No Strings Attached: Quorn

For nearly eighty years the homestead had stood on the hill. Until the fire. Now it was a lonely pile of mossy bricks, long, ragged grass, and a place where mice and hedgehogs sheltered from the cold. A cemetery for memories. All the people had gone long ago. The farm had been sold, and where there had been open fields, there was now a forest of golden trees, with wild goats stripping the bark and killing the lower branches.

The quorn stood on the hill above the ruins of his former home. His face was sad. Tears had left trails down his cheeks. He didn't move for a long time.

This was where he had been brought up. Educated. Taught manners. This was where he had climbed trees, and laughed at tea-parties, and fallen off chairs. This was the only place in the universe where he had been really loved.

The quorn shivered slightly. He knew he was failing fast. Every winter he had felt the cold a little more, as his thick, furry coat had worn thinner. Now he had bald patches on his legs, his head, his back. He was beginning to sag, and his neck was so weak he could hardly hold his head in place. It would not be long now.

The grass bent in a cold breeze, whistling around him. He thought of days past, when he had been the guest at every meal, carried, pushed in the swing, tossed in the air. He remembered the face of Sue-Marie.

She had been a beautiful girl. Blond hair down to her neck, bright blue eyes, dimpled cheeks. When she smiled, her teeth lined up like two rows of tiny soldiers. She always played with quorn, from the time she woke up, to the time she tucked him into bed at night. She always helped him say his prayers before she blew the candle out.

Those were the days.

The quorn felt spots of rain beginning to patter on the ground. Dark patches appeared on his face and arms where the water began to spread. He turned and walked back to his hiding place under the willow tree, where Nature had hollowed out a cave of wood for him. It was dry in there. And safe. He might last a few more years if he stayed.

The grey, heavy sky began to wash the earth with a curtain of rain. Inside his shelter the quorn heard the pattering of drops on the leaves above, the drip and slosh of water trickling and gurgling down the trunk, and the flurry of leaves as the wind chased them around. He had listened to this sound many times. The seasons came and went, rain, snow, ice, heat, but never the sound of Sue-Marie's voice.