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The Holiday

He pads across blades of grass that have been dried to grey-tones in the predawn light. The crinkle of his footsteps floats in the still air as he rushes past. He draws up short at the worn wooden door; head cocked, ears back, listening to the leaves settling around him.

With a sharp intake of breath he pushes open the rough-hewn door. A scream he startles the hinges are shrieking open. In an instant they're all awake. He's caught.

Before their weak eyes adapt to the darkness he swoops in, pushing the mothers aside and grabbing for the young bodies, still warm from their mother's touch. He stuffs them carelessly into his sack, greedily reaching for more until the screaming mothers get past their mob-like confusion and pick him out of the shadows. He feels a sharp blow, a bite, the scent of blood and earth a young skull cracked open and slowly seeping into the dirt. He flees.

He lopes and crashes through the underbrush until he is deep into the woods. Hands shaking, he wipes the foetal mess into the brush and vomits, sweating against a tree for support.

Gradually, he recovers, shakes one last deep shudder, and then turns to his catch. Amazingly, many have survived. He pads the young bodies gently into his sack with the musty undergrowth, and rubs his hands through the moss to mask the smell. Slowly his nose stops twitching, and he can breathe normally again. He sets off at a gentle pace along a low-lying path.

Before long, he picks up the trail of his brothers and sisters. His movements grow heavier, his jaw tightens grimly, his brow furrows with concern. With a quick mental shake he stumbles out into the clearing, smiling hugely, arms open wide and pack hidden behind his back.

"My family, my little brothers and sisters, you know that surprise I promised you?" he asks.

"Can we go where brother Manny and sister Jane and big brother Thom went last year? Can we, can we?" The pipsqueak voice belongs to his youngest sister, her ears perked and her eyes huge with excitement.

"Yes, follow me."

They wind a little further through the forest, until they come across a neat little cottage tucked against an ancient willow. The smell is overwhelming - home cooking, baked goods, a touch of something chemical. He holds the door open while they crowd through.

The little cottage is a contrast of garish colour inside. In one corner, a large cauldron hangs in chains over a fire that has gone to ash. An unsettling wave of elevator music floats in the air from some unknown source.

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