In fact, Peter had dwelt so much on his stupidity and the tonne of pain that he had smashed across to Phillip, that he had forgotten the girl’s reference to her ‘uncle’. Zara had meant him, of course, but the youth was not to know that, and soon the insignificant details of who she was were pushed to the back of his mind, never to be seen in that time-stream again.
After the great silence that the young girl had left, Phillip had asked:
“So Aidelle could still be around here?”
Peter sighed to himself, and put a hand to his head. Since the painting of the scene (which had thereafter closed to leave the ruins darker than ever), Peter had been getting flashes…inspiration, to call it a pleasant name.
“I don’t know,” he said, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. My mind is becoming very fuzzy, you know-” fuzzy like that scene; he bit his lip. “-Filled with thoughts that may, or may not, be my own.”
“Oh, Peter, can’t you be sure if there’s something?” Phillip wrung his left hand across his right. Since their fight, the men seemed to have bonded a little closer, even if they had not said a word about what had just transpired; at least Phillip knew that Peter would believe him.
“How can I?” muttered Peter, “The supernatural only reveals itself to those who are most worthy; I have doubted so much lately, it probably retains the right to shun me.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in Phillip’s tone of voice echoed into the sinister silence and was a mirror to his sullen face. He kicked his feet into the soft earth that remained beneath the debris, knocking small pebbles in a casual manner, as though there was nothing in the world that troubled him this night of growing troubles and fading secrets.
“I guess we should go then…” Phillip finally remarked, gazing around what might once have been his home, but was now the sight of chastising ghosts, and, physically, worms, mice, rats, spiders; anything would have had a chance of growing there, except Phillip and his life.
“It really is time to leave, I suppose,” he said slowly, chewing and tasting the words like toffee. “Let’s go home.”
“Wait. Let’s go to the grassland.” Peter announced.
“What? Why?” Phillip continued in his slow, steady voice, “You’re not still obsessed with whoever bought it?”
“I don’t know,” Peter too dragged the tempo of his voice, and his thoughts dragged their feet across his mind, “Excluding my curiosity (please, Phillip, ignore that now) something’s telling me to go there soon, preferably before midnight tonight.”
“Midnight, how specific… Peter, could this be…?” Phillip’s eyes gleamed once again.
Peter turned his torch onto his brother, watching the small exterior beam of light that danced off the equal brightness from Phillip’s pupils.
“Think about it. You placed your hands to the tree a second time. There was no sign of anything, in fact those…pictures, and the girl, didn’t appear until a good five minutes afterwards. So, nothing, right? Wrong. Look, here is something like strange, magical intuition that is nagging you to go the stretch of scrubland nearby, and tonight. It has even set you a deadline. I don’t call that a coincidence.”
A small smile curled up the sides of Peter’s lips.
“Are you suggesting…?” he smirked.
“To the grassland! Let’s go!”