Twenty Minutes Later
Copyright 2015 Lee A Jackson
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold
or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,
please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did
not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your
favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard
work of this author.
Twenty minutes later is where Quinn's mind is at as he proudly stands at the attic window in his brand new suit. He looks out over the depressing wash of autumnal colours tainting the trees at the end of the garden. Once past those shedding giants at the edge of their boundary, it is only twenty minutes to Pevensey Bridge.
Just twenty minutes of eager cold breaths in his lungs will be all that it will take. Running over slippery leaves and hurdling decayed, fallen branches on his way. In the forest he will not stop, nor even think of the guileful woodland eyes upon him as he goes. Only upon reaching the clearing on the other side of the wooded area will he come to rest. Once there he will gather his spent breaths, leaning against the glistening dew-laden surface of the seasonally abandoned picnic table.
Once his lungs are breathing easy, he will then walk across the damp grass to the stream's crossing. He will cross Pevensey Bridge this time.
Two weeks ago, Quinn had accidentally stumbled into the clearing for the very first time. The journey through the forest having been taken in the aftermath of conflict, making him fleet of foot, keen to find out how to lose himself. A journey besieged with paranoia of eyes secretly watching him from within the forest, insidious creatures determined not to let him be alone.
That first encounter in the clearing he had seen something across the water. Something beyond the wooden span arching over a slow running stream before him, something beyond the hand carved sign which pronounced it as being Pevensey Bridge.
It had been a glimpse of mystery that had instantly piqued his heart; a red gown blowing in the wind. Its flowing form held back by the hem which had caught on the branch of a tree overhanging the stream.
Quinn had stood and watched the dress fighting for its freedom, the bare fingers of the tree scrabbling for a hold upon its fragile surface. He had heard the tearing of material as the gown broke free and danced in the air.
A fluttering in his chest. The excitement and wonder at seeing the garment break free. Excitement mixed with the fear of uncertainty as to where it would end up. But the dress's dance of freedom was not dictated by, but instead embraced within the desires of the wind. Its movements fluid, graceful and happy as it drifted slowly down to the shallow waters that scuttled away under the bridge. As the dampened gown darkened to a bloody vermillion, Quinn's initial urge to break forward and clutch the gown was hampered by an unknown presence. Before he could lift a foot he had felt a barrier go up before him, a presence holding him back. He had looked around the clearing, but the awkward movements which had caught his eye were emerging from under the bridge.
As the red gown floated out of view, the sensation of an impending sinister presence from under the bridge forced Quinn to edge back away. As he retreated, Quinn had looked across to the land beyond Pevensey Bridge, a fertility and hope in its yawning endless lush landscape. Somewhere in that land was the owner of the red gown. Despite the urge to embark on that journey of discovery, the unseen uncertainties had stayed him.
With the trees at his back, it had been easier to succumb to the watching eyes in the forest than risk the pain of change. With the dress having disappeared, Quinn slipped back amongst the trees.
Studiously Quinn studies the movement at the bottom of the garden from his vantage point in the attic. Specifically the figure of the woman moving towards the trees. He watches as she takes a rake to the fallen leaves, the pendulum motion of her arms swinging back and forth in metronomic stability. Quinn watches the shadow of the woman mimic and mock her in its grim sarcasm upon the ground. He watches the hollow grace of the elongated black figure and slowly its source fades from his attention. Instead he sees all the colours of the past melting like watercolours in a basin of water. Everything blurring to the point where the woman and her shadow bleed into the black paint of darkness between the trees, an opaqueness which obscures her.
Trolls live under bridges. The ridiculous thought that had crossed Quinn's mind as he'd again looked at the planks of wood awaiting his footfalls. Days later he had arrived back in the clearing with the scathing words of the raking-woman still ringing in his ears. Another barrage of insults from that that day had sent him scurrying into the woods, seeking solace. Seeking the quietude and air needed to prevent another piece of his soul suffocating and wilting away into the pit of his stomach. The dark chamber where his former self was imprisoned. Again he had hurriedly negotiated the path through the forest as he had felt his skin crawling from the glare of surveillent creatures sequestered within the darkness of the umbrageous canopy.
