Too much Lovecraft, too much King

Un conte de Nimes

Once there was a boy and a girl who found themselves in the city of Nimes.

Without a map or a compass, the sun shrouded in cloud, they step into the city. The guardian trees of Provence line a stately boulevard, reaching towards the sky like so many crippled hands petrified by the brilliant winter sun. Leafless and white, colder than any northern tree from the boreal forests of home, they tower over the two children. But the air is warm and soft, and a marble banked river leads to a fountain in the town square. Poised atop the fountain is a blank eyed goddess. A coliseum for a crown, she stares blindly over the rooftops, eternal apathy carved into her upturned face.

The square is quiet. Any word passed between the two seems defamatory. She is loath for anyone to hear them speaking and know the truth: my country is not your country. But the lines on her face and the narrowing of her eyes are enough; no sound need pass her lips.

Embossed into the paving stones is the collared alligator of Nimes. It appears again. And again. Alligator to alligator the children go, following the trail like so many reptilian breadcrumbs. Back and forth and through the town until they reach a set of golden gates, slightly open like a secret someone let slip.

The gravel beneath their feet is unbearably loud in the stillness of the park. The marble eyes of the statues lining the path seem to follow them as they dreamily walk past the shallow pools bejeweled with silently gliding swans, and towards a set of stone steps.

A forest looms ahead. Dark and wild, it renders the stone walkways insignificant, petty. Drawn forward, the children climb the stairs into the shadows of the trees. The grass is lushly green; despite the winter that flirts with the rest of the city, the flowers are blooming here. The paths slope drunkenly to and fro; strange birds call out. Streams feed into ponds glittering with fish that flash by so quickly, she can’t be sure she saw them at all. The air is heavy; the sun shines through strong and hot.

Breathless with wonder, they dance through the park.  Onward past stone benches and waterfalls, onward past branches hanging low with impossibly green leaves, onward past springs rushing down the hill and out of the forest. Onward and ever upward.

At last they crest the hill. Jutting up into the sky is a tower, its ruined top high above the canopy of the trees. Blocks of stone litter the ground around it, each one large enough to crush a man completely if ever it were to fall on top of him.  She stands a few paces away from the base of the tower, staring into the gaping hole in the wall that serves as a door. The intoxicating light of the forest cannot pass the threshold. The darkness is complete, emitting only a whispering sound like scales clicking over scales, so soft it might only be her imagination. As she moves towards the infinite blackness beyond the outer wall it seems to her that there might be something there. A shadow upon a shadow; the silhouette of something almost human, yet unspeakably inhuman.

 A shout from behind breaks the spell. She turns to see the boy, one hand stretched towards her, the other pointing up at the sky. The sun is burning low on the horizon; night is falling on the park.

And they are running, running. Down the hill and through the forest, half wild with panic, trying hard not to think of the shadow in the doorway, and what might happen when the sun slips out of sight, and all of the shadows join as one.  

Out of the forest and into the park, past the stone statues whose faces, once jovial and foolish, are twisted with fury. Sprinting towards the golden gates she wills herself to believe that she does not hear the soft scrape of stone on stone behind her, but runs faster all the same.

They burst through the gates, slamming them so hard that the golden alligator on top threatens to come crashing down on both of them, before it sways itself still. The urge to look back is unbearable. Terrified she casts a fleeting glance through the gates, but all is still. She looks up to the top of the hill where the ruined tower rises slanted out of the forest like a headstone on a restless tomb. Behind the tower, blue-black clouds are building.

The storm relentlessly marches across the sky while the children desperately try to find the way back to the train station. They search the skyline for a bell tower or a spire to guide them, but all of the buildings look the same. Convinced that they are going in circles, becoming more and more frantic they finally stumble upon the fountain and its stoic guardian, her impassive face pointed down a long stone walkway ending in the station.

With a flash of lightning the rain begins to drive down in sheets, soaking the children to the bone as they run towards the train station, their hysterical laughter drowned out by the roaring of the storm.