The world tree
Jethro wants to sit on the Hlidskjalf and the top bunk won’t do.
He wants a tree big enough and old enough that the roots grow right through the earth and suck at the sea on the other side. He wants to see so far out that it’s the future he’s looking at and he can see himself in it. He’s no more mortal than any seven- year-old with the magic years under his belt and too vivid fears. For him, a catalogue of monsters would make soothing bedtime reading. Here, Hel; here, the revelatory beast, parading past like sheep. Anything that’s the last of its kind is going to keep its claws out. In his tiger suit, with an owl, a leopard and a hound to share his bed, it’s not the creatures who keep him awake — it’s what they represent. Sleep is a dangerous city, populated with the faces of people he’s seen but never met. He wakes with different coloured eyes, predicting the rain that comes with breakfast. Begging a day home from school, again.
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