Once at the clearing of Pevensey Bridge, over the chorus of leaves and water being played by the wind, he had been convinced that he could hear the breaths of a Troll.
He had stood in preparation for the angry beast to jump out, drool hanging from its malformed mouth, the top half of it hunched forwards and a glaucomic eye staring out from a wart-laden eyelid. An abomination in the foreground of the engaging land across the stream.
Before the creature, Quinn would stand trembling, his suit of armour in pieces around his feet looking up at the rudimentary club the Troll would be waving in warning. The strength in Quinn's mind from the adrenalin of his hurried journey there would already be decaying in anticipation of the contest. Having caught his breath he would have only his words to fight with in order to reach the Promised Land beyond.
"Don't hold me back, Troll, not from this! It's time to choose. I either fall into the cold water or I cross the bridge to find the red dress, return it to its owner and claim my life back."
His speech would be delivered on a cold autumnal breeze, having steeled the unconvincing words to rally from his mouth. Words which would prove to be an unsuccessful attack on Pevensey Bridge.
For he would see the Troll before him, larger than life and edging closer, its malformed bulk obscuring the bridge behind it.
"I'm not the kind of person who has the strength to hurt another," he would find himself saying to the Troll, desperate to convince the creature and himself. "Yet, I've been loyal to everyone except myself for the last 8 years. This is my time, time for me to take something that I want."
Quinn would imagine himself taking one tentative step forward, but it would be the Troll approaching him, menace painting a snarl on its face. A rancid odour would reach Quinn's nose, the essence of a foul stench desperately trying to be cleansed by the fresh air. A pungent smell which would cause Quinn to hesitate and search his reserve. He would feel the fear of the grass binding his feet to the ground. The harsh appearance of the Troll in the serene beauty of the clearing, would conjure up to Quinn an image of getting to Heaven and seeing the Devil standing before him. The shadow of Penance following Quinn, waiting to deliver the weak man's just desserts at the cruellest of moments. Castigation for having harboured thoughts of abandoning his vows, marital declarations taken under oath within the house of God. Chastisement for even thinking of crossing over Pevensey Bridge.
Twenty minutes later and he will be ready for the forest again. He will wait for the raking woman to disappear inside the shed, for then he can slink past and break the boundary of the garden, crossing the line of trees. He won't care for any leaves
that he disturbs which may drift back onto the vigilantly cleared lawn. This time it will all be different. Once out of the garden he will skip unseen, past the watchful eyes of the forest creatures that keep a steady watch for him. Having navigated the trail he will once again be back at the clearing. Breaking into the area will bring the critical moment of his escape. Will there be any stirrings from under the Bridge? Will the grotesque Troll come to stand before him?
It had simply been a matter of discipline. Quinn had given himself eight days to escape. The eight days until the anniversary to mark eight years of wanting to be elsewhere and of wanting his heart to awaken again. Eight years of celebrating a mistake for his head cheating on his heart.
After more failed conquests of being turned away by fear of the Troll, he had spent nights in his attic formulating a plan of how to conquer Pevensey Bridge.
He had assigned time before the day of escape, to learn the path, to commit it to his mind so that he would be able to walk it under the cover of night. The dark would hide him, the night was where he would not be spotted by the prying eyes amongst the trees.
Quinn had surmised that those eyes in the forest held the power of communicating his whereabouts and approach to the Troll. Voices as silent and transparent as the autumn air would scatter to the ears of the Troll, rousing him from slumber to prepare for the defence of Pevensey Bridge. Therefore the Troll would always be aware of Quinn's advances. Quinn would needed to gain the upper hand and he believed in darkness it lay.
He had allowed himself half of the remaining days to slowly navigate the path, memorising the number of steps and on which step to turn direction. Then the remaining days to practice with eyes fully closed, mimicking his night scenario which was the crux of his plan.
But the first attempts of walking heel to toe with arms outstretched had been painfully laborious and cumbersome. With his eyes closed to the day, he had repeatedly lost count of the number of steps taken, each stumble detracting from his concentration.
