched the caterpillar exploring the top of the muesli box, lifting himself up on his back legs to wave his fuzzy head around.
“I’m not shopping there again,” Nora said.
“You say that every time,” George replied, passing her the jam.
“It keeps happening, though! I don’t know where they get their stock from. Weevils in the flour, a slug in the lettuce – I’m just going to have to stick with Sainsbury’s.”
George made a face. “How boring. I like that little shop. It’s got all sorts of odd things that you can’t find anywhere else. And it’s good to support smaller businesses.”
“I know, but we can’t keep throwing stuff away.” Nora stood and picked up the cereal box. “When I tried to take the lettuce back, they said the slug must have been living in our fridge. The cheek!”
“What’re you doing with him?”
“It’s an it, George. I’m throwing it out.”
“Don’t do that. I’ll take him down to the park.” He held his hand out, and she glared at him.
“It’s raining. You’re going to take him down there in the rain?”
“You can’t just put him in the bin. Poor wee fellow.” George plucked the caterpillar off the cereal pack, and it immediately started exploring his hand. “It’s not his fault, is it? I’ll just pop him in a jar with some leaves or something for now.”
Nora shook her head and dropped the cereal box in the rubbish. Whatever kept him happy.
The rain continued on and off for much of the week, that drizzly spring weather that always threatens to brighten into something lovely but never quite does. It was Friday before it was nice enough to go out for a decent walk, and a sharp little breeze played with the trees that lined the road and tugged at Nora’s coat as they strolled arm in arm toward the park.
“We should go up to the gardens for lunch,” George said.
“It’ll be crowded.”
“True. Do you fancy an ice cream in the park, then?”
Nora looked up at the scrubbed sky, feeling the first hints of warmth in the sun, and smiled. “That would be nice.”
They took their usual route through the park, treading carefully on the muddy paths that wound through the wooded area, nodding at joggers and dog walkers. There was spring growth everywhere, struggling up after the rain, and everything seemed breathlessly alive, from the birds flinging themselves across the sky to the spring flowers flooding the ground.
Except for one small tree, standing where the path from the woods split, carrying one either through the fancier area straight ahead, with its gazebos and vine-covered pavilion, or out to the playground and mini-golf on the right, or off to the botanical garden-style area on the left, with the little planting areas representing different countries, and lichen-encrusted information plaques nestling in the foliage.
“Oh,” Nora said, peering up at the tree. Every leaf had been torn from it, and its branches slumped forlornly toward the ground, dry and cracking under their own weight. “That looks rather poorly, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm.”
“Virus, do you think?”
“Hmm,” George said again. He let go of Nora’s hand and went to inspect the tree a little more closely.
Nora watched him go, tucking her hands into her coat pockets. “That’s not the tree you put our little friend in, is it?”
George turned back, looking shifty. “Of course not.”
“I told you we should have put it in the bin.” She linked her arm through his again and they ambled on toward the ice cream shop.
The sunny weather held, and the next day they started down the road toward the park again, agreeing that this time they should have a coffee, because it didn’t do anyone any good to have ice cream every day. It stopped feeling quite so special if one had it every day. As they approached the path through the woods, they slowed, then stopped altogether, staring at the trees that yesterday had formed a reaching, spring-green canopy over the footpath.
All the leaves were gone. Not a single tree had been spared, and the trees themselves looked diminished and shrunken, their limbs twisting in ways Nora was certain they hadn’t the day before. As they watched, a branch detached itself with a brittle snap and crashed to the pavement ahead of them, shattering with the finality of a broken figurine. They looked at each other.
“Shall we go the other way?” Nora suggested.
“It might be wise,” George said, as another branch fell in a pained chorus of tearing and cracking.
The rest of the park seemed unaffected, and they drank their coffee while watching children and their parents – well, mostly their parents – driving remote controlled boats around the pond, framed by lush dark foliage dripping with life. There were a lot of park workers about, and they saw some stringing yellow caution tape along the edge of the woodland area, much to the frustration of the dog walkers. Occasionally a crash could be heard over the sound of the coffee machine.
