In the Land of Hershel

by Rafael Hohmann

  “The sun disappeared, and the moon came out, shining its soft blue glow across the landscape and making the swamp feel even more formidable. The noises grew in intensity as well.

  “We began to question ourselves on whether we should continue or head back. There was no sign of the ruins and judging by the layout of the land, we would soon see no more trees or rocks. One day walking back the way we had come from and we would be safe once more, free from the manic grasp of the Land of Hershel. It was quite the debate. Heated even. In the end, two decided that when first light appeared, they would head back. One decided to stay on the rocks, wait it out, and see the fate of either party. I and eight others decided to continue. My friend, the practitioner, was one of the eight.

  “Cold morning came, and we rose, feeling ill-rested and with muscles knotted. We separated our own ways. Less than half the men that had started the quest now continued onward. Soon, there would be even less.”

  “How many of you died out there in that ‘ellish swamp?” Millian asked with brow furrowed.

  “I cannot spoil that quite yet,” Elric responded. “Now let me continue.”

  Millian nodded, and the fire gave a pop as a log settled.

  “Our feet were weary and our legs were sore. We had all done our share of marching in the past, but yet it was as if each hour spent trooping across the swamp equaled to three days of quick-time with a strict general.

  “As we moved on into our second day of the journey, one of the soldiers grew a leg cramp. I could sympathize with his suffering. My feet, wrapped tightly in their boots, felt raw and chaffed. Each step made my thighs quiver and my knees complain with dull ache. The skin on the bottom of my heels rubbed over and over on rubber, growing hot with irritation. How had our physique degraded so quickly? We were all trained knights! It was the swamp. The composition of the landscape.

  “The soldier with the leg cramp hobbled on for as long as he could, eyes burning with furious pain. He kept his teeth clenched, I remember. Mumbled on that he wouldn’t die. His words were hollow and without real meaning. We winced alongside him with each step he took, understanding his pain. Soon enough he was walking hunched over, arms furiously rubbing at his leg. The rest of the men could only encourage him on, waving our arms and patting his shoulders. As we neared a willow, he hurried towards it, determined to climb and take a break. He never made it. Halfway there the pain overtook him, and with a howl, he fell back on his buttocks. The swamp ate him without mercy, slurping him down like a juicy morsel.

  “Hunger and thirst eventually gnawed at our bellies. Our supplies hadn’t been intended to last long. A brave man plucked at one of the yellow bulbs growing from the moss and ate it. The moss grew in frequent patches across the surface, and we had seen many of these pustules growing around. It was like watching someone eat an infected sore. He grimaced in disgust as he bit down, and bitter juice ran down his throat. But nothing happened to him. The rest of us followed his lead, and soon we were munching on our repulsive snacks, feeling their acerbic pop on our tongues. One man called the things ‘fungal-tripe,’ and that is what they were from then on. The flesh from the swamp: quite the name. At least they gave us some form of basic nutrition, and liquid to sate our thirst.

  “Night came once more, but this time we were with ill-luck. There were no rocks to provide comfort, and we had seen our last tree hours ago. Moonlight shone on for us as we marched, fatigued and fearful. Groans escaped from some of us, joints grating dully as we wore our cartilage to nothing. Blisters on our soles burst and bled, moistening our boots. Our minds were constantly plagued by the swamp-noise and some of the men had begun to whimper out and whisper to themselves. I worried the land would take our sanity before our lives.

  “In the darkened distance, we finally spotted a lone tree. Maybe the last willow before the vast plains of swamp-bog. We approached it with an almost-reverence. It was a haven of safety. A rest from madness. It was a marker that we were at the edge of the world, the edge of life, and the edge of lunacy. Oh to quit the monotonous movement of our legs! I could have run with teeth bared towards the promised respite.

  “We climbed the trunk and sat on the few branches that would support our weight. For all we knew, that tree had stood sentinel there since before light had been born.

