The two hemispheres of his brain, port and starboard, were coalescing. From his boat he could see a bay where fires burned. It was beach scavengers waiting for him. A bridge was built across the wild water at the bottom of the brain gorge.
Torn, he strove up the rough trail. On one side a laughing green valley, on the other a group of weeping red trees. The light from the deep sun illuminated him. Could he reach the house above the tree line before twilight, he would be safe.
He was both deer and hunter. Death was immense in him at this moment. Intoxicating and frightening. The blood was shining from the blade of his weapon, but in the deep green of the trees fog drifted – hiding the spear in his hand.
Red, cold feet on the grass. His tortured face in the water if he looked down. Wet and naked – he knew that a God was here. He could hear her singing in the sacred hall on the holm just ahead. He was already there. He was already here.
His face had abrasions from the grey fibre-bonded carpet. One more hour and it was weekend. Already his head was filling with horrid images of rape, cars, train wrecks, polluted birds and plastic kitchenware. He had to keep it together!
Drowning, falling, hiding, splicing, merging, burning.