“I did put the caterpillar there,” George said.
Nora had her cup cradled in both hands, and looked at him over the rim. “You don’t say.”
“Should I tell them?”
They both looked toward the taped-off woodland. A man with a poodle was arguing with a workman and waving his arms wildly. The poodle was peeing on one of the new sculptures the council had installed, and Nora rather thought she approved of the creature’s evaluation of it. “I don’t think so,” she said finally. “It was a caterpillar. Even if it was exceptionally hungry, it can’t kill trees.”
“I suppose,” George said. He was fiddling with the sugar packets, and Nora sighed, then leaned over and squeezed his arm.
“If it’ll make you feel better. But I doubt they’ll even pay any attention.”
The workman with the warning tape paid no attention whatsoever. The woman driving the park’s golf cart listened gravely, then patted George’s hand and thanked him, telling him she’d be sure to pass it along, before driving under the tape and up the hill toward the woods.
“She’s not going to pass it on, is she?” George asked once they were out of earshot.
“I did tell you,” Nora replied.
The next day they packed sandwiches and a thermos of tea, and drove out to the Dales to walk in some wilder spaces.
Neither of them mentioned the caterpillar.
Monday was a little grey and fragile feeling, as if spring had worn itself out over the weekend and wasn’t sure just what to do now. Nora had books to take back to the library, so they bundled themselves against the cold and ventured out, their route taking them past the park, although it wasn’t a day for sitting outside with coffee.
Not that they needed to worry, as the coffee shop was shut. The entire park was shut. The big iron gates at the main entrance were closed for the first time Nora could remember, and the smaller entrances were strung about liberally with more warning tape, and guarded by soldiers with tight faces. Beyond them, they could see nothing but grey and broken trees, stark against the green spring grass. They stopped in front of the main gates, and asked one of the soldiers what had happened. She examined them with a flat expression, and must have found them harmless, because she relaxed and said, “Biological event.”
“A biological event?” George said. “What’s that when it’s at home? A birthday party for amoebas?”
The soldier grinned, her cheeks dimpling. “No, sir. But that’s all the information I can give you. There’s no danger to people or animals. Just the trees.” A roar punctuated her words, the sound of a glacier calving, and they turned to watch as the great oak tree that had stood at the centre of the park folded in on itself like so much paper.
“Oh dear,” Nora said. “Now that’s a real shame.”
The soldier looked back at them, her smile fading. “I know. It must have been really pretty.”
“It was,” George said, and took Nora’s arm. “Well – good luck, then.”
“Thanks,” the soldier said, and watched them walk away along the rain-damp street, a small woman and a thin man, dusted grey around the edges with age.
“Nora,” George called from the little balcony that gave onto the street.
“What is it?”
“Come and have a look at this.”
Nora frowned at her crossword. Something strange (7). “Is it important?”
“Yes.”
She sighed and put the paper on the side table, then padded over to the balcony. The rain had stopped, but the night still felt damp and chilly. “You’re letting the cold in.”
“Come and see.” He put an arm around her as she tightened her cardigan, looking down the street toward the park. In the dark the dead grey trees were pale as old ashes, and there were searchlights punching through them, and silently rolling red and blue lights on the roads at the entrance.
“What are they doing?”
“I can’t tell,” George said. “I think they’re looking for something.” As he spoke, a sudden rash of shouting broke out, accompanied by the crash of falling trees. More shouting, and then a sound that made them clutch each other in instinctive fright. It was the snap of guns, familiar from too many TV shows and movies to name, but never heard in earnest. It was flat and hard, both less impressive and more frightening than either had imagined. They stared out toward the park as the searchlights began to congregate by the gates. The shooting had stopped, but there was more shouting going on, and the thunder of falling trees was building to a crescendo.
