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Date Posted: 11:58:42 01/29/08 Tue
Author: celtgirl
Subject: Jamie inside>>>>
In reply to: celtgirl 's message, "I'm posting this next bit in two parts, because it's kinda long and there's a natural break point in it as well. It's Jamie's side of the 'Metaphysical menage-a-trois' or -'a-quatre' as Sallie and I have taken to calling it. :) I'll put it inside the first reply." on 11:50:38 01/29/08 Tue

copyright 2008 Cindy Brandner


The white tiger had been stalking him for days. Jamie knew if he did not find shelter soon, it was going to stop sliding in and out of the blue shadows of the forest and claim him for its own.

He was exhausted and had been walking for so long that he’d lost any sense of time other than what was given him by the position of the sun and the moon. He did not know what day of the week it was, nor even the month. It was only winter, endless, white and cruel winter. Even the sounds had their own season- all the noise about him in shades of white and silver- the crunch of his own footsteps, the howl of the wind as it slapped his face relentlessly, the soft slither of the tiger always just far enough behind to scent his blood, caged within the fragile skin of a human being. He was slowing badly, it was only a matter of time. The night before…or had it been morning…he had found himself paralyzed and fascinated by bolts of ruby light glistening in the snow, until he realized it was blood that patterned the white with jewel-like pinwheels. He had no comprehension how long he had stood there, but only knew the light was much dimmer than when he had stopped. And now the tiger was getting close enough that Jamie could smell its hunger and feel the echo of its pulse in his own veins, feel its footfall with each step of his own, each exhalation of its lungs with the crystallized outpouring of his breath, the yearning in its very cells for the repletion of another’s blood.

He could not remember the last time he’d eaten, and though the hunger cramps had left him some days ago, he knew this to be a bad sign. He was sure it was lack of food that was making him see the odd streaks of colour that flashed in front of his eyes now and again. The only thing he had drunk was handfuls of snow. Nor did he know the last time he had seen another human being- was it weeks ago, a month? Had it been in the camp, and for that matter, he didn’t have a recollection of leaving the camp- had he been released? Had he escaped? These holes in his memory were very troubling, but he turned away the thoughts as too tiresome.

He staggered on for some time more, but the landscape seemed to barely change and he wondered if he was simply moving in ever increasing circles. As the sun started its rapid fall toward night he simply could not move one foot in front of another anymore and fell to his knees in the snow, his blood seemingly replaced by lead. He longed with a violence that was drowning out his survival instinct, to lie down in the snow and go to sleep. To fall asleep here though meant a permanent state, and every time he stopped the tiger got closer, its craving stronger, its longing more pronounced even than his own.

He fell down into the snow and barely found the strength to roll over on his back and prevent suffocation. Just a minute, or maybe two… and then he’d get up and keep moving. He lay there with eyes open and watched the skein of day unravel into the full of night. First came flowing grey-blue to tint the trees and then ribbons of lavender, shot through with reds and purples, until finally the ink of night absorbed all colours and the stars came out blazing through the cold air, one by one. It seemed an entirely separate world from the pain and hardship of the one below. Against that indigo background he could see trails and roads built upon the air, star bridges by which to ascend the night and walk off into universes both terrible and beautiful. And there were delicate oceans of frost, breathed out, breathed in, on which flew translucent ships, with sails rimed by the fine-grained salt of stars. How he longed for the ease of such a universe- to set sail in a celestial sea, to simply let go and fall into infinity. He could feel his eyes closing, and the sweet lethargy of sleep wrapping its arms about him.

It was the tiger’s roar that woke him. Jamie started, heart pounding, scrabbling to his feet, snow falling down his collar and into his boots. Dear God he was so cold, aching in every joint and cell. Dazed with sleep, he cast around, not knowing in which direction to move. The tiger had sounded very close. He couldn’t see anything now, adrenaline clouded his vision, blurred the perpiphery of sight, his ragged breathing fogging the air with crystals. Then directly to the west a shape on the horizon caught his eye. A house, perhaps fifty yards away. He shook his head, confused, he was certain it hadn’t been there when he’d fallen down. It was a structure certainly but still looked like a thing of dreams or wishful thinking- built as though it had sprung off the pages of a Russian fairytale, onion domes capping low towers, with great hoods of snow adorning them, and steps leading up to a broad, railed porch that was almost buried in snow. But in the midst of all this he saw a glint of gold and knew it was a latch. Please God let it be unlocked. He stumbled toward it, panic giving his legs strength to move.

Somehow he managed to run, and knew if the tiger was going to strike, now was the time it would happen. His back was braced for attack even as he made the stairs, scrabbling up them, half crawling through the masses of snow and ice. He was certain he felt the tiger’s breath hot on his neck, could taste the blood-craving upon its tongue, but he knew to look around would be fatal. He grasped the door latch and heaved himself up. The door gave all at once and he fell into the entry, kicking the door shut behind him even as he went down.

He lay there for a moment, half worried the big cat had somehow leaped in behind him. But there was only silence, not even a snuffling or scratching outside the door. He sat up slowly, the world spinning around him. He braced his back against the door and looked around, which was, other than a hint of drifts and an echo of shored ice, an exercise in futility. For it was night and the light even here in this ice castle with its cupolas of snow and frescoes of sparkling frost, was of the blue variant, thick with shadow, and laced with deception.

He sat for a long time, fatigue so heavy that he knew he could not move, even if it meant to light a fire and save his own life. And so sleep, like the oldest of friends came to lie its cape of oblivion gently down.

***

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