A story of (not so ordinary) salvation
in three Acts
Act I: The Awakening
Act II: Meeting at the Graveyard
Act III: Crucial Duel
Story & Graphics by J.C.
Excerpt from Mr. J. Diary.
12th of March
I woke up early in that morning. I opened my eyes, but grim marble light from the swinging light bulb on the cellar blinded me and I had to closed them again. When glowing points disapeard I gave them a second chance. This time I made it. Tiny thought crossed through my brain – a good start. But thenI rised my head and I saw the view beneath the window’s glass.
My garden. Once flourished and beatiful, a truly proud of my modest life. An old pine in the right corner of the square which always gave me a shadow in hot, sunny days. Than in row,a perfectly straight white roses bushes– like white pawns on the chess board. The center was the supremacy of all kinds of flowers: betony, nasturtium, asters and chicory. Small paths next to each raw of flowers. But now ...
Paths gets angry and with mocking anger flowed over their ways. Roses lost their tempers and trying to bite neighbours necks, plaited each other and falled over the hedge. All other surrendered to wind and rain.
That was the effect of yesterday’s storm which came late in the evening (which honestly doesn’t happen so often). I knew the explanation, but I should take it as a warning – an omen or invisible menace. But you have to forgive me – I never believed in old wives tales. It dulled my watchfulness.
With feeling of grief in my heart I got dressed in my old and well-worn coat. Door scrunched when I pressed on them and at last I lead my steps toward the garden. Death is around me – I thought. It looks like some devil came to the garden to feast on my happiness and left only desolation behind.
I crossed the path next to the roses and stood in front of pine. When I was walking to it I had a bad feeling – I supposed that it will be broken by wind and lightning. But the tree was standing tall as it was made from steel, a steadfastly figure in the devasted land.
I steped forward and then – like a lightning bolt which strikes without a warning – I saw it.
No, no it. I saw him.
My dog. My dearest friend from the very begining after I moved home. The only one companion whom I have when I settled down in the small vilage in northern Scotland. For the few months after I came here I met no one whom I would call a friend. People in this parts are not direct and open – only the prejudiced and unfavourable stares. He was the only one to whom I could confide my sorrows and cares. Sometimes I fault him for being stolid but he always stand next to me no matter of my mood or daytime.
And now he was dead. This word rang in my brain. For a few seconds I couldn’t focus my mind. I kneeled next to him and when I was trying to uplift the corpse I felt that something wet bowel of my hand. I excluded the possibility of knocking the dog down (my garden was far away from the nearest roadway and I didn’t think that anyone would like to take a trip in that weather). The most logical explenation was that he lost in the storm and died accordingly to exposure. I turned dogs head and I saw that my hand is wet from the blood. Deep, jagged wound crossed his neck. It looks like someone, or something, teared his throat apart. The muzzle was not gone for the burton.
I took him in my hands and walked slowly to to the shed which was near the northern part of my garden. I kept there all the tools which I use for work in my garden. I took the rusty shovel and
The evening were inevitably coming. I saw the fog crawling at my doorstep. I sat on my battered armchair and looked through the window but the only thing wich I saw was darkness. Tired of bruising thoughts I started swinging on the chair.
I do not remember when my eyes closed. And than ... he came to me.
To be continued