Tuesday, July 19, 2016

The unfortunate result of my going to bed after playing Pokemon Go and reading Rebecca


At the end of the path the branches formed an archway, heavy hung with tendrils of tangela. We bent down, passing underneath, and when I stood, I saw that the Happy Valley was behind us, and the fragrant bellsprout, and the cheerful oddish, and the pidgeys swooping and singing overhead. We were standing in a narrow cove, shingle hard and white under our feet, and the sea was breaking on the rocks. Along the shore sun glared off the squirtles' backs, and beyond, the impersonal glint of a staryu's jewel.

"It's a shock, isn't it?" said Maxim; "no one ever expects it. The contrast is too sudden; it almost hurts."

"Pika!" yelped Pikachu, and darted out from behind us, running ahead.

"Pikachu, you idiot, come back!" said Maxim. 

Pikachu scurried over the rocks and across the beach to another cove, where at the fringe of the woods there stood a low stone boathouse. A slowbro lay at the gate, digging with great concentration. Pikachu circled it, yapping excitedly. The slowbro hardly seemed to notice.

I began to scramble over the rocks toward Pikachu. 

"Come back," said Maxim sharply; "we don't want to go that way. That fool of a pikachu must look after itself."

"I must get it. The tide is coming in." 

"Leave it!" Maxim turned and stalked back up the path. Clouds had moved in overhead, and the way now looked dark, the tangelas an unfriendly snarl woven through the bare branches of the trees. 

I hesitated. Maxim was angry. What had I done? I glanced again at the boathouse. An angry fearow had come to land on the roof, and seemed to glare at me. I had the odd, uneasy feeling that if I went there, I might come across something I had no wish to see. Something that might harm me, something horrible. 

I shivered, putting my hands in my pocket. My hand closed around a scrap of cloth. Drawing it out, I saw that it was a handkerchief, balled and wrinkled. It had been left forgotten in this pocket since the last time this mackintosh was worn. The handkerchief was monogrammed, R de W, the R large and sweeping, dwarfing the other letters. A scent clung to it, sweet and familiar, something I had smelled very recently. It was the scent of weepinbell--no, of victreebell.

A hand closed on my shoulder, and I jumped. Maxim had come back for me. I hastily shoved the handkerchief back in my pocket. He did not seem to notice. His face was white and drawn but gentle.

"Come, let's go back to the house," he said; "back to Charmanderley." 

-- Excerpt from "Rattata" by Drowzee du Magikarp

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