  “About the noise that constantly plagued us: the worst was not knowing where it came from. What created the shrieks, the cries and whispers, the growling and almost human voices? In the dark of the night while trying to pursue some form of rest, it was the noises that kept us awake. One soldier, having been half-asleep, sat bolt-upright. He yelled out a name—Dalius, I believe—the name of his son. Said that his son Dalius was screaming for help. The rest of us tried to calm him, to tell him it was just the noises of the swamp, but he would not accept us. He leapt from the tree and ran, screaming out his son’s name into the dark. His ragged breathing and tangle-tongued shouting faded away into nothing, and we were left back with the shrieking and whispering of the land. The worst thing about it, what made us sick to our stomach, was that there had been a lull in sound as the soldier had cried out—almost as if the swamp itself was listening to the voice. Alive. Aware. Tricking the man into its depths.”

  Both Redd and Timmon shivered and moved closer to the fire, eyes full of fear. Elric nodded and continued.

  “But the night was not yet over, nor the horrors and mysteries that lay within it. As the hours passed and the noises continued, movement caught our eyes. In the blue moonlight that bathed the landscape we saw them.”

  “Them?” Redd whispered. Elric pursed his lips and gave a nod.

  “Them. Shadowform. Humanoid. Creatures with no name. I could only describe them as man-like, but… different. Grotesque. They had the torso, neck, and head-shape of a human, same size as well, but their limbs—ar ms and legs—were long. Longer than a poleax and taller than two men standing on top of each other. Each limb had to have been six meters in length while supporting a regular human body. They moved slowly and meticulously, walking on all fours like beasts. We never saw true definition to them as they were backlit by the moon. But I remember their glowing eyes. Huge oval orbs, white and ancient like twin moons. We somehow knew they could see us, even hidden in the willow branches. We were convinced they could see all things.

  “They made no noise and walked deeper into the night. Thankfully, they were far from us and never strayed towards the tree. We each retained a state of uncontrolled terror and a belly filled with the noise of the swamp. One of the soldiers while half-asleep and mumbling to himself, fell from his branch and was lost to us, sucked downward like toughened meat sinking to the bottom of a stew pot. By the time the sun rose in the morning, there were only six of us left.

  “None of us that remained had slept. Filled with fear, and minds overwhelmed with noise, we climbed down, landing on our torn feet. Without pause to bemoan our agony, we trudged onward, ripping open scabbed flesh.

  “The sky was light brown and gray, mimicking the swamp-colors around us. It was as if we were surrounded from every direction by the solid-liquid, blinded to where land met firmament. We were already swallowed up and dead, floating in a state of limbo. Looking upwards only brought vertigo, like falling headfirst into the swamp. The land of Hershel had become all that existed. There was no forward nor back, no future nor past; time and space were meaningless. We were in a state of purgatory.

  “Our exhaustion made us trudge wearily: arms hanging at our sides, eyes grayed over, and sockets purple from no sleep. Our lips stayed parted, and swollen tongues hung out. We dabbled and nibbled sporadically at the fungal-tripe, bringing lines of bile-ridden drool to our chins. A couple of us already looked to be dead men walking. So quickly had this place absorbed us, sucked at our souls, and left behind shuffling carcasses. The noise of the swamp overwhelmed our senses and left us mute, with only the sluggish spiral of madness trapping us in our brains. One of us dropped behind. I believe he just eventually laid down, giving in. Gon
e.

  “We no longer knew which direction to walk. Had we moved forward? Had we just circled around over and over? Were we to just eventually find ourselves stumbling back to shore amidst our waiting companions we had left behind? Or would we one by one drop and sink? Circling and circling, walking straight, trudging backwards, running even? Who was to know? Not us.

  “Night came a third time. Only the third night! How could we have come to such a weakened state in so little time? But had it been the third night or the third month? There was no sane person to tell us. There were no rocks or trees to offer refuge for our limbs. We could only keep moving. To stop meant death.

