Wolfe was impatient. The ancient mustard coloured Volkswagen in front crawled along the narrow road, swerving as the wind tossed a handful of leaves at the windscreen. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, the tempest inside his head growing as the car slowed at the site of a pheasant at the side of the road.
Turning a corner, a short stretch of road ahead beckoned. He took a chance, pressing his foot to the floor. As he drew alongside the Beetle on the wrong side of the road, a yellow sports car bore down on him, coming the other way. Too late, he realised his mistake and slammed on his brakes.
***
He was cold. Figures moved, eerie shapes in a shadowy mist. A face leaned over him with bulbous eyes and thick lips, like a fish. A muffled noise sank into the soft mush of his brain. Peering out from behind the hazy curtain that had descended, he made out a translucent gold shape. He was laying on something hard now, spikes pressing into his back. He closed his eyes and listened the gritty voice whose words he could not understand.
Noise, people, then a prick on his hand, as if he had been bitten by an ant.
He was walking in a country lane, cows grazing in a nearby field, acres of barley waving gently in a cool breeze. An idyllic scene, the realisation of an inner fantasy. An ancient windmill stood on a hill, the stiff movement of the circling airborne strokes bending to the timelessness of the gentle breeze, creating ripples in the heath haze. He had dreamed of this many times.
The scent of the wild flowers travelled along the memories of his mind to some dusty corner, a long forgotten childhood scene. Or was it a dream? The church ahead was familiar, but surely it had not been there before? Its massive structure towered into the heavens.
The sun diminished, shrank, obliterated as heavy clouds rolled across its path. He shivered. The church shimmered, luring souls to the unknown world of its interior. A blankness spread down from the sky until he was crouching in a tunnel. He wanted to sink into its velvet softness, to sleep.
The church called to him, soft, wheedling voices drawing him into a swirling mist, tendrils plucking at him. The church had a life on its own. The stones invaded him, a parasite body, bubbling up to fill his flesh, creeping into distant corners, oozing out of pores in its cuckoo encroachment.
Too late, he realised his mistake, realised the innate deceitfulness of the vision. It no longer belonged to him. He was afraid. The echoes of a remote existence, a destiny, called him back. A vision of his life flitted through his mind before he was swamped again by the unspoken thought coming him enter, enter.
Suffocated, engulfed by strange fantasises, he felt himself slipping. His limbs grew heavy, his head grew until he thought it would explode and he could resist no more.
Beyond the open door of the church, pulsed an inner entity. With a violent realisation, he understood that the nucleus was himself. There was no battle. The vision was an extension of his ego.
He gave himself up to it, let himself be lifted by frantic, screaming bodies desperate for blood, to be thrown on the marble slab which stretched before the altar: a communion of strangers. A flash of lightning shook him, released him from his body, his soul surged, becoming suspended in space, restrained by a thin silver thread that connected him to his empty shell. His useless body lay on the slab, a lump of flesh he had left behind.
The knife raised, plunged, gouging at his empty shell. The silver thread shrivelled back into the body and he fell into a vortex of his own beginnings, drawn into it, sucked into the seething mass, to become part of it, no longer an individual, disintegrating, pulsing to the rhythm of the universe.
***
The surgeon removed his mask. “He’s gone. We did all we could, but his injuries were too severe.”
Turning a corner, a short stretch of road ahead beckoned. He took a chance, pressing his foot to the floor. As he drew alongside the Beetle on the wrong side of the road, a yellow sports car bore down on him, coming the other way. Too late, he realised his mistake and slammed on his brakes.
***
He was cold. Figures moved, eerie shapes in a shadowy mist. A face leaned over him with bulbous eyes and thick lips, like a fish. A muffled noise sank into the soft mush of his brain. Peering out from behind the hazy curtain that had descended, he made out a translucent gold shape. He was laying on something hard now, spikes pressing into his back. He closed his eyes and listened the gritty voice whose words he could not understand.
Noise, people, then a prick on his hand, as if he had been bitten by an ant.
He was walking in a country lane, cows grazing in a nearby field, acres of barley waving gently in a cool breeze. An idyllic scene, the realisation of an inner fantasy. An ancient windmill stood on a hill, the stiff movement of the circling airborne strokes bending to the timelessness of the gentle breeze, creating ripples in the heath haze. He had dreamed of this many times.
The scent of the wild flowers travelled along the memories of his mind to some dusty corner, a long forgotten childhood scene. Or was it a dream? The church ahead was familiar, but surely it had not been there before? Its massive structure towered into the heavens.
The sun diminished, shrank, obliterated as heavy clouds rolled across its path. He shivered. The church shimmered, luring souls to the unknown world of its interior. A blankness spread down from the sky until he was crouching in a tunnel. He wanted to sink into its velvet softness, to sleep.
The church called to him, soft, wheedling voices drawing him into a swirling mist, tendrils plucking at him. The church had a life on its own. The stones invaded him, a parasite body, bubbling up to fill his flesh, creeping into distant corners, oozing out of pores in its cuckoo encroachment.
Too late, he realised his mistake, realised the innate deceitfulness of the vision. It no longer belonged to him. He was afraid. The echoes of a remote existence, a destiny, called him back. A vision of his life flitted through his mind before he was swamped again by the unspoken thought coming him enter, enter.
Suffocated, engulfed by strange fantasises, he felt himself slipping. His limbs grew heavy, his head grew until he thought it would explode and he could resist no more.
Beyond the open door of the church, pulsed an inner entity. With a violent realisation, he understood that the nucleus was himself. There was no battle. The vision was an extension of his ego.
He gave himself up to it, let himself be lifted by frantic, screaming bodies desperate for blood, to be thrown on the marble slab which stretched before the altar: a communion of strangers. A flash of lightning shook him, released him from his body, his soul surged, becoming suspended in space, restrained by a thin silver thread that connected him to his empty shell. His useless body lay on the slab, a lump of flesh he had left behind.
The knife raised, plunged, gouging at his empty shell. The silver thread shrivelled back into the body and he fell into a vortex of his own beginnings, drawn into it, sucked into the seething mass, to become part of it, no longer an individual, disintegrating, pulsing to the rhythm of the universe.
***
The surgeon removed his mask. “He’s gone. We did all we could, but his injuries were too severe.”