It is at this point when the chase scene comes into play. I (the supposed writer of this piece) was still watching from a distance. I was doing the little wine thing with the characters, letting them breathe. And here they were, in the deep woods, breathing, but perhaps not for long. I think it had been my idea to put them there and to have them chased down by the big black dog and the Nazis. At this point, the Nazis had become a little more nebulous if that isn’t an oxymoron. Concentrating readers will have noted a little genre faux pas preceding this paragraph. It is more noir than fairy-tale but I needed the lift.
At this point in the narrative I would have accepted a helicopter rescue to extricate me from the arboreal impasse which I had created. There was something blocking the easy flow of events and I had to quickly unblock it, and running away from the problem would not solve it. My apologies.
The more you run away from something the greater the chance is that you are going to run into something. We could have been running in this manner for ever. Indeed, in that world, where time is not such a tightly wound concept, forever would have been a default setting; something that happens, happens again, and again, ad infinitum. At some point we would have to make a stand.
“Can we stop doing this?” I asked and this time I knew that I had intentionally verbalised the question.
“I never thought you’d ask.” He was getting smarter with each passing stride.
“I’m right in saying that we can never outrun these things, aren’t I?”
“That’s the basic premise of this place. You’re here to work things out, to find yourself and to move forward. But you can’t do any of these until you’ve managed to overcome the obstacles rather than running round them. Believe me, I’ve been here forever.”
As we had never been formally introduced, I thought that it was about time that we were.
“I know. You’re Mike and you are ‘sort of’ the writer.”
“Yes. You know what ‘sort of’ means, don’t you?”
If I already said that he was getting smarter by the stride, forget that. This boy was making giant leaps. He was in my head, understanding things that I could hardly articulate.
‘Sort of,’ cheeky little shit.