In The Wake Of The Wild's Incursion All Was Chaos And Blood.

In the wake of the Wild's incursion all was chaos and blood.

The street had been a quiet, suburban affair. Lined with grand sandstone tenements and served by a cafe and green grocer's. It had been changed almost beyond recognition.

The first thing that drew the eye was a car that had been hefted fully into the air by the eruption of a hawthorn tree. The tree's trunk was bent and swollen with the effort and its thick, gnarled branches had crushed the car out of shape, smashing windows and scoring side panels.

The street itself was carpeted in moss and ferns. All distinguishing features buried beneath verdant greenery and street lights transformed into looming monsters by hanging ivy and strangling honey suckle.

It almost looked pretty, until you caught sight of the bodies. Then, like a magic eye puzzle, they were everywhere you looked. That hummock of moss was a women's fleeing form, from a tangle of briars protruded a pair of stained trainers, and in the centre of the road lay a discarded hand. Fingers curled inwards, still grasping at a life that had fled.

Errant might have stood in silent contemplation for some time, had Fey not dumped their heavy leather bag of workings at his feet. Unmoved by the carnage she grinned her feral grin up at him.

"Well, time to go to work".

There are some places that you can only find when lost. Streets that only exist for the daydreamers, stairs that carry the unwary astray, a glimpse of an impossible landscape never to be seen again.

I found one of these places in Edinburgh, while wandering with my head in the clouds. It was a simple square in the Old Town; heavy walls of golden sandstone reaching up to frame a distant patch of pale grey sky, reached through a narrow, low ceilinged close.

I stopped short on entering, bewildered by the scene before me. Clearly no one had set foot here for many years. The cobbles had been pushed aside for a riotous display of butterfly bushes and willow herb. Their pink and purple flowers transformed the dour space and filled it with perfume. In the centre, a gnarled old hazel tree grew. At some point its roots must have burst a water pipe, because a spring now flowed from beneath its twisted trunk. The path the water took was the only clear space in the square, a trail of green moss and white water flowers, glinting in the low light.

I was tempted to sit awhile, until I saw the crumpled figure sitting slumped against the tree, empty sockets still staring at the sky. I made a hasty exit.

I never found that square again.

An Aberration is living in the hedgerow by my flat. I haven't got a good look at it yet, but it likes eating banana peels and religious pamphlets.

I think it likes me, because it's started leaving scrimshawed crow skulls by my door. Though I suppose that could be a threat. We'll wait and see!

The changing of the seasons is a good time to look for portents; autumn leaves provide the perfect medium.

Collect your leaves and throw them onto glowing embers. The last leaf to burn will give an insight into the season ahead.

Oak for life, holly for death. Rowan for safety, blackthorn for danger. Hawthorn for mischief, ash for stability.

Of course this is a cheat, because the holly leaf will invariably last the longest. Though death always comes next, on a long enough timeline, so who's to say it doesn't work?

I met a cù-sìth on the crags the other day. A shaggy hound the size of a bull, with moss and trailing lichen for fur, and yellowing fangs the length of my hand. When she barked crows scattered into the sky, croaking their alarm, and the very granite underfoot seemed to tremble.

She liked ham. And chin scratches.

The fog changes things. Haar, or sea fret, is a common autumn phenomena in Edinburgh. It pours thickly from the Forth to swathe the city in milk white salt smelling clouds.

It stays for days, blocking out the sky and deadening sound. Its insidious chill seeping in everywhere.

When it lifts, the city is reborn. But each time little things have changed. Colours have shifted, streets have twisted, and the crags seem to loom somehow closer than before.

I always wonder which it is the fog has changed; the world, or me?