Vale of Blood Roses by Tim Lebbon

Author:Tim Lebbon [Lebbon, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Venture Press
Published: 2016-08-11T04:00:00+00:00

Keep reading for an excerpt from Tim’s latest gripping novel, THE NATURE OF BALANCE.

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The Nature of Balance

1. The Little Dead Girl

The dead girl holds her mother’s hand.

She does not seem dead. In fact, she is the very image of a pretty, lively child, all sun-tanned limbs, glinting eyes and knees grazed by adventure. Even her hair appears drunk on her life force, swaying where there is no breeze and bouncing with each step.

But the girl is dead, existing only in this strange place, unmissed and forgotten elsewhere. And although her mother clasps her hand tightly, and their palms are fused by sweat, there is no real connection.

The road is cut into a mountainside. To their right, trees cling tenaciously to the edge of an almost vertical drop, roots shrivelling where earth has fallen away into the valley below. They are evergreens, but mostly brown. The road is dusty from lack of use, any line markings long since scoured into veinous patterns by the abrasive wind. Their footsteps thump into silence.

The dead girl feels safe. There is nothing here to harm her. The road behind them is empty, while ahead there is only a virgin surface ready for them to disturb.

But there is something wrong with the trees. Those at the road-side are slanted slightly towards the valley, evidence of the land’s insidious downward movement, but they are also twisted into other, less logical shapes. They seem to turn away from the sun, seeking darkness rather than light to provide their sustenance.

The dead girl knows that this is very wrong.

Her mother increases their pace and the girl looks up, but the sun is glaring down into her eyes and she can see only a haze where her mother’s face should be. She glances down and sees that they are no longer leaving tracks in the dust. With startling clarity, the little dead girl realises that all the trees are now leaning in towards her. Following her along the road, like the eyes of a sickly portrait.

Something drifts above the path. It is a huge bird, wingspan that of a heron, but its beak and feathers scream carrion. It settles into a nest made of stained white bones, jerking its head as it regurgitates its own insides to feed its slovenly brood. As they pass by the great bird turns its head and stares at her. Then one of the fledglings pecks out its mother’s glazed eye, and it stares no more.

Mummy, the dead girl wants to say, but she cannot speak. The heat has melted her voice. She tries to scream, but there is no pressure in her throat, no movement in her chest. She is afraid and recognises that she always has been.

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