The Petrified Forest

　　Queen Keppel has been visiting the petrified forest. A state of in-between. A purgatory, if you like. As all Mer have crossed from human life at some point, the petrified forest acts as a gateway to their past, as little of it as they can remember, to wonder and reflect, to gather thoughts and emotions. It works in this spectacularly magical way because it is shared by both Walkers and Mer. When the tide is low the forest rises to the surface, like an island studded with hundreds of blackened trees, reached by Walkers by the rug of the sand I leave when I go away. I watch from distance. Dogs and children play hide-and-seek around the stark claws, clamber the wrists and fingers of these skeletal trunks, and engrave their names into the dead skin of the wood. But when the water is balanced, I return and the forest's usual state is low and deep and here it flourishes: every naked spike of every tree flowers and blossoms in the wildest shades of green. It blooms immediately, like the change from winter to summer in an English garden in one swift move. The floor, rich with seagrass and nettles and various exotic plants - sea quills, mammoth water lilies, sea snails and worms. It is tranquil private paradise that I am very proud of. This was Lorali's favourite place; she would relax in the green shrubbery for hours on end, playing with the fishes and seahorses. Her only escape from her mother's kingdom. Carmine would show her circles that Iris had drawn and together they would colour them with the rainbow oils they found in the scum of my roof. Lorali didn't know those oils were pollution. Dregs of spoilt poison from the petrol and fuel to drive engines across my skin. At least they found a use for it.

　　Now Keppel haunts the petrified forest, curling through the precious maze of wildwood as though it were some labyrinth, hoping to find her daughter or some sign from the Walker world that she is safe, but the only imprints she sees are the scores her daughter made when she was young. Now they bear the scars of Keppel's own clawing, spreading, desperate fingertips, as though she believes Lorali will be wound around the roots, hiding somewhere beneath the bark. Her head hangs low in loss and longing. Letting me carry her.

Lorali, P94-95
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1