silent.
He heard one of them hiss the word “Creeper.”
After more than a minute of the incessant pounding, he heard the Sentry bolt down the road, away from the swaying fence and the horrible slithering and slathering sounds.
“This is ou r chance.” As quietly as possible, the Old Man scrambled down the tree. Daman followed, quickly if clumsily. To his embarrassment, the Old Man made much better time. They both landed on the ground in a clump of something dry and crisp.
The Old Man winc ed. “Hurt my ankle,” he whispered. But they could not discuss the matter further.
The pounding on the fence ceased. The Creeper detected their movement.
They raced back toward the fence at a point far south of the Creeper. He knew now how quickly the hideous creature could move. They had no time to waste. The Old Man had trouble keeping up. He favored his right foot. Each step appeared to cause great pain.
He pulled the rope out of the Old Man’s pack and slung the hook onto the fence. He sprang up and, balancing at the top, offered a hand to the Old Man.
“Hurr y!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Creeper slither closer.
A fter considerable effort, they landed together on the other side, barely seconds before the Creeper arrived.
They were safe, at least for the moment . The Black Sentry platoon was gone. Twilight had fallen. He knew it soon would be dark and they could travel more safely. He allowed the Old Man to place one arm around his shoulder. Together, they hobbled back toward the village.
“That dry, crackling brush we fell in on the other side of the fence,” he asked. “Those were leaves?”
“They certainly were,” the Old Man said, breathing heavily.
“They fall from trees?”
“Every year.”
“But in the village, leaves never fall. They stay on the branches forever, in an orderly fashion.”
“The Sentinel’s trees are fakes, fabricated . Just like the flowers and the butterflies and...well, everything else in your village.”
“ What do you mean? A tree is a tree.”
“You have a lot to learn, son .”
He took the Old Man back to the village and headed for his family’s home. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty and they had ample warning before the rare traveler approached. He assumed that most people, still exhausted from the Festival the day before, had eaten their dinners and gone to bed. Still, he kept his eyes and ears alert, ready to hide at a moment’s notice.
T he quiet intensified his anxiety. His hands trembled with fear. He only hoped the Old Man could not detect it.
They took the road to his family’s house and, as usual, began counting. As his home came into sight, a warm glow passed over him. They were actually going to make it.
Then he heard a noise almost directly behind them. Someone approached quickly.
Dragging the Old Man along , he darted into the easement beside the Moore cottage and ducked behind the trough.
Peering over the t op, he tried to see who approached, hoping it was not a member of the Black Sentry. As the figure came closer, he realized it was someone smaller, younger...
Brita . Even in the darkness, her vibrant yellow hair seemed as radiant as the sun.
She appear ed to be staring directly at them. Was it his imagination, or had she spotted them?
Barely a second later, a Black Sentry platoon marched down the lane in formation. He ducked his head and waited for them to pass. They moved slowly, obviously searching for something. Or someone.
He realized that although he might have eluded the Sentry for the moment, the search had not been abandoned.
Af ter a few minutes, the Sentry passed out of sight.
Brita had al so disappeared.
As far as he could tell, the way was clear. He helped the Old Man to his feet and quickly completed the journey to his home.
Many years before, hi s father had dug out a large cellar behind their house, principally for the storage of supplies and equipment and baking ingredients.
T he perfect place
He heard one of them hiss the word “Creeper.”
After more than a minute of the incessant pounding, he heard the Sentry bolt down the road, away from the swaying fence and the horrible slithering and slathering sounds.
“This is ou r chance.” As quietly as possible, the Old Man scrambled down the tree. Daman followed, quickly if clumsily. To his embarrassment, the Old Man made much better time. They both landed on the ground in a clump of something dry and crisp.
The Old Man winc ed. “Hurt my ankle,” he whispered. But they could not discuss the matter further.
The pounding on the fence ceased. The Creeper detected their movement.
They raced back toward the fence at a point far south of the Creeper. He knew now how quickly the hideous creature could move. They had no time to waste. The Old Man had trouble keeping up. He favored his right foot. Each step appeared to cause great pain.
He pulled the rope out of the Old Man’s pack and slung the hook onto the fence. He sprang up and, balancing at the top, offered a hand to the Old Man.
“Hurr y!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Creeper slither closer.
A fter considerable effort, they landed together on the other side, barely seconds before the Creeper arrived.
They were safe, at least for the moment . The Black Sentry platoon was gone. Twilight had fallen. He knew it soon would be dark and they could travel more safely. He allowed the Old Man to place one arm around his shoulder. Together, they hobbled back toward the village.
“That dry, crackling brush we fell in on the other side of the fence,” he asked. “Those were leaves?”
“They certainly were,” the Old Man said, breathing heavily.
“They fall from trees?”
“Every year.”
“But in the village, leaves never fall. They stay on the branches forever, in an orderly fashion.”
“The Sentinel’s trees are fakes, fabricated . Just like the flowers and the butterflies and...well, everything else in your village.”
“ What do you mean? A tree is a tree.”
“You have a lot to learn, son .”
He took the Old Man back to the village and headed for his family’s home. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty and they had ample warning before the rare traveler approached. He assumed that most people, still exhausted from the Festival the day before, had eaten their dinners and gone to bed. Still, he kept his eyes and ears alert, ready to hide at a moment’s notice.
T he quiet intensified his anxiety. His hands trembled with fear. He only hoped the Old Man could not detect it.
They took the road to his family’s house and, as usual, began counting. As his home came into sight, a warm glow passed over him. They were actually going to make it.
Then he heard a noise almost directly behind them. Someone approached quickly.
Dragging the Old Man along , he darted into the easement beside the Moore cottage and ducked behind the trough.
Peering over the t op, he tried to see who approached, hoping it was not a member of the Black Sentry. As the figure came closer, he realized it was someone smaller, younger...
Brita . Even in the darkness, her vibrant yellow hair seemed as radiant as the sun.
She appear ed to be staring directly at them. Was it his imagination, or had she spotted them?
Barely a second later, a Black Sentry platoon marched down the lane in formation. He ducked his head and waited for them to pass. They moved slowly, obviously searching for something. Or someone.
He realized that although he might have eluded the Sentry for the moment, the search had not been abandoned.
Af ter a few minutes, the Sentry passed out of sight.
Brita had al so disappeared.
As far as he could tell, the way was clear. He helped the Old Man to his feet and quickly completed the journey to his home.
Many years before, hi s father had dug out a large cellar behind their house, principally for the storage of supplies and equipment and baking ingredients.
T he perfect place
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