Sunday, 9 March 2014

The Miscanthus Triangle
Part Two



The Capital Symphony Orchestra was in the process of recording the soundtrack for a new feature film. A bit of variation from the usual auditoriums. Nonetheless Kyla was still extremely grateful for a few days break away from stale air and artificial flickering lights. There were many things that she was still struggling to become attuned to, but ibuprofen helped in most circumstances.
In normal daily life it was only ever her arms that had any exercise and she decided it was high time she redressed the balance. Her parents’ dog was called Rex, although often referred to as Pongo. Despite her reluctance to walk him in the past it was never too late to start. Who said an old cellist couldn’t learn new tricks?
Unfamiliar with the best doggy routes, Kyla followed Rex along to the homestead and the rusty old Bridleway signpost. The gateway to the wilderness. Rex knew exactly where he was going though. He knew all the best thickets by a long chalk, and would happily show Kyla his very favourite places for burying bones should she feel the urge to do so herself.
She didn’t.
But she was happy enough just to tag along like a tourist in the woods. If nothing else it would be interesting to be reminded what trees looked like before being made into cellos, violins and other instruments. She only hoped that they were chopped down humanely, but, on the other hand, didn’t feel too badly if not.
The bridle path followed anything but a straight line, and the scents that Rex chased took him even farther from one. But overall they both trended towards Pobblestrum.
The wetlands were awash with gorse which was untidy and pretty in equal measures, and not marred one iota by the greying clouds overhead. Lush grassy plains receded into mere tufts approaching the rickety old bridge. And on the other side, the lane became almost completely tuftless with barely anything but mud squelching underfoot and under paw. Once there, Kyla could see the tips of the Miscanthus a little way ahead.

Approaching exactly the same spot, Donald looked the perfect country gent, with his cloth cap and colour in his cheeks for the first time in his adult life. His canine companion, Dana, tore in and out of the dells on her never ending search for food.

Kyla’s bohemian look complemented her well, her hair loose and blowing in the breeze, her full-length skirt with its syncopated rippling. A stark contrast to the orchestra’s dress code. Rex disappeared into one copse and reappeared from another, clearly having a great time. Granted, the same great time he had yesterday and the day before.

Heaven didn’t intervene very often, and when it did it usually went unnoticed. But the sky began to clear, leaving only magical white clouds streaking across the sky as the sun was getting low.
All of a sudden the two dogs shot into each other’s view, and instantly froze. Although it has to be said they even halted with gusto. The traditional Mexican standoff ended with Dana and Rex hurtling into the elephant grass for a game of chase.
Kyla had never had a lot to do with Rex before and wasn’t sure what to make of this situation. She chose to yell at him. “Rex! Come back here!! Now!!!”
Rex gently reminded her that he was actually in charge, and he would come, but only when he was well and truly ready, thank you very much.
“Rex, did you hear me? Rex . . . REX!!”

The hair on the back of Donald’s neck stood on end. He’d never had any near-life experiences before, but that voice was so evocative of another place and another time. He’d see the voice’s owner just around the corner, but until then were never ending seconds in which dreams lived and died.



Written and conceived by M J Race

Copyright © 2014 M J Race


All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.