by M. L. Rayner
“OK… and just how long exactly is this trip going to take until it sees us back to Bonhil?”
Marcus took a moment to himself, calculating the days required with his fingers, stopping, then recounting them over and over again. Bran stood by, agitated, as he watched his friend’s silent count.
“Errr…” Marcus gulped. “Nine days or so.”
“Nine days! Are you kidding me?” exclaimed Bran with a high-pitched shriek. He didn't allow Marcus the opportunity to respond. “We can’t survive for bloody nine days out there! What we gonna eat for a start?”
Marcus quickly pointed down to a second bag filled with supplies which he himself had accumulated over several months. Unhappy with the whole ordeal, Bran slumped down to the greenery of uncut grass. For the first time he looked to Jack for support.
“Don’t suppose you have anything to add to this, do you?”
Kneeling down, Jack looked over the carefully planned journey, as though the whole conversation had never occurred. He paused, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well…” he said, considering his answer. “Where are we going again?”
“Yup, just as I thought.” muttered Bran as he ignored Jack’s inquisitive stare.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Three
W heels were now in motion. Bran led the way, pedalling as fast as he could through the quiet village streets. His objective was to lose sight of his riding companions. Marcus cruised behind alongside Jack, having no desire to join in Bran's one-man race. Neither of the boys paid any attention to him.
“Come on!” Bran called back.
He pushed on hard, shooting past the town’s hall and schoolyard. The narrow road swiftly dropped from beneath him, lifting his bike momentarily from the ground. He knew these roads like the back of his hand, and to prove it he would irresponsibly close his eyes while riding, purely to test his skill. He had done it many times before, although at least a quarter of those attempts resulted in injury.
In the distance, an old abandoned railway tunnel came into view. Bran squeezed, tightening his brakes, stopping in the shade with a grind of rubber. The others arrived shortly after: Jack first, momentarily followed by Marcus. Both faces were red and splotchy, their rucksacks already proving too difficult to carry.
“Heavy, is it?” Bran tauntingly sniggered.
“What do you think? I’m carrying all the damn stuff!” complained Marcus, the words spoken hoarsely with each gasp for air.
Their first stop was much sooner than anticipated. One by one, each bag was emptied onto the tunnel’s sleepers and shared equally in accordance to size and weight. Everything was accounted for, leaving nothing amiss before being carefully repacked. And in time Marcus’s and Jack’s complexion soon faded to a much more natural skin tone.
“Ready?” asked Bran.
“Ready!”
“Me, too!” stated Jack, eager to participate.
The three of them turned back in sequence to the opening light of the tunnel. And watched as the sun blazed down on the sandstone buildings and arranged flower beds of Bonhil Dale, a comforting sight of home each of them had always taken for granted. The bells tolled loudly from the Church of St. Mary’s. The daunting echo drifted through the humid summer breeze, reminding Marcus of their strict time schedule.
“We gotta go,” he instructed, firmly placing his foot back down on the pedal. In single file they darted over the bumpy planks which would soon lead them to the openness of Quarry Hill. The summer’s light soon began to dwindle as they sped on through the underground curve. Jack looked back with a small sense of uncertainty. Bonhil Dale presented itself as nothing more than a speck of light and soon vanished into a tunnel of endless darkness.
“Bye,” he whispered softly, making sure his voice would go unheard by the others.
The light dispersed, and just like that the entrance was gone, leaving Jack with only the eerie sounds of bicycle chains rattling off the rock walls as guidance.
*
To Jack’s relief, the tunnel’s gloominess soon began to end. Sunlight poured in from the exit, illuminating the underground with a sense of paradise.
With the black hole behind them, their pace remained steady, all now aware of how much ground they needed to cover before sunset. Although there were no superstitious accounts of its vibrant yellow fields, the locals referred to Quarry Hill as The Badlands. In reality, it appeared as nothing more than innocent farmland.
When the winter seasons hit Bonhil, the valley would severely flood from the runoff of surrounding hills, pooling into an illusion of a small, still lake. However, it was now summer. The ground lay firm and exceedingly dry. And as the bikes sped through the levelled plains, the breeze blew past and caused the crisp grass to wave and hiss.
