The Dandelion Clock

The last bell of the day had barely stopped ringing, but I was already trudging out of the school gates, weighed down by a backpack full of textbooks and the dull ache of a sleepless night. My name is Tessa, and I was fifteen, with the usual grievances: homework, parents who didn’t understand, and the fact that my dad, who normally picked me up, had texted to say he’d be late. So I was walking home through the back lanes of our small town of Millbrook, where the houses gave way to fields and the only sounds were the wind and the occasional distant bark.

But last night, I’d had a dream that stuck with me like a burr. An old woman, dressed in a frayed grey cloak and worn leather boots, had appeared. She spoke in a language I didn’t know, but somehow I understood: ‘Caution, child, for the solitary hunter walks the edge of your path. Keep your wits, and if you feel a cold breath on your neck, recite the old prayer.’ She vanished, leaving me with a name that felt like a warning: ‘The lone hunter.’ I shook it off as I walked, more focused on the Tansy and Bluebells that lined the damp ditches.

I took a shortcut through the abandoned quarry, a place I’d been warned against a hundred times. But it cut my walk in half, and I was tired. The quarry was a vast, bowl-shaped depression, filled with rusted machinery and weeds. In the middle, a pool of still water reflected the grey sky like a dark mirror. I stopped to pull a dandelion from the ground and blew its seeds, making a wish that my homework would vanish. The seeds drifted, and for a moment, I felt at peace.

Then I saw him. A man in a long, dark coat, standing at the far edge of the quarry, perfectly still. He was watching me. My heart lurched. I turned and walked faster, my footsteps crunching on the gravel. I glanced back; he was still there, but closer. I broke into a run, my backpack slapping against my back. The path ahead twisted between piles of rubble. I dared a look over my shoulder, and he was gone.

I slowed, panting, and rounded a corner. He was there, blocking my way. His face was pale, and his eyes were too black, like holes in a mask. He smiled, a thin slash of a mouth. ‘Tessa,’ he said, his voice like dry leaves. ‘I’ve been waiting.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came. I backed up, and he stepped forward, matching my pace.

The dream came back to me, vivid: the old woman’s words, ‘Recite the old prayer.’ My mind raced through old rhymes and half-remembered verses. I clutched the dandelion stem still in my hand, its white head now bare. In a panic, I shouted the only prayer I knew, one my grandmother had taught me: ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…’ The man flinched, a subtle recoil. But he recovered, and took another step.

‘That won’t save you,’ he hissed. He reached out a hand, and I saw that his fingers were too long, the nails black. I stumbled backward, tripping over a stone, and fell. He loomed over me.

Then, from the direction of the pool, I heard a soft hum, like a lullaby. The man froze, his head snapping toward the water. The hum grew louder, and the pool’s surface began to ripple. A figure emerged from the water, but it wasn’t human. It was a tall, glowing shape, formed of mist and light, and it carried the scent of wet earth and old oaks. The old woman from my dream stood before us, but real now, her grey cloak dry despite the water. She looked at me, her eyes kind, then at the man. ‘Your time is not yet,’ she said. ‘Leave this child.’

The man snarled and lunged, but the woman raised her hand, and a pulse of light sent him staggering back. He dissolved into a wisp of black smoke, and the air cleared. I lay on the ground, trembling, as the woman knelt beside me. ‘You did well, child,’ she said softly. ‘You held the words, and that bought time. But the lone hunter will return. You must always be ready.’ She touched my forehead, and I felt a warmth spread through me. Then she was gone, and I was alone, the dandelion stem still clutched in my hand.

I scrambled to my feet and ran home, not stopping until I slammed the front door. I never told anyone what happened. But that night, I wrote the prayer on a scrap of paper and tucked it into my pocket. The next day, as I walked the same path, I saw a single dandelion growing on the gravel, its white head a perfect globe. I plucked it, blew the seeds, and whispered the words again. And I knew, with a chill that had nothing to do with the wind, that the solitary hunter had not forgotten me. He was out there, patient, waiting for the day my words would fail.