He had hastened to re-assess his plans and had returned to the forest to learn the path by taking normal strides. Practicing in his forced darkness, the strides had been easier to count, but the method had offered even less accuracy than the previous when it came to changing direction. The strides also affording the same loss of focus when losing footing.
The desire had been to stand on the other side of Pevensey Bridge on the morning of the eighth day. But at the end of the sixth day of his quest, with the desire to run the following night, Quinn had felt discomfort. With the bitter air slipping underneath the canvas of leaves like cold toes under the duvet, Quinn broke the tree line back from the forest to stand at the bottom of his garden. One more day to go and he still could not negotiate the path in full darkness.
As he sunk to his knees on the manicured grass of the lawn, he had looked down to his side to see a single leaf sitting by him. He had stared at the browning leaf, its surface still shining bright in its death song, its veined surface and pointed extrusions looking like a hand print on the surface of the grass.
It was then his eyes had drifted across to the gathered pile of leaves. The pile collected by the raking woman from the neatly manicured and debris free lawn beneath his knees. With day seven beckoning him, he had seen a new and clear direction through the woods.
Still unable to travel the path blinded, he had seen in the pile of fallen handprints the solution. Scrambling across the lawn on his hands and knees like a woodland creature himself, despair had fully dissipated with each movement. With a burst of enthusiasm he had thrown himself into the pile of leaves.
Wasting no further time, Quinn had swiftly stuffed the leaves down inside his shirt, then down into his trousers which had been tucked inside his socks. Running back to the house like a scarecrow chasing after attacking crows, he had fled unseen up to the attic.
Panting hard upon reaching his space he had let loose the autumn leaves in a short shower which had buried his feet. Shaking hands, trembling from excitement and adrenalin had needed steadying.
Black thread carefully pulls the suit of leaves around him, glue hemming the edges together for durability. The patch worked layers of the largest leaves from the pile enveloping him like a fragile suit of armour. The suit which would camouflage him and take him safely through the forest. The creatures would never see him coming, the Troll would not be warned.
From the pile he had swept the leaves up into his arms like fragments of a broken life. Fragments which he had been glad to receive, but also which had needed sorting from the hungry, desperate and disordered reclamation.
The rough surface of the leaves a reminder now of the trepidation of taking on Pevensey Bridge and finding the origins of that red gown. The fear, excitement and pull of discovering where it had drifted away to; to whom it had belonged.
Standing in his new skin, Quinn can recognise a faint trace of a familiar face in the window’s reflection. Almost a boyish glance back at a face full of excitement and perpetual wonder. A face long hidden beneath the weight of anchoring his own desires for fear of reprisals.
Twenty minutes later and she will be done raking up the mess he had made last night of her pile. No doubt she will be blaming stray cats, cursing hot breaths on the cold air.
Quinn stands trembling in his suit of leaves, watching from the window.
No need to wait for the blanket of night now.
His feet now planted firmly on the ground like one of the bordering trees in the garden. Standing at the mercy of the environment, the sun, the wind and the cold, Quinn stood there and took it all in. Now in his suit of leaves, hiding from the raking woman, protect from the prying eyes in the forest, all in order to be seen on the other side of Pevensey Bridge, he waits. Quinn waits for his moment, knowing that this time, the Troll would have no reason to stir from underneath.
###
Thank you for reading my story. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to
leave me a review?
Thanks!
Lee A Jackson
About the author:
I began writing in my mid to late teens, sequestered away in my bedroom in rural south west England. The writing was borne out of a need to express myself and to communicate with the world, something I was not good at doing verbally. It became an outlet for me and my writing grew with me through the years.
For the longest time I had a fear of being forgotten and the way I figured to combat that would be to have a published book sat on a library shelf somewhere. I would have indelibly left my mark somewhere, long after I passed. To this day, the enduring nature of my words in print following my end, is comforting.
Other titles by Lee A Jackson
A Soul of Stone
A Cerberus Jaw
The Salvation of Sam
Connect with Me:
Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/LAJ_writes
Friend me on Facebook: https://facebook.com/leea.jackson.336
Subscribe to my blog: https://leeajackson.weebly.com