Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 26

            They’re arranged in a square. Two above and two below. It takes me a moment to realise that I’m walking towards a house.

            The grass rustles as my feet part the blades. I try to work out where I am based on the stars. I think of my telescope, at home in my bedroom in the loft. Its eyepiece eternally trained at the night’s sky.

            I know the stars of the northern hemisphere like they’re junctions in my hometown. They are the same stars as the ones I look at every night, staring intently like they might give me a message, blink out, or whisper some secret.

            So I’ve narrowed myself down to a hemisphere.

            Before long, ankles sodden and scraping uncomfortably, I come upon a gate in a hedge that comes up to my waist. I close my hand around the latch and lift it up with a squeak. I imagine myself looking at the gate from the house. Seeing the latch lift as though by its own volition. The gate swinging inwards and then closed again.

            I know I can walk through the gate, but I feel like I should be sparing with the abilities I have gained. I want to feel human. I like feeling connected to the world. If I don’t, I fear I may fly away, and I’m not ready.

            Do I ever want to? Will I ever listen to that voice in my head? Right now the thought terrifies me to the point of sickness, and to me that’s very human.

I walk up the path to the front door, the gravel crunching beneath my feet.

I look down and skirt to the side again. I think of being inside. Maybe a child watching TV and hearing the gravel crunch on the driveway. I’d get up and stare into the darkness, a million pictures of monsters squirming out of the gloom. I’d see nothing and that would scare me even more.

I have to know where I am. I know I have the ability to transport myself, and I will, but I have to know where I am first. I feel detaching myself without knowledge of where to travel back to if things go wrong again is like taunting the voice in my head. Daring it to take hold of my fragile form.

The front door is green, made of vertical slats with a small handle like a farmhouse. I take a breath and plunge into its surface.