First Tourmaline: conclusion

First Tourmaline: conclusion



He tried to get at it early in the morning, this task of tedious reading, after she’d gone home. Anton found himself distracted by a number of worries, by a ringing in the ears, by the fresh-air smell that pulsed with the wind through the closed window. He opened this. The day was not warm. He lay on the bed, let a hand drop to the floor. Some object moved as his finger struck it, and he heard the dismaying sound of a tiny thing tinkling off to a dark corner. The corners of this house had been gnawed by rats, their holes an oblivion between walls. He’d managed, groping after his camera’s focusing knob—that he’d tightened the wrong direction…it had arced away suddenly—to lose a needed thing, an irreplaceable thing. He could guess what she’d left him. And why she had.

On his stomach he hovered a reaching hand just above the fringe where the rug ended. At the second pass he got it…and got with it a tangle of hempen string, and a clot of greasy dust.

He would walk out to look at the sea. Unless he found there was a patrol today, blocking the causeway. From time to time, for reasons of their own, they did. The ring fit his third finger; and so for safety, he wore it.

Three or four vocabulary words, used in a sentence, enough to go on with. Dd was the sound of a rolled r. Feidda. Ei: ay. Feidda. I am going on a journey.


ehca bei feidda djoui-acht


At present, should he encounter one of the Hidtha, he would make a ponderous speaker—and they would be patient men if they bothered listening. But one saw them at dawn, moving under cover of the seaside’s climbing fogs.

This morning’s had yet to burn off.

Anton found it difficult to dress for the weather. Having so little heat in the house, he wore his coat and cap most of the time; and feeling chilled to begin with, could detect, coming outdoors, not much difference…other than an increase in damp. But when he had walked to the shore, then along it, the sun began to penetrate, and he thought he would carry his coat.





More of this piece on Tourmaline Stories page


(copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster)


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