Pomble

The story of Pomble's journey to the other side of Kantan Valley to escape the wicked hotness of the summer (only chapter 1)

Pomble
Chapter One
The First Day of Summer

Pomble woke up that morning feeling anxious, overcome with the sense that she had overslept, despite that she’d awoken an hour earlier than usual; the blame could probably be pinned to the sun, who’d risen exceptionally early that morning and confused all the clocks with his newfound summer keenness.

Last night, Pomble had barely managed half her usual dinner, never mind her supper nor her tea and toast, but her stomach still felt unwell and full with worry. It bulged a little where something hadn’t quite digested; she pushed on it, and it sunk away. She sensed the light even with closed eyes, but she was in no mind to open them. Her lashes felt heavy and awkward that morning, they seemed to clamp her tender eyelids shut, as if to urge her back to sleep.

She lay quietly for a long moment, the hot air oozed in and out of her nose; she didn’t dare to open her mouth for fear that the heat would burn her tongue and choke her. ADD SOMETHING HERE

And all at once she decided to snap her eyes open, they felt sore and shocked, so she spent a few moments to recover her thinking and her senses and gazed drowsily out the window and breathed, but it was little help; the light was too bright for her gentle eyes, and the greasy summer air too heavy for tired lungs.

In the mirror she noticed her mottled brown eyes were dark and sunken in, and her pale eyelids were purple. Not the uneven, bluey purple of a bruise, nor the doubtful, delicate purple of lavenders in spring; but rather the assured, insistent purple of fresh aubergine. It worried her somewhat, but she had little idea of what to do about it.

In the spring she would wake up early to observe the pink fade of the sky as the sun rose, but on the first day of summer the sun had risen much earlier and the pink fade had since dissipated. There was no rosy glow to the clouds by the time Pomble stepped outside, only sharp orange streaks that cut horizontally across the sun, it stung her eyes and made her turn away, but everywhere she looked the sky had been entirely drowned with the stuff, as though the sun had gone runny. It was harsh and ugly, and Pomble disappointedly looked to the soft green of the ground instead, where she pouted at the worms, as if they would pay mind to her.  

Sadly, she slunk back indoors to pack her things, not bothering with breakfast that morning either, but rather hastily dressing herself in some long, cool dress and a straw hat. She placed Nedford (a stuffed ball with button eyes, occasionally they spoke to her) in a lunchbox and placed that inside a gym bag alongside some varied sandwiches and beakers filled with lemon-water. She didn’t bother with any shoes or pens or books (besides her maps) or such. But last night she’d witnessed how the summer had incited such dreadful rain, and she contemplated how she wouldn’t want to be caught in another such storm without an umbrella, so she responsibly placed one into the gym bag alongside the rest, with the handle poking out the top.  She contemplated taking her sword, but decided to leave it behind this year.

Outside again, Pomble felt the hot hand of the sun on the back of her neck as she curled her long toes around the warm, wet grass. Since last night’s storm, the eager sun had warmed the earth, and now everything in Pomble’s garden had gone sticky. The colder grass was a refreshing solace in this wicked summer hotness, so she sat down for a while and cooled her hands on it, as she did so she longed to be one of the ants or moles who could simply hide beneath the world in the cool during this horrid year. She loved her cottage dearly and it was a tremendous shame that she was obliged to abandon it for such a long time, and the whole while she was away all she could picture were the moths chewing at her clothes and the woodworms ruining her lovely oak furniture, worse still was the chilling thought of the snails indulging themselves at the expense of her beautiful flowers.  

She looked wistfully to her dahlias, the pride of her garden, and observed they had started to shed their shy spring pinks and begun to boast their certain summer crimsons. Their leaves seemed to take in more sun than before, and the dirt at their feet more of a bed than it had been yesterday. They seemed bolder for it and much sleepier, but in a content way. She tasted guilt and sadness, knowing she couldn’t possibly stay to admire them any longer.

Suddenly, she could all at once bear no more of this hateful summer, and angrily sallied forth towards the bridge that joined her archipelago with the valley. As she stepped on, it was damp but warm, and her feet seemed unsure of this. In the shallow water beneath her, she could hear the gentle snoring of a troll who’d meant to ask her a riddle before she crossed, but had disappointedly passed out after being made stupid and sleepy by the vicious summer heat. Pomble dismissed it, and headed on towards the forests, the distant drone of the troll tiredly mumbling something to do with a shopping list in his slumber behind her.