In time, the open lands around them began to narrow, ending in a hidden corner where an unstable stile stood crooked between the fences. In turn, each bike and bag were thrown over, landing softly on the overgrown heather. None of the boys had ever ventured past this point before, and even Bran now sensed a little excitement, but he was not about to voice it. An unlevelled path of stones and jagged rocks delayed their way ahead. Cycling was far too risky, and they struggled with pushing their bikes over the cobbled ground. Regardless, none of them minded the walk. The path stayed hidden from the blistering heat, providing them with brief but pleasing shade as they talked back and forth.
“Does this path end soon or what?” Bran yelled as his tyres rebounded awkwardly off the abundant dips.
“Just a little farther,” called out Marcus from behind. He, too, was not entirely certain of the confined path’s length.
Although Marcus had planned with precision, he was in no way an expert on the land. And now on the first leg of the journey, he started to question his navigational skill. Sure enough he was right. The rocky surface soon began to flatten, smooth, and widen, aiding his confidence as their guide.
“Told you!” yelped Marcus excitedly, making sure he was heard by their cocky leader upfront.
“Yeah, told you!” Jack mimicked, purely in support of Marcus.
The curve of the path finally came to an end, allowing the sun to strike like a hot iron against their pale skin. As they walked, the trees began to lose their towering dominance, and the boys eagerly dashed for the next shadow that spread coolness across the path. Standing side by side, the three figures leaned over their handlebars and gazed out into the view of far-off fields and hills.
“Over there!” Marcus spoke urgently while pointing anxiously towards the old stone road that was visible at the base of the northern hillside. “That’s the way.”
“You sure?” questioned Bran, now even less optimistic about the distance to be covered before they could set up camp.
“Positive,” he replied, brushing aside any doubts before making a head start, his wheels now whizzing down the steep dirt track.
*
The day of pedalling was strenuous. The sun belted down, never once having to break between clouds. And by the time they reached the base of the hill, the day’s light had begun to fade. Hungry and tired, all three fell to the ground to rest, allowing the shallow breeze to dry their temples. Not one of them could believe how rapidly the day had passed.
Camp was set up haphazardly. The chosen spot was surrounded by tilting birch trees that would protect the campfire from any breeze and unexpected weather.
“I’m starving,” Bran complained, clenching and rubbing at his stomach, hinting for Marcus to break out the stash of food.
Marcus emptied the hoard which consisted of dry products for the boys to consider.
“What’s this shit?” questioned Bran, staring down at the assortment of unlabelled packages.
“Dried food,” replied Marcus. “You know? Pasta, noodles, rice…”
Bran’s face remained relatively blank but showed a hint of disappointment that slowly turned to despair. A vein on his forehead began to protrude with annoyance.
“Didn’t you bring any good stuff?”
“Like what exactly?”
“Like real food, and snacks... chocolate, cakes, crisps, fizzy pops?”
The boys looked down at the piled stash, and the same feature appeared on their faces but for very different reasons.
“And tell me… How the hell was I meant to carry all that? Dried food is traveller’s food.” Marcus talked like he was explaining to a child. “A little water and you have yourself a plentiful feast. I’m sure we can all go a few days without eating junk for once.”
Bran raised the palm of his hand sternly before Marcus had time to continue. “Wait a sec. Did you just say ‘plentiful’ feast?”
“Yeah…”
“You posh tart.”
“Whatever. If you don’t want what we have, then starve.”
Bran scowled at the patronising tone, shrugging his shoulders before unclipping the water canister that remained firmly fixed to the rear of his bike.
Marcus cooked capably, while, piece by piece, Bran set up the vintage looking tent that was supposed to sleep three.
Jack was given the unwanted task of collecting firewood from around the outskirts of the camp. It was a task set up to fail, though it got him out of Bran’s hair, if only for a short time.
“There we go,” said Bran, finally standing back to admire his handiwork.
“Nice job!” Marcus complimented.
