Tuesday, September 8, 2015

a bit more from the scattered notes of Bertram Harrold

[Read the previous post to be caught up on the story thus far. We are not long from the conclusion, I believe.]

“…She was whispered to be a witch. She called herself a sorceress. I remain uncertain, even after all I’ve seen, if I could tell any difference between the two. However, it is difficult to imagine kind eyed Angelique to be in collusion with Old Scratch.

Nonetheless, she certainly kept strange company: one eyed hunchbacks, pale skinned pygmies, women so wild and hirsute their eloquent tongues beggared belief. These odd folk?, creatures?, perhaps I shall turn further back for a more appropriate term: These gentyl wights were the most courteous and civil houseguests I have ever observed. Still yet, they politely demurred away from my questions, and I was well enough raised not to press the matter. 

It was the whistling of birds, chattering of squirrels, and ominous cries of the whip-poor-wills which served as my ultimate guide: none of which would have been possible without Angelique’s uncanny translations. 

We took a long winding tour of lonely charred cabins and fire-wrecked cottages within abandoned towns. The further I trod upon this unusual path, the deeper and deeper a sense of haunting yet palpable rage did fill the air. I began waking in fright at the popping of my increasingly diminutive campfires. I slept less and less once Angelique announced her abandonment. Without any to watch over my sleep – for the teamster had long ago left my employ – I slept but little. 

Still yet every morn thus far, an hour ahead of dawn, the whip-poor-wills have cried me to the necessary path. Though there are now far fewer amongst their ranks. Today, I believe, only a single pair remained…”



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If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


Thanks,
Edward

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