There’s another snippet of something here, too – this one lurks between notes for meetings in my work book, and looks like it was hammered out on a train, given the state of my handwriting. Brevity abounds, if that’s possible.
The ground beneath Sally’s feet was warm – baking powder-fine dust rubbed between her toes, her sandals keeping the worst of the stones on the verge from bothering her. Another car passed at speed, whipping her Sunday dress as it went. She scarcely noticed, starin instead at the small, dull metal disc in her hand. Not long now, she thought.
The knapsack’s dumb weight was just beginning to bother her when the needle started twitching, then speeding.
It spiked, unequivocal. Into the field on her left, it said. On she went. Sally instinctively checked the road for cars, just as Miss Foster had taught her and the rest of the class back at St Beatrice’s since she could remember. She turned. The needle nodded in approval. Sally started at it, willing it to talk or otherwise enlighten her. The needle bobbed sarcastically, wavering again, then reiterating its latest instruction. Sally complied, weary.
On entering the field, with cicadas keeping time for the high noon sun as always, Sally passed an old elm tree that had seen many days better than this one. She reached into the only pocket on her dress for the last piece of paper she owned, and read it to herself yet again – just as she had every day at this time, since finding it in the street four days hence. The calm, old-time handwriting was already familiar. The foolscap old and classy, just starting to yellow. It said:
And then it ends, fucksake! This is so much better. Definitely something in that. Don’t remember writing it, but so many questions. Who is Sally? Where are we? What’s with the needle? Will Philip Pullman mind if I’ve ripped off the Golden Compass?
There is something in this, somewhere. Needle in a fucking haystack it may be, but at least there are traces of haystack.
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