The Winters Tale. Act 1. Scene1. A road close to the public forum.
With the black dog of the darker months following only at a distance now, Doc, bent by the weight of years and wearying of the barren life at the Puzz Towers retirement home, turns his declining greys to the happier times of days of yore. He remembers a forum bright with the sunlight of a lofty atrium and with tempting facades offering the pleasures within, the sharing of tidings, the earnest debate, the jocularity and the light banter, perhaps the joining of a game or the solving of a riddle, but above all the friendly repartee of his fellows, the eager hunter, the seasoned solver, the intrigued tyro, the finder, the helper, the curious, the lost, and the occasional village idiot.
“Think I’ll take a stroll around the forum again; it’ll be just like old times.”
But the bright expectation of his approach clouds a touch as he draws nigh the portal.
“This door looks like it could do with a coat of paint though. Good grief, it’s a bit stiff.”
He gives the door as hard a shove as his ancient frame can muster. Creaks and Groans (not all of them from the door.) With some effort it opens slightly.
“I can just about squeeze in now. Grief, it’s dark in ‘ere, where’s the light switch? Has the fuse blown?”
He fumbles a ragged pocket for the candle stub worn low by the warming of his hands at the retirement home. With difficulty the candle lives but it burns low and the flame sputters.
“Oxygen must be low in here. Cough Cough. Where’s all this dust coming from? Smells a bit musty too, and look at all those cobwebs!”
“Hello! Anybody there?”
“Hello! Anybody there?” ...........there?............there?............there?...........there?
“Just echoes. Eh?”
Doc listens but hears nothing. Nothing but skin-crawling cold, nothing but throat-filling dust, nothing but clinging cobwebs, and nothing but an eerie, tangible silence. Not a flicker of light to prick the shadowed gloom until, asudden and adistant , the blue evanescent gleam of a dancing jack-o-lantern.
“Marsh gas?”
Doc sharp snuffs the candle and pinches the wick. A sudden breeze from the open door clouds the dust and eddies a layer of long-dead leaves into uncertain whirls, a rat scuttles over his foot. He pockets the candle and shudders; with trudging tread, moist of eye and heavy of heart, he departs in sorrow. He forgets to close the door.
Exit pursued by a black dog.