  “We spotted the shadowform humanoid creatures again, their outlines marked in the moonlight. They were maybe one hundred meters away. I admit, my mind could not handle it anymore. Amongst the noise, the death, the fear, and being lost, I broke down. I wept quietly to myself as I staggered, feet still stomping so I would not sink. The practitioner who had set my arm—who to that point had stayed at my side since the commencement of the quest—shed tears of hopelessness as well.

  “For what I could only guess as two days more and two nights more we walked without rest. We were the last five, the fittest of all; t’was the only reason we survived so long. By then the noise was no longer in our head, but in our bones, carved into the marrow, creaking to each movement. Exhaustion and madness had stopped our tears and talking. We each burrowed deep within ourselves, hiding from the reality around us. We wrapped layers and layers of scrambled thought and old memories around our minds like a child wrapping a blanket around himself as protecting from the night monsters. We were folded deep down in our crevices, barely peeking out at reality. Our paces changed, and we wandered from each other. Some hours, I had but the practitioner at my side, other hours I found myself alone, and then somehow we were back together again: stomping and walking to stay alive.

  “On the sixth night in the Land of Hershel, I watched vacantly and half-aware as one of the soldiers wandered off in the direction of the humanoid creatures that sluggishly moved in the distance. His arms had been up in either praise or greeting. Madness. Had he been aware of them? I don’t know. I did know they had been aware of him.”

  Elric stopped his story and looked at the four knights around him, stopping his gaze on young Redd.

  “He much resembled you. Looked quite a lot like you. Gone just like that.”

  Elric clapped his hands and his gaze fuzzed over, blurring the terrified looking young knight. Elric’s gaze refocused and shifted to Timmon, who hadn’t touched his food in quite some time. It had grown cold and gray in his hands.

  “The practitioner looked somewhat like you as well.”

  “Quit terrifyin’ us and co’tinue with the story,” Millian said with a shiver. His twin nodded, the carved stick in his hand forgotten. Elric leaned closer to the fire.

  “There were four of us left, and in the state my mind was in, I hardly cared nor noticed. I had begun to see visions of home. Fields and cottages, streets and horses. I smelled flowers and watched as a small girl ran up to me, holding out her doll. I grabbed the doll and felt it in my hand. It was so real. The fabric rubbed between my fingers and made me question what existed. I no longer knew what authenticity was. Blurred insanity etched into the depths of my mind and kept me in false comfort. It became harder and harder to resurface into reality. When I did, it was pain, hunger, thirst, and fear. We were no longer knights and soldiers but primal animals hiding in our mental burrows.

  “I ask again: what are the traits of a true knight? Obedience? Why? Why were we walking? Why continue when there could be no end? Why keep your back straight when it was so easy to stoop? Like I stated—we were no longer knights.

  “Had another day passed? Had I brushed up against one of the humanoid creatures, its large white-orb eyes gazing down? Oh Gods, the noises of the swamp were inside me! They were now coming from me! I was mimicking the sounds, screeching out, moaning, and whispering! How many others made the noises themselves? Don’t stop walking, or you’ll sink!

  “Had we lost another man to the black tentacles that occasionally slithered to the surface? Eat another fungal-tripe, stomp forward, and stay awake. Don’t sink! Don’t stop moving. Why were we out here again? Obedience. The ruins. Yes, explore the ruins… Oh Gods, don’t sink! Hide back into the folds of my mind. I was at a party; I could taste the food. Feel the heat from a handshake.

  “Madness and lunacy. My imagination grew stronger than my reality. I was no longer in the swamp. I was elsewhere. Another land and another time. Days passed. Years! Lifetimes were spent wandering the swamp, mind hidden within itself. I was ancient. I was the noise that echoed out. I was the humanoid creatures. I grew into the fungal-tripe, interweaving into the clammy wet fibers. I was the swamp .

  “Then my foot struck rock.”

  There was silence in the camp as the knights leaned in towards Elric. The fire even seemed to quiet.

  “My head slowly raised, muscles and bones groaning like old hinges. My eyes blinked over and over, trying to comprehend why they saw something different. Where was the solid-liquid that would take me to its embrace?

