Too Much Sky Part 3

As I stood there I thought hard about that 'that'. The distance was long and despite the lateness in the day the haze still stole away the detail. A breeze made my eyes water every few seconds and I would wipe them and then return my stare back across the shifting reed beds to the garden of the house. I registered a hand inside my own, warm, his mother's blood in the veins - and that was how we stood – motionless.

What we saw was blackness, like a thick smoke, a concentration of dark air, and for a moment I feared fire, the destruction of more things, but then it moved away, pulled by the wind, seemed to dart of its own accord – yet there was something animal in its movements, like it searched the ground, sniffed hungrily for something, then moved on quickly - far too quickly. Whether it was the difficulty to maintain vision or something else, its movements seemed to jump, appearing at different points, impossible places like a stuttering film.

Then nothing.

We waited - I don't know how long - and then set off reluctantly, the view obscured, disappearing as we descended, finding one of the numerous paths that led east. To our right I could see the masts of ketches taking advantage of the rising tide to head out into deeper water, and in places the going was heavier now, the pools stretching wider, the gullies filling up, but we had seen this many times before.

I raised Tom onto my shoulders – he always tired on the journey back, but I also wanted him near me, I didn't want any space between us. I pointed out the masts and sails, shapes and colours, other things as well; St Mark's glowing on the shoulder of the headland in the distance, a peewit's cry – all the time avoiding the questions I knew would come.

All too soon we were climbing higher ground, the house rising high suddenly, shrinking the sky as it always did when we came back up this way. The shed door swung lazily, erratically, slapping the frame, its hinges creaking – usually now he would want to get down to investigate, or would already be inside after racing on ahead – this simmering fascination with a dilapidated potting shed - and for some reason I would dread the approach, the slow opening of the door, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Not today. Something in the silence of the garden, stumbling through that absence, our breaths too loud somehow, any noise an obscenity to the stillness. We stopped.

Trapped on the arm of an old steam chair a torn greying bin-bag danced and fizzed. This seemed to be an answer of sorts. I put him down and then as reassurance offered it up.

'Look Tom, that's what it was.' He said nothing, stared at it for a while, his five year old mind struggling with a question he could not comprehand – that would make it not work. Eventually he turned, moved quickly away – half-running up the old stone steps and disappearing around to the side of the house.

I pulled the rest of it away from the chair, let it wrap around my hands and fingers for a time in the breeze and then, just as unconvinced, released it. I could still hear the shed door flapping in the wind; but instead of walking back to close it, I followed up the steps without looking back.