PROLOGUE
And why does the past come back like this: looming, a human figure formed-
- Natasha Trethewey, Thrall: Poems; Mythology
NOTTINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND
My body felt strange.
It was as if it were too small, too tight, and my soul was a restless beast, trying to burst through my skin in search of freedom. Every movement felt strange; every sight, sound and touch a queer mockery of what I once knew.
It was night when I awoke in the earth, soil wrapped around me like a blanket pulled tight up to my neck. At first, all I knew was the calming darkness, and a warmth that reached every inch of my body, seeping gently through my pale skin. I felt nothing of the blinding heat, of the painful caress of flames that burned so clearly in my memory. Instead, I felt only comfort and safety, entombed in the earth, hidden from the world.
My limbs were weak, my stamina poor, and it took me more than half a day to dig myself free, fingers bleeding, earth buried beneath each nail. Still dressed in only my stained night-shift, surrounded by the familiar towering Nottinghamshire oaks, I was alone.
There was no sight of my companions, or the village I remembered. Outside the bounds of the forest, the world bore no resemblance to what I knew.
How long had I been here, cocooned beneath soil and root, dormant while life progressed above?
How was I still alive when my last, lingering memories had been that of pain, of destruction, of death?