  “I found myself standing on a large flat rectangular stone slab. Before me lay a huge square hole which no man could guess at, its depths made using massive stone bricks the size of wagons. I had reached the center of the swamp and found its mouth: the ruins. Finally, the ruins.

  “My body didn’t understand why it was no longer walking. What a strange feeling, this stillness. What was I supposed to do again? Something about the hole: the ruins. There, stairs leading down into the dark. Was I to go in them? What was my quest? Why do this to myself? I turned away from the hole, looking back into the plains of the swamp. Sky and bog were the same color. Eternity. My eyes glazed and once more, I faded into myself. Deeper and deeper. Blurring reality and imagination. What was? What could be? What am? Where is? I was no longer in the swamp, but elsewhere.”

  Redd stood, hands clenching and unclenching. “So?” he asked in hurried excitement and horror. “What happened? Where were the other men that wandered with you? The practitioner? How did you break from the insanity? What was in the ruins?”

  The other knights all nodded in unison, wanting answers. They looked… forged. Elric licked his lips; they were so chapped. His mind could not remember. The story… what had been in the ruins? Blurred reality. Where was…? Ah, the unsettling understanding. The coup-de-grâce. Was this not authenticity? Was this grove not his false sanctum? How had he come to sit at this fire? In this forest? In this reality? The story had no beginning; it had no end. The ruins. That was right; he had not gone in them yet. The mystery remained. The grove had no beginning; it had no end. The quest was not finished. There was more walking to do. An unknown journey that required more suffering. Why in life had he fought so hard for objectives he did not fully comprehend, all for the gain of another? Blind obedience! Elric understood then. Understood that he was but pawn to an existence that marked him meaningless, and this fetid swamp he still resided in was both physical and metaphorical. It was not moot! It was solid certainty that bound him to waste away for naught! The swamp was him as much as it was all around him, for he allowed it to be so. The realization was too late.

  Young knight Redd faded away. Timmon, still holding his tray of food became nothing. Mattus stopped carving his stick and vanished. Millian with his strange accent no longer existed.

  Elric no longer felt heat. The fire… the fire was gone. So was the fo rest. Where? Ah, yes. The swamp. The Land of Hershel. The only existence he would ever know. He could feel the noises of the swamp inside him once more like chattering comfort. He cleared his eyes, finding himself sitting on a stone slab next to the massive opening of the ruins. He was alone.

  Elric stood, looking around at the landscape. He shivered, knowing that soon his mind would return into its own depths. Another fireplace would appear. Maybe different company to interact with. He turned a
nd headed towards the staircase leading down into the dark belly of the swamp. His weary, yet still-obedient body took step after slow step downwards, and Elric was lost to the Land of Hershel.

  THE END

  If you liked this story, support me as the author and join my mailing list by visiting my website at: www.RafaelHohmann.com

  For my readers:

  Although our world loses more of its mystery as the years pass by, there is always one place where adventure and intrigue will never end, and that is our imagination. I hope for all of us that as we continue our journeys in life, we’ll take the opportunity to huddle in a corner and dream strange dreams and be willing to step out of our comfort zone to participate in foreign phenomenons. Do you feel that strange haunting call from right above and behind your spine, leaving a slight shiver against your skin? That’s the Land of Hershel, calling you to come visit, perhaps stay a while. Perhaps stay forever.

  About the author:

  After all the still-squirming bodies of unfortunate soldiers have silently slid below murky surfaces, leaving behind only the echo of tragedy and mystery, Rafael Hohmann climbs down from a gnarled willow tree and stands at the shoreline of an ancient swamp to write about the events he witnessed. As the author of In the Land of Hershel, he is grateful he has never had to cross such strange terrain, yet he wonders at how it would be like to try… but only from a ways above in a helicopter.

  To learn more about the author, please visit his website at:

  http://rafaelhohmann.com /

  More works by the author:

  SunRider—Book One in the SunRider Saga

  Fury’s Gauntlet—Book Two in the SunRider Sag a