A short science-fantasy about parallel times and lives – starts at part 1/10
He calls, "Did you walk down the lane?" As if it was just minutes ago.
For a moment April doesn't remember. "No, sorry; the bus came—" But this year she's had all summer. She hands him the tiny embroidered cushion.
He wedges it under one leg of a tripod then intently adjusts the instrument above.
"That's the sights lined up, so I have the position exactly." He unfolds another arcane device, and carefully inserts its probe into a neat hole beside an oak root. He notes figures in columns drawn in a notebook.
April is fascinated to watch him. She clings to the idea that his experiment will explain everything strange that has happened.
She asks, "Why do you need a cushion under a tripod? Surely—"
"Good point! Not for levelling, obviously. It damps vibrations from me. You wouldn't believe—I wouldn't believe, if I hadn't watched it!"
As he works, he explains in snatches about his hypothesis. "You know about the enormous pressure exerted by tree roots?"
This sounds plausible, even familiar.
He continues, excitedly chattering about forces in microscopic spaces, about erosion and movement over long timeframes, about plants moving rocks and creating tiny rifts in the rules of the physical world.
He announces, "Ready!" He grins diffidently, and theatrically poises his finger over a button.
Instantly April feels a chill breeze. The air quivers, and before she can even inhale to call to him, the tree dissolves and, with it, him and all his equipment. She stands there, rooted, bereft, beside that repeated wound of the oak stump.
No comments:
Post a Comment