TCOTNK 14 Miss
Miss
The sound that had been playing in the background for some time got through to her as it grew louder and came closer. The still night air was filled with swelling engine sounds from across the water. A speedboat working overtime sounded like it was making a turn around the island.
She withdrew her hand from the bowl with the dark liquid and listened. In the stillness of the night, the roar sounded very close. It was mind-boggling how her ears painted the picture. A fast boat with two outboard motors. The hull that skimmed over the flat water, flapping. In the sharp turn it made she could almost see the bubbling fountain spurt. The gurgling torque of propellers, the hiss of a million drops and the heavy two-tone roar of a lot of horsepower as it started moving again to the side of the garden, towards the house and the harbour. She wanted to see what was going on. Like she always wanted to go after the fire department. No one steered that way at night for fun.
As she ran through the thicket, the sound moved quickly to her left. The mixed vegetable garden was much bigger than she had assumed. The roar suddenly dropped to a low growl. Her head followed her ears. Turning to place the invisible boat dead center. She walked a little stooped. There were paths everywhere, half overgrown and winding like a maze. She was a scout, a hunter who followed her large prey as quietly as possible. Which went perfectly on her bare feet. Hardened by weeks of festival grounds. Just as the sound seemed to fade away, she stopped and lifted the bow from her back. On this side, the branches and tendrils hung so low that she would get stuck. She pushed the felt cap over her curls, not intending to hang herself on her hair. She heard faint voices on the boat. Very close. The shore couldn't be far. The island was not that big. By now she must have walked most of the way back to the house.
On her haunches she scanned the surroundings. Especially with her ears. Due to the dense vegetation there was not much to see. It was a lot darker under the trees. Almost silent now. Forest sounds, the rustling of something alive, very small. The rumbling of the idling engines. Then, to her right, less than ten meters away, the voice of a man.
"Three gentlemen," he said softly. A short pause and then, "I don't know, unknown." Another silent pause. An earpiece? Barely perceptible, the speaker moved. To the left. The last sentence shocked her. “Okay,” he said, and she could hear him speaking her way, “I'll keep the girl out of it. You manage there?' and with a little more noise he walked back in the direction from whence he came. Away from Scarlotte. Away from the house.
She pinched her nose. See, she thought, see, see, see! Zero nice garden, cozy dinner for two. This was the world where nothing was what it seemed. Where things were used to serve other things. People, situations, even the butterflies were used here to get things done. It made her angry. She felt tricked and screwed. Old scars reporting for duty, making her angry. She had left all this behind. Falsehood. Being told what to think, and want, and do, and be. And what you had to refrain from. All you weren’t allowed to touch. Keep the girl out?
She stood. The unstretched bow came to her chest. And she did what she had seen others do before. Stepped her foot between tendon and grip, put the point just below her big toe and forced the wood into a curve past the back of her knee. After two tries, the loop slid around the notched end and the bow was taut like a bass string. Just in case, she thought.
She slunk away from the walking earpiece towards the water. Ten steps away she was on the beach. A narrow strip, brightly reflecting the moonlight. She kept to the shadows. Avoiding being too visible along the water. No trace of the boat.
Back into the vegetation. Nobody kept her out. She ran almost silently through the woods on a path overgrown with long grasses that apparently wasn't used often. It felt like she had never done anything but hunt, sneak through dark woods, smell, be alert, watch closely. Both outward and inward facing. Wide focus and pointed focus in a perfect embrace. She sensed the shape of that. The earth was wonderfully soft on the soles of her feet. It's all make believe, she thought, and she was probably crazy. In her chest, the luminous spherical shape was so swollen that it was extruding from her body, taking up more and more space at a rapid pace. Like a flood spreading. A flood of luminous energy. Getting bigger. Getting stronger. A roaring solar storm sweeping over the island that spoke of very different realities. The boundaries of her body seemed to dissolve in that outgoing stream. Its silver-yellow radiance lit up the trunks. The crowns above her black hood and the root systems under her bare feet were permeated with energy channels, rivers of rainbow light. Underneath, the entire dune, saturated with water, carried her. The air of the sleeping wind kept her cool and caressed her forearms. The skin on her skin passed on what she registered as animal life. The gnawing quadrupeds, the armored multi-legged ones, the army of night-flyers with translucent wings spoke of high and further away. Of deeper and closer. Playing the lowest layer of airspace close to earth. And still her field expanded. Her space absorbed space. Beneath the great wings of the atmosphere she dwelled. And past it. Through the curtain, through the veil. Behind which danced the emptiness of everything.
