Big fish, little fish, swimming in the water.
Silt is one of those great Robert MacFarlane words.
There’s beauty to it - deep time and nature’s endless grinding patience.
Silt seems aware of this - the horror and beauty of certain words, the poetry of them.
Is there a difference?
Just what is being summoned here?
You are a lithe diver with the classic brass helmet.
Flippers slightly too long, body slightly too slim.
I suspect what is under all that brass is not entirely human.
And I’m quickly proved right.
Little fish might get through gaps.
Bigger fish might be able to bite through reeds blocking your path.
Sharky things might ram blocks and smash them.
Under water, so far from the surface, it feels like life and death.
You have, as a Wall Street pop in might put it, a serious position in the market.
It’s a short demo - I would have played for much longer.
It ends with a beast, and I did, reader, collect their eyes in the end.
Brilliantly, these horrors are not delivered with any kind of clear-eyed realism.
How could they be?
They have the frantic penstrikes and ink blots of Searle or even Scarfe’s work.
Something comedic in the horror - but just the slightest splinter of comedy.
A smiler with a knife.
Silt is going to be a horrible delight.
Because it seems to be waiting for you.