“Not bad at all, if I do say so myself,” said Bran proudly before looking around. “So, where are you two sleeping?”
As the night sky set in, the boys sat comfortably around the crackling flames, eating their first real meal of the day. And despite his previous objection, Bran ate contentedly as he looked back to the shadowy mounds they had just crossed.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Four
I t had been hours, or so it seemed. Olivia was hungry now and yearned for the feel of her mother’s comforting kiss on her forehead. She’d followed the cry down the river for some time, never once considering whether she should glance back at the distance behind her. Several trees had long since fallen into the water, turning the channel into an unpredictable trap as she scrambled by.
“I’m coming,” she burst out. “Just stay still will you!” Moron! The word instantly came to mind without her even considering it.
The clear sound of water travelled through the air and caused her pace to slow. Surrendering to the need to catch her breath, she noticed the light was beginning to fade. So was her patience.
“Lost.”
Olivia jumped hysterically. The voice, though only at a whisper, was now so close. She turned frantically, her face filled with apprehension, her fists clenched tight like boulders. How did you get there so fast? she wondered. The landscape sloped from the river and into a sunken boggy path.
“Pack that in!” she paused, embarrassed. “You ain’t scared me, I –”
Olivia had no time to finish. Short childlike footsteps were heard sloshing through the soggy earth. She heard them so clearly, she could swear they were only yards ahead.
“I got you now, worm!” she whispered with a fiendish smirk, immediately leaving the chilly water and moving toward the middle of the mud path. Drainage was poor in the forest, and, over time, flooding had trickled down the path's centre, allowing an unsightly carpet of grubs to crawl and fester. Being only too careful of where she stepped, Olivia pressed on to claim her prize.
What started as a determined pace for victory began to decrease. Soon, Olivia’s feet would vanish into the ground, causing her to slow. Then her legs began to sink.
“Bloody… stupid thing!” The words were distorted by gritted teeth. The unyielding trail had slowed her down so much that it took her quite some time to reach its gloomy end. The thick mud gradually turned into a large, still pond. Olivia had visited this place with her grandfather many times when she was younger. The swamp covered the land for acres, entirely camouflaged by the green leaves swaying gently above her head.
The mud-covered face looked around, but there was nothing familiar. It had been some years since she and her grandfather had walked together through this misty swamp on crisp autumn days. Olivia recalled that much. But as to the reason why they went there, the memory had long since faded. Her grandfather would tell endless tales of such a place. What was the story? She couldn’t recollect, or she hadn’t paid close attention. Either way, she hadn’t cared for the old man’s evening gibberish. Olivia wished for adventure back then, not lectures.
Being as cautious as she could, she scanned the area for movement and waited for the same cry to resume. But all remained quiet, too quiet for that matter. The green layered water was motionless. Not so much as a ripple disturbed its boundary. No breeze blew through the protected swamp, and as she called out with a mighty yell, only the sound of her own uneasy echo came bouncing back.
“Haha… very funny, joker. Come on, give us a clue.”
All stayed as still and quiet as in her childhood memories.
“Come out! Joke’s over,” she called again while peering at the obstructed sky. Daylight had seen its end, and it wasn’t until now that the lack of light truly began to creep up on her. From parts of the woodland that she could not see, imaginary eyes pressed onto her. Moving carefully through the murky water, she noticed the darkness take its inevitable form. Soon, only the shapes of the nearest trees were visible.
“Please… where are you? You still there?” She whimpered in each soulless direction, and for the first time she showed a vulnerable streak. Olivia listened intently to the sound of silence, almost pleading for a response. A splash struck the swamp’s surface. Its direction was clear, but other than that, all remained invisible. The water rippled with a fading wave that soon brushed up against her thigh. And for the first time, Olivia’s heart began to pound into her throat.
“I... I want to go home now. Please… Please leave me alone,” she cried, turning to retrace her steps down to the muddy path leading to the stream. Within a moment, much bigger concerns caused Olivia to sob aloud in panic. The path was gone. It was nowhere to be found. She thrashed through the water as if it