BEING HER,SHE COULDN'T HAVE DONE ANYTHING ELSE. THERE HAD BEEN A VEILED LIFE UNLIVED WITH THE FREEDOM OF CHOICE. DECISIONS HAD BEEN MADE CENTURIES BEFORE, MAKING THAT IMPOSSIBLE. HOWEVER, THERE IS AN IMPERCEPTIBLE PATTERN OF BALANCE UNSEEN BY OUR SHORT LIVES. MOTHER NATURE ALWAYS ADDRESSES INEQUALITY AND THINGS WERE ABOUT TO CHANGE.
Autumn. S.W coast of England. Recent past. Early morning.
Pilgrim stumbled onto the pebble beach of the deserted cove, her feet bloodied, clutching a torn coat about her slim body, her long hair plastered to her face from sweat. Moving unsteadily to the shore’s edge she stopped, allowing the cold waves to lap over her bruised ankles. She gazed out through crystalline blue eyes over the steel coloured water as the wind buffeted her pale aquiline face. Rimmed indigo clouds reached out over the sea where a solitary boat bobbed back and forth in the distance. Pitiably, she still yearned for a normal life.
She shivered, not from cold but from exertion. She’d left them dead – what did they expect? Lifting and turning her wrists inward she gazed down through tears at the blackened bruises. She’d been so careful these forty years. Who’d given her away? Why ask the question? It could only be her – there was no one else. There couldn’t be anyone else; she’d had to accept that. Then what had she said or done to give herself away? She mentally flicked through the last few clients requests that’d been made to her secret storage facility – The Vault. ‘La Petite Ingénue’ – a priceless painting by the French renaissance artist, Solière. She tracked through her memory of the surveillance of the Principle and meticulous research to authenticate its provenance. Nothing there, it had run like clockwork. Before that, there had been the fragments of the crown that had once encircled the imperial brows of the Ottoman dynasty? Nothing there – she had checked and double checked – she always did. Then what?
She’d been vigilant to the point of obsession when it came to keeping herself to herself. Ritualistic in her daily life, in and out of humanity like a thief, never striking up conversations as she travelled, no verifiable details on file.
So they knew about her – but they didn’t know all – even she didn’t know all. The harsh memory of their indifferent brutality metered out on her body began crushing her. Pilgrim unleashed her anger, opening her mind, allowing all those forces which lay menacingly on the fringes of her consciousness to rise up in retribution. Embracing them, her mind became molten as the heat of unfettered fury hit her, coursing white hot as it melded with her soul. Her vision blurred as she stared forward unseeing, her eyes iridescent, began to spark and fleck.
Altered and lost, Pilgrim, was oblivious to the sudden drop in the wind, the immediate hush of the sea as the surface flattened to glass, drew back and began sharply rising up the cliff face. Gaining momentum, it surged forward, losing its steel patina and folding to inky black. Nautical flags fell limp and all wildlife cowered. The small fishing boats, prone on their sides in the harbour, lifted under the incoming swell, straining against their moorings as the massive wave entered the quay.
Pilgrim choked back a cry as her anger subsided, her plight mocking her. As quickly as the natural environment had become ominous, those changes fell away. The sea flushed to its former hue and resumed its slow rhythmic brush against the shoreline. The wind picked up, moving along listless clouds and causing the tattered flags once again to snap against their masts. Exhausted, she lifted her coat sleeve to brush away her tears.
She needed a friend - maybe Hansford – no, he’d already shown he wasn’t interested in friendship. Looking up, she watched as a seagull heading in from the distance, arced toward shore. Pilgrim followed its flight as it swopped overhead. She would find a friend. Turning, she began slowly trudging up the beach. As she did, the bullet hit her, searing through her back, throwing her forward onto the shale.
Pilgrim stumbled onto the pebble beach of the deserted cove, her feet bloodied, clutching a torn coat about her slim body, her long hair plastered to her face from sweat. Moving unsteadily to the shore’s edge she stopped, allowing the cold waves to lap over her bruised ankles. She gazed out through crystalline blue eyes over the steel coloured water as the wind buffeted her pale aquiline face. Rimmed indigo clouds reached out over the sea where a solitary boat bobbed back and forth in the distance. Pitiably, she still yearned for a normal life.
She shivered, not from cold but from exertion. She’d left them dead – what did they expect? Lifting and turning her wrists inward she gazed down through tears at the blackened bruises. She’d been so careful these forty years. Who’d given her away? Why ask the question? It could only be her – there was no one else. There couldn’t be anyone else; she’d had to accept that. Then what had she said or done to give herself away? She mentally flicked through the last few clients requests that’d been made to her secret storage facility – The Vault. ‘La Petite Ingénue’ – a priceless painting by the French renaissance artist, Solière. She tracked through her memory of the surveillance of the Principle and meticulous research to authenticate its provenance. Nothing there, it had run like clockwork. Before that, there had been the fragments of the crown that had once encircled the imperial brows of the Ottoman dynasty? Nothing there – she had checked and double checked – she always did. Then what?
She’d been vigilant to the point of obsession when it came to keeping herself to herself. Ritualistic in her daily life, in and out of humanity like a thief, never striking up conversations as she travelled, no verifiable details on file.
So they knew about her – but they didn’t know all – even she didn’t know all. The harsh memory of their indifferent brutality metered out on her body began crushing her. Pilgrim unleashed her anger, opening her mind, allowing all those forces which lay menacingly on the fringes of her consciousness to rise up in retribution. Embracing them, her mind became molten as the heat of unfettered fury hit her, coursing white hot as it melded with her soul. Her vision blurred as she stared forward unseeing, her eyes iridescent, began to spark and fleck.
Altered and lost, Pilgrim, was oblivious to the sudden drop in the wind, the immediate hush of the sea as the surface flattened to glass, drew back and began sharply rising up the cliff face. Gaining momentum, it surged forward, losing its steel patina and folding to inky black. Nautical flags fell limp and all wildlife cowered. The small fishing boats, prone on their sides in the harbour, lifted under the incoming swell, straining against their moorings as the massive wave entered the quay.
Pilgrim choked back a cry as her anger subsided, her plight mocking her. As quickly as the natural environment had become ominous, those changes fell away. The sea flushed to its former hue and resumed its slow rhythmic brush against the shoreline. The wind picked up, moving along listless clouds and causing the tattered flags once again to snap against their masts. Exhausted, she lifted her coat sleeve to brush away her tears.
She needed a friend - maybe Hansford – no, he’d already shown he wasn’t interested in friendship. Looking up, she watched as a seagull heading in from the distance, arced toward shore. Pilgrim followed its flight as it swopped overhead. She would find a friend. Turning, she began slowly trudging up the beach. As she did, the bullet hit her, searing through her back, throwing her forward onto the shale.