A random piece inspired by a generally messed up weather situation.
I shivered beneath the covers, aware of the horned fellow with cloven hooves beside my bed.
“Make it quick, foul demon…” I said, defiantly. “If it is to hell you wish to take me.”
The strange, little creature laughed. “I’m not the devil.”
“Then who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Tumnus, the fawn.”
He nodded. “Haven’t you read the Chronicles of Narnia?”
I breathed more easily. He was not beelzebub, he was a fawn; and I was not going to hell, although a sojourn to warmer climes had begun to appeal.
I looked out the window at the cold grey, wintery skies.
“Why, Mr Tumness, where am I? Narnia?”
“No. You’re huddled up in bed, dreaming about talking fawns.”
“Then what date is it?” I asked.
“But that can’t be. It should be spring. There’s snow on the ground and it’s barely above freezing.”
He shrugged, goatish eyes staring back at me. “That’s global warming for you,” he said, with a wry grin.
“Then why does it still feel like winter.”
He sat himself on the edge of the bed. “Now, that’s all to do with the gulf stream – which normally keeps Britain warmer than it’s latitudinal position should permit – being all out of kilter.”
He was quite the knowledgable fawn.
“So,” I said, “you mean to say – ”
“Exactly. You’ll be in for longer, harder winters.” He chuckled. “And you can’t blame this one on the White Witch. You’ve only got yourselves to blame for messing up the climate.”
I nodded in agreement and flicked the TV on. The national weather forecast looked grim for the next few days: snow at Easter, who’d have thought it? And then the regional news station showed a clip about farmers rearing lambs in greenhouses to help them survive the cold spell. And that got me thinking.
“Are you doing anything for Easter, Mr Tumnus?”
He deliberated, then said, “Come to think of it, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason…” I said, eyeing the plump, succulent-looking leg he had folded and rested on my bed. “I was just thinking of inviting you for Easter lunch, is all.”