Flight of the Gazebo

Chapter 3 - Dawn

A few in the crowd sank to their knees. Most remained rooted to the spot, their mouths hanging open. Motionless. Speechless. Staring at the impossible sky.

Drome gaped, his slightly concussed mind spinning. The darkness was receding and the buildings of the village were starting to appear as the light strengthened.

A few people were gasping and babbling, but their voices were drowned out by a gasp from the crowd. Drome looked skyward again.

The clouds had pulled right back. Hovering high overhead in the middle of the sky was a short, hair-thin, glowing line almost too bright to look at, like someone had drawn it with a glowing felt-tip pen.

There were a few murmurs, but most of the crowd stood in silence. Drome's eyes hunted around the sky.

Where's the sun?

But there was no familiar round sun. The line of light in the sky was thickening, becoming like a rod - an intensely glowing rod of light. The sky behind it was fading into blue.

The buildings emerged from the darkness. The village looked normal, just as it had every day of Drome's life, but the horizon beyond looked different. Wrong. There was a low range of wooded hills that looked completely unfamiliar. And beyond the hills there was no horizon. The ground stretched away as far as the eye could see.

"It's not ours! It's... it's... changed," said John.

A gust snatched at their clothes, tugged at their hair, and sent leaves scurrying along the gutter. Dora's candle snuffed out. Dust and dirt peppered their faces and necks. The gust became a wind that swirled into the centre of the crowd, forming a tiny tornado that filled the space left by those who stepped back out of its way. Leaves, dirt, twigs and crisp packets were sucked from the ground into a spinning spire.

The wind stopped, but the spire stayed, condensing into an eight foot high column of gyrating debris. A vague head shape formed at the top and two arms sprouted from roughly where the shoulders should be.

"Quavint hooroo vee bran! bnad dirhn?"

It had no mouth - or not one that could be easily seen in the blurred dance of whirling leaves and litter - but there was no doubt the thundering voice issued from the figure. The head swept around and Drome had the uncomfortable feeling its eyeless gaze rested on him for a moment before continuing around the circle. People were pushing backward, pressing into those behind them, eyes fixed in horrified fascination upon the creature of circulating scraps.

"Fee wonpun beng hasgishen!"

The head flicked back to Drome, and he felt the figure's gaze upon him. It reached towards him. He screamed and tried to run, but the end of one blunt arm shot out like a chameleon's tongue and smacked into his forehead just under the peak of his cycle helmet. Twigs and pebbles battered his face, neck and ears. There was pain as though his skull was being split open and a lump of wet clay forced inside to sit alongside his brain. His head span and his legs buckled.

With a disdainful shove, as though kick-starting a moped, the limb withdrew.

Drome fell to his knees, clutching the sides of his helmet. His fingers explored his forehead. It felt quite normal.

"You have committed a gross violation!"

Drome looked up. The creature regarded him with menace.

"I, er, um... what?" stammered Drome.

"Don't think you aliens can just barge in unnoticed. I mean, what in Bluter's name do you think you're doing coming in here with a piece of your miserable diseased planet? The bacteria will take months to sort out!"