Doctor Who_ Cats Cradle_ Witch Mark - Andrew Hunt [6]
Watching the landscape speeding by she started to notice, not with her eyes but more with an intuitive sense, that it was going past faster than the horse itself was galloping. She leaned close into the curve of Rush's neck and asked, 'Why is the ground moving faster than we are?'
'It's all a question of time, my little Bats,' Rush replied. 'You humans are so intent on your one little moment of present time, while we are, in a way, smudged in time.'
'I ... I don't understand.'
'It's very hard to explain to someone who doesn't experience it. Now, hold on, we're going up this hill.'
Bathsheba clung tightly as Rush surged up the hill and so she was safe when the mare abruptly halted.·
'Look over there. What do you see?' Rush raised her foreleg and indicated with that and a toss of her head that Bathsheba should look to the west where the dim red orb was rising into the night sky.
Bathsheba chewed the end of her finger and gazed intently to the west. 'Nothing, really. Farms, I suppose. The Sidhe settlements are to the west. But it's far too dark to see anything.'
Rush whinnied impatiently and stamped her hoof on the ground. 'So what can you actually see?'
Realization dawned on Bathsheba. 'You mean Arawn's Wheel!' she exclaimed.
'Exactly!' Rush's voice echoed resoundingly inside Bathsheba's head and a loud background noise bubbled up to the surface of her mind. Bathsheba waited while Rush quietened down the foal still within her womb.
'So what about it?' she asked eventually.
'I told you we were not as you humans, how we are not entirely fixed to the present. ' She paused.
'Yes?' prompted Bathsheba.
'The red sun, Arawn's Wheel as you call it, features very heavily in our futures, in all our futures.
There are bad times coming to Tír na n-Óg. '
'Bad times?' Bathsheba asked worriedly.
'The worst!' Rush affirmed ominously.
Bathsheba was silent. She didn't know what she could say to this revelation of what was coming.
Suddenly Rush gave a high-pitched whinny.
'Hold tight!' she shouted and set off at a gallop down the hillside. ' Time to return. It's all over at the farm and my stallion will be waiting. '
They sped across the darkened countryside and at last arrived back. Waiting in the yard were Father, the stallion, the mare and a small perfectly formed foal which wobbled unsteadily on its spindly legs. Its hair and skin were pure white but for the witch mark that all of the intelligent creatures of Tír na n-Óg -
except the humans - bore. In the centre of its forehead was a small button that would eventually become its horn.
Father lifted Bathsheba down off Rush's back and they stood and watched the four Ceffyl trot unhurriedly down the lane. Just when they had almost vanished into the blackness, Bathsheba heard a faint voice in her head.
'Goodbye, Bats, and remember what I told you.'
Already Bathsheba felt sleep returning to her and she let Father guide her back to her bed. Just this once he gave her a light kiss on the forehead and then was gone. As she fell into the grip of sleep she heard Rush's words returning to her.
'There are bad times coming to Tír na n-Óg, the worst! Remember, Bats, remember!'
Central Park, New York, a' place of escape for workers of the city, a haven for the overstressed and overpaid, a patch of greenery amidst the urban jungle away from the bulls and the bears and the headhunters. Even at the centre of the teeming metropolis it is possible for sunlight to fall; a plant may grow, an egg may split open, a grub may feed on the plant, form a chrysalis. And then ...
Pushing its way out of the shell, its wings hardening rapidly, a butterfly emerges. The sunlight which started the cycle dances playfully on the iridescent scales which interlock to form the wings. There is an experimental movement and the butterfly takes to the air, wings applauding