Page 62 of The Society of Unknowable Objects
“No,” he spat, refusing the memory of terror that laughed at him from the back of his mind.
What was this place? What were these plants?
He pressed on in defiance of his fear, refusing to be put off, even as his arms trembled with adrenaline. He saw the gloom thin ahead of him and for the first time he realised how dark it had become, how much light he had lost since first moving away from the road. Above him thecanopy of the trees had pressed close together, sealing out the sunlight, but ahead of him the woodland parted like curtains on a stage to reveal open sky and a clearing carpeted in multicoloured, awful flowers.
As he reached the edge of the woods Owen saw that the road he had spotted earlier ended in a circle of cracked asphalt just beyond the tree line, a space where cars had perhaps once come and parked. Beyond the asphalt was an old wooden church, sitting in the centre of the clearing like an island in a fetid, stagnant lake. It was a structure of grey wooden planks that were faded and blackened in places, with a pitched roof and a crucifix above a large double door. Plant life covered the end wall of the building, the same flowers that carpeted the ground, like mould growing on stale bread. All of the unusual flora seemed to emanate from the church itself, radiating out into the surrounding woodland like a slow-growing infection. Skinny black saplings were dotted around the space, thin tree trunks splitting into too many spindly branches. There was something spiderlike about those branches, Owen thought, like too many thin legs scrabbling at the air. The sights that filled Owen’s eyes were nightmarish, the half-remembered landscape of a dream. But the uncanny scene before him was bathed in bright sunlight. It wasn’t a dream; it wasn’t his imagination. It was real.
Magic had done this, Owen knew. The stranger who now possessed his flask had changed this place, just as he had changed the roots of the trees at River House all those years ago. The thief had been here for months, polluting and corrupting the land.
But why? And where was he?
Lingering at the edge of the woodland, not yet ready to step out into the clearing, Owen pulled the map from his pocket and unfolded it. The flask was very near, directly ahead of him, perhaps inside the church. All he had to do was cross the clearing, pick his way through the flowers and vines and past the spindly saplings.
Owen hesitated. There was something about the open clearing that unsettled him, something he couldn’t get clear in his mind. He would be more visible, moreexposed.He looked down at the flowers at his feet, all turning their faces up to him. For a moment he had the queer sensethat they were enticing him on, like a carnivorous plant welcoming a fly with open petals.
“Fuck off,” he spat, not very sure whether he was talking to the flowers or to his own imagination.
He shrugged against the backpack straps, feeling that they were restricting him, and pushed the map back into his pocket. He unclipped the holster on his hip to draw the pistol, preferring to have it in his hand. It felt good, reassuringly cold and solid and reliable. From his left trouser pocket he removed the chess piece and gripped it in a fist with his other hand. He stared at the church, no more than three hundred feet away.
“Come on,” he muttered, scolding himself. He wasn’t scared of flowers and trees. He was Owen Maddox.
He stepped out of the shade and into the clearing.
***
The pale sunlight welcomed him, warm on his face like an embrace, and he had to narrow his eyes slightly against the light. He moved slowly and carefully, the gun held out in front of him, his gaze jumping from his feet to his surroundings and back again, watching for any signs of danger. But the world was quiet and still, and it seemed that Owen was alone.
Then: a flicker of movement off to his right.
Adrenaline bolted through his system and he dropped into a crouch, staring intently along the barrel of the gun to the east side of the clearing. Darkness and light had danced in a telltale way beyond the tree line. Something had been there, he thought, something haddarted.
He waited, seeing nothing, feeling a bead of sweat on his forehead and his own heart thumping against his rib cage like a fist on a door. But as the seconds ticked by, his certainty evaporated. Perhaps it had been a tree waving in the breeze? Or perhaps an animal, scurrying away as he approached?
He hoped it was one of those things, but his unease was a stubborn fellow traveller, refusing to leave his side.
Owen stood up slowly, lowering the weapon, and turned his eyes back to the church. Ten feet away from him one of the spindly saplings twitched and the branches quickly whipped the air, as if in a panic. Owen was struck with the certainty that the tree was somehowsensinghis presence, just like he had been sure the flowers had been following his movements. This awful tree wassearchingfor him. He stared at it as it scratched frantically at the air, black twigs against the pale sky, like an insect on its back trying to right itself.
Owen was glad he had kept his distance, but then the tree snapped forward, hinging impossibly at the trunk, like a tall man bending at the waist, and Owen jumped back in shock as the spider-leg branches scrabbled in his direction.
“Fuck no,” he muttered. He lifted the gun without aiming and fired three bullets at the tree, shattering the silence of the clearing, the familiar smell of gun oil and smoke in his nose. One bullet went wide, but the other two punched through the trunk’s bark, revealing pale pink flesh and releasing a viscous, bloodred sap in a slow dribble. The scrabbling branches slowed, and the bent tree fell still.
He could damage the trees—that was reassuring, and he nodded in satisfaction.
He cast his eyes around, and he saw that the flowers near to him on all sides were now facing his direction, like children looking up to a parent. He lifted his eyes and saw that all of the flowers beyond, and across the clearing, were turning his way too, like a ripple widening in a circle across the surface of a lake. This wasn’t the breeze; the flowers were moving intentionally, by themselves. And they were turning to face him.
“No,” Owen muttered, a slow laugh of disbelief escaping him.
In this silent, nightmare world of clashing colours, it felt as if all the flowers were now accusing him, staring in shock as if they couldfeelthe pain of the tree Owen had just shot.
He didn’t know what to do. This was unlike anything he had ever faced before. What could he do against flowers?
He glanced behind him, back towards the woods, but all the flowers in that direction were similarly looking at him, still and motionless in defiance of the breeze.
He looked the other way towards the church, and his heart kicked against his chest in surprise when he saw more than just flowers there.
He saw the man—the thief—standing in the shadows of the doorway of the building and watching Owen, just like the flowers. Owen immediately lifted the gun again and pointed it at the man. “Don’t fucking move!” he shouted, releasing some of the nervous tension that was gripping him.
“Hello again,” the man said, squinting his eyes slightly. “I knew you were coming.”
