Thursday, October 16, 2008
When a little girl screams in genuine pain, everything stops.
Everything excepts hearts that pump adrenaline through a father’s body as he rushes outside, pausing for a moment to determine the source and then flings him toward it. Harold arrived in the kitchen garden a scant few seconds before Jasfoup, spotting his three-year old daughter immediately. He felt sick at the sight of the un-naturally twisted arm.
“I couldn’t stop her,” said an agitated Barghela the gargoyle. "I saw her on the roof here but by the time I flew down she’d already leapt off.”
Harold cradled Lucy in his arms. “There there,” he said, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “Let’s get you inside and see to that arm. Aunty Julie knows someone who’s good at doctoring.”
“I do?” Julie frowned. “Oh, one from the Other Side.” She nodded. “I’ll call one.” She headed back to the house where there was darkness and a pentagram. Harold stood, cradling the child, to follow her.
“What were you doing on the potting-shed roof?” he asked, his voice soft and non-judgmental.
“L-l-learning to fly,” stuttered Lucy, her face wet with snot and tears.
“With paper wings?” Harold smiled. “Come on, lets get you fixed up before your mother sees you.”
Barghela watched them go. “The daft thing is,” he said to Jasfoup, “is that she flew ten yards before she fell.”