In A Haze Of Purple

They were being told stories of the Forest; of the great, grizzly obelisks of green that towered from the mountains. Snug in its low-seated clearing, Lyttle Onn had employed this, nature’s fortress, for a thousand years or more. Miss Claude dared only hint at the terrible things that crept within, but even her mild references to ‘scuttling creatures’ and ‘clamours in the night’ were enough to give her young audience a week of nightmares.1

Laura was sitting in the back row with the eldest children, though she wasn’t really listening. It was her last year of hearing these tales, and for that at least, she was thankful. Instead she paid heed to the music of the rain, as it drummed, at forty-five degrees, across the wall of glass. She’d rarely seen rain so heavy, and was sure the playing field was going to flood. They’d be playing indoor games interminably, it seemed.2

There was nothing so awful about the Forest, as far as Laura could see. They were just trees, after all. They were a great deal bigger than the ones in the apple orchard, and the branches of their lofty pinnacles were gaunt and wiry, like strands of human hair. But then, she was not intending to climb them. All she wanted to do was venture in a little way, just to see what it was like. And what lay beyond? No-one ever spoke of that.3

There was silent flash, chased by a rumble. The children fluttered with excitement, looking to the skies, and then to Miss Claude. For a moment, their teacher looked ruffled. Her eyes glistened as the sky flashed again. ‘It’s alright, children,’ she said, finally.4

What would happen if she were to rush out, thought Laura – to feel the rain on her face? Would the other children follow, or would Miss Claude stop her? She would have to keep on running – past the playing fields, and the orchard, beyond the brook. She would go into the Forest. Would they follow her then?5

There was singing in the next room, where the children who were too old for stories were having their music lesson. It was a ghostly accompaniment to the tumult of the storm. Miss Claude, still rattled, was trying to find her place in the story book. She had read them the part about the bark dust – a powdery, green nastiness that grew upon the branches and shed itself on undiscerning travellers, vexing their skin with its poison, and blinding them, if they were unfortunate enough to get it in their eyes. And the root snakes, too – she had read that bit, about the creatures that disguised themselves amongst the riddles of tree roots, in wait for unsuspecting ankles. Was this really the time to be telling such things? The storm was unnerving them all, already. They sat whispering, frightening each other. The school will be blown away, they said. We’ll never get home alive!6

Running, running, running. Laura’s thoughts were running away with her. the sky had gone purple and she was skipping, swimming, dancing through it. Running, running away.7

And still, there was singing. Soon, it was all Miss Claude was aware of. It was just like that night she’d escaped from the convent.8

The wall of glass had steamed over. Children got up to wipe it clear with their little hands, only to steam up their peep holes once more by pressing their noses up against the glass. A low purple haze had descended. The tips of the far-off trees floated like spectres above it.9

‘Children…’ the teacher said weakly. She too was bewitched by the mist. She could feel tree roots beneath her feet, and vines, twisting, embracing her, softly and sweetly at first. 10

Laura was trying to open the door.11

The vines were constricting Miss Claude – were they vines, or snakes? There was a hissing, a murmur. She gasped. Children screamed. She fell to the floor.12

Laura was out. Drenched, instantly, in purple, she was running, running invisibly in the mist, towards the Forest.13