The lights around the house came into view. Her focus narrowed effortlessly. While the bird's eye view in the background continued to nourish her. The bay was on the right. A man was mooring the motorboat at the jetty. Two visitors were already heading towards the house. She knew immediately who they were. Was surprised and annoyed. And endeared at the same time. James and Chris.
It was what? Two o'clock in the morning? She had said she would go back herself. She didn't want protection. The whole idea was that she was vulnerable. Independent. Go alone into the cave. Not with a bunch of chaperones. The babysitters walked out into the yard. Up the faint steps. Came to the table that was now cleared. And stood to the left and right of it. Looking at each other, consulting. She saw the tension rising. Then she understood. Her boots were still there. Proof to them that they were right, that they had found her. Well, almost then. She crept a little closer. Picasso came out of the house. Followed by his own babysitters. The rich man was dwarfed by them. His three-quarter shorts and white shirt with short sleeves next to the pillars in sculpted dark costumes. It just wasn't funny.
It's all right, Scarlotte told herself, they're just checking in to see if I'm okay, they're just worried, and rightly so. They shook hands. Picasso and Chris. What a strange guy he is, she thought. I've known him for three days and he's already more entwined with me than my whole family in almost seventeen years. Or had her birthday already been? She couldn't keep track of the days at all. It could be any day of the week. Jesus, sick. Are you okay, girl?
The situation felt tense. She didn't like the way the bodyguards positioned themselves. She drew an arrow from the quiver. The leather holder was well made. It didn't rattle as you walked because of a leather ring with scattered holes. The painted shaft slid out silently. She had shot some arrows once. Practiced for an afternoon on an excursion, but this bow was different. The string was taut like a gallows rope with a fleshy butcher hanging from it. Well, the bow was a lefty, just like she preferred. She felt her fingertips with her thumb. The same fingertips she had dipped in the blood. The memory of the stone bowl sharpened her.
Picasso led the visitors to the dining room table. Scarlotte wanted to go further to the left, under the trees, to get closer to the conversation. At the boat, the unknown captain was ready, and the man walked onto the jetty. Another guard emerged from the shadows across the narrow bay. Wearing a bulletproof vest and in full battle gear. Jesus, what was going on here? He stopped the taxi boatman. A lazy gesture. Without taking his attention completely away from the meeting at the table. A round table, Scarlotte thought, how appropriate. Keep the girl out of it, sounded again in her head. As if Picasso himself said it. Yes, she thought, distract for a while, get rid of her rescuing knights in the meantime, then pretend nothing had happened so he could continue working her like dough. Soft and malleable. Almost ready for the oven.
What was the strategy now? Open and clear, or surprise? What would help this weird development best? Attacking or staying low? Flight or fight? Neither, she thought. She chose to be open and clear and stepped onto the path, arrow at the ready, three fingers on the string. This way she could defend herself, had surprise on her side and still be independent and vulnerable, and she would no longer be left out.
Picasso was the first to register her. While he couldn't really see her yet from the circle of light around the terrace. The second was the guard on the jetty, who presumably saw her silhouette moving past the whitewashed glass of the greenhouse. Then it went fast. The meatballs reacted and without hesitation moved between her and Picasso. Chris and James now also stood up, scraping chair legs, peering into the darkness. Beyond the next garden lamp she would be in plain sight, so she stopped.
Picasso had remained seated.
'Charlotte,' he said, wonderfully relaxed, 'come close, girl. You have visitors, the gentlemen are here because….”
Fuck, it was a diversion! Her keen senses registered rapid footsteps from the woods behind her. The walking ear running? The voice of the beach. She had forgotten about him for a while. Her bow swung in his direction in defense. She pulled the string tight. Jesus, what tension there was. But she felt strong as a bear. That would stop him. The warning should be enough. The dark shadow between the trees indeed skidded to a halt. Twenty meters away. Just visible against the trunks of the closely spaced oak trees. A shadow between the little will-o'-the-wisps of the path to the wild garden. She hadn't said anything yet. And she opened her mouth to say something like stay, stop or halt, like you would to a vicious dog, but maybe it was the shifted attention, or because she breathed for the word, or maybe it was because this bow seemed to have a will of its own, the fact was that she let go of the tendon. Her aching, almost numb fingertips could no longer curl around the string. She hadn't even fully drawn the bow, but more than enough to create a whirring whiz that propelled the arrow toward its target. The distance between bow wood and final destination was timeless. Both instant and eternal with a world of thoughts and feelings in it. With a firm pock, the metal medieval pointed head drilled deep into the bark of the oak tree behind the stooped man.