The Return to Sagaia

Events at Regent Street

Yesterday's gorgeous late-spring sunshine was swept away in the early morning hours by a sea-born squall, and by the time Glenn arrived in his convertible, London was hunched down under a steady drenching rain. It made Glenn grumpy, he said, because he'd been looking forward to a nice drive with the top down.

"Well, at least we have a car to ride in," said Sarah. She'd tried to dress up extra nice for him, in a sun dress with big decorative buttons, and a wide-brimmed white hat that was very fashionable. He didn't seem to notice. "Janie's so jealous of us. She always has to take the bus."

"I wish you wouldn't talk about Janie so much," he said. "Why are you friends with her, anyway? Isn't her father a tradesman or something?"

"He's in banking," said Sarah. "And she's my roommate. And anyway, your father's a tradesman."

"Sure," said Glenn. He laughed a little, and it was a good, open laugh, which reminded her a little of why she loved him. "But I've come up in the world a bit. Which is why we should get to ride around in the sun, if we like. Maybe we should move to California. It's sunny there."

"California? But that's in America, dear."

"You're right. I'd forgotten; that would be a problem. France, then."

They talked, as young couples do, of future plans and dreams, and yesterday's incidents began to lose their grip on Sarah's mood. They rolled over the bumpy, congested London roads towards the Regent Street department stores. Sarah had asked him to come with her to pick out some of the wedding details — place settings, fabrics, stationary, etc. — and he wasn't particularly keen on it, but he'd agreed, on condition that they also stop by a new sports equipment store that had opened.

When Sarah was younger, she'd never been particularly fascinated by fancy clothes or other "girlish" things. But when she grew old enough to get a sense of how important these things were — they determined how other people judged you, how they treated you, and how much respect you got — she'd decided to become an expert. Among the silks and chiffons of London's finest shops, waited upon by attentive salespeople, her wide-brimmed white hat perched at the most stylish angle on her head, she found herself completely at home. She swept from shop to shop with efficiency and precision, drawing Glenn reluctantly in her wake, asking for his opinion occasionally ("Fine, dear," was his only reply), spending the minimum of time and money for maximum effect, accumulating a collection of parcels and bags that Glenn carried with rather more grumbling than was strictly gentlemanly.

At last, as the hour drew towards lunchtime, she was finished. They returned to the car, loaded up the bags and parcels, and, as agreed, they went to the sports equipment store.

Sarah had never been in a specialty shop like this one. It had apparently originally been an army supply store, and of course it still sold a great deal of the paraphernalia of guns and ammunition, but it had expanded into other things useful for outdoor pursuits (tents, backpacks, canteens, fishing poles and tackle, hunting, horsemanship, even skiing...

And archery. Sarah's eyes were inexorably drawn towards the majestic longbows hanging on the walls. Her fingers itched. Reflexively, she turned away and folded her arms. That life was over, that life was gone...

Wasn't it? She was so used to pushing those thoughts away. But after yesterday...

Maybe, just in case, she should see if she could still handle a bow the way she used to. She wandered in the direction of the archery supplies, trying to look casual.

Glenn's great love was boxing. He had won a lot of bouts in school, and although he'd never won any actual awards, he'd certainly got plenty of keepsakes in the form of scars and bumps. Sarah assumed that one day he'd grow out of the whole thing — one day very soon, she hoped. Too many young men got knocked down and never got up again — or the man who went down on the mat wasn't the same one as got up from the operating table.

He was over by the gloves, picking through them and examining them, chatting with the sales clerk. Completely absorbed. Sarah ducked over and down among the quivers and arrows.

Oh, it had been too long. Look at these beauties. Here was a tapered reflex bow of horn, wood, and sinew, a classic design. And here was a lovely antique longbow, a stately thing at least one hundred years old. And here... Oh goodness.

She couldn't help herself: she reached out and picked it up. It was a thoroughly modern recurve bow, made of yew, with a riser composed of some kind of alloy — aluminum? It was extremely light and strong. An amateur archer could lift it easily, although it would be hard for them to shoot it accurately. An expert archer, who had a steady hand and powerful pull to take full advantage of the compression strength of the yew, could get tremendous range from it...

She heard a strange noise behind her: something like a snort or a cough. She whirled, and her muscle memory took over: without any conscious thought, she'd grabbed an arrow from the shelves and fitted it to the bow.

It was a stag. A stag, no more than four yards away, the tremendous spread of its antlers filling the space between the shop's shelves. It was covered with a dazzling white fur that glimmered strangely in the shop lights, as if it were iridescent. The white stag.

The white stag!

She was frozen; she couldn't move or think. The stag stamped its hoof, and it made no noise, as if it were stamping into snow. Steam rose from its nostrils and flanks. It turned its head and cocked an eye at her, as if sizing her up.

Then it leapt, all four legs at once, rising a full yard into the air, twisting and bellowing, and landed, and was off. Sarah released the arrow, too late: it buried itself deep in the wall behind the shelves.

Shouts, cries, curses: Sarah ignored them all. Without hesitating, she grabbed a quiver of arrows from the shelf next to her, slung it on her back, and she plunged after it. The stag had rounded a corner and, judging by the crashing and shouting towards the back of the store, was headed for a back exit. She followed it.

"Sarah!" cried Glenn. "Sarah, what is that? What the fuck —"

She didn't even hear him. There it was: it had stopped at the back door, blocked by solid wood and a terrified clerk. The clerk was holding a fishing harpoon, perhaps thinking to capture or kill the beast, but now was shivering and shaking with fear.

Sarah planted her feet and raised her bow.

Too late. The stag leapt again, this time to the left, behind more shelves, out of view. She dashed after it, turning the corner at full speed, and saw it thundering down the aisle towards another door — an open door, one Sarah hadn't seen, which led to another shop entirely.

She ran. By the time she came through the door, the stag had already passed through and turned right, brushing past startled shopkeepers and crashing through racks of dresses and coats. A clothing store.

She didn't pause. Bow at the ready, she stretched her legs, leaning into the run. She felt like a stag herself as she darted around a flustered shopper and leapt over a collapsed coat rack.

And there it was, right in front of her. It had stopped again, looking over its shoulder to see if it had escaped. Six more steps and Sarah would barrel right into it.

There was no escape for it now; the lines of shelves and racks came right up to the walls on either side. At the end of the aisle was a huge cabinet, blocking its way. She planted her feet again, and lifted the bow. Its deep black eyes stared at her, unblinking, as she drew back the arrow.

She released. At the same instant, the great stag lunged at the cabinet, smashing its doors to splinters and plunging through them into darkness.

It was gone. The shattered doors hung limply. From behind them, utter blackness seemed to leak out into the surrounding air. A waft of cold, a breeze scented with spring wildflowers, reached Sarah's nose.

She didn't hesitate. She leapt forward after the stag, straight into the wardrobe.