Day 141 of #ayearofwriting an I am under 10,000 words and have the Bridport firmly in my sight. I am cutting and stripping away everything that brings nothing to the story. The myth like quality of Saul’s past is therefore magnified in this process and Alphin and Alder stomp through his dreams.
I traipse beneath tha trees, silent as tha dawn that follows. Squirrels abew me, chatter as they renne, a litany of taunts, theers smoke in theer footprints an hatred in theer caals. I lost my knife. They throw nuts at me an tha shit from theer pelts. I will set traps when tha fires dwindle, I will bring them from theer drays, I will hand them to Martha, she will be in her garden, planting peas, ploughing spuds or taking stock of herbs fer winter store. Good eating can be hade off squirrel. Theer skins make warm gloves. I flex my fingers as if they wher in tha gloves, reach up to tha squirrels. Look at me, I sayst, an from behind leaves, an green boughs, theer chattering dwindles to nawthen. I will get another knife. I cross to tha cottage, Martha is in tha dowerway holding tha boy, she sees me an pushes him back into tha kitchen, closing tha dower. I am red to tha touch. I stoop to pick leaves up. I rubs tha rising red sun from my skin until it sops into tha soil beneath me. I lost my knife, I sayst. Martha stares at my red face an sayst, what haave you done, what haave you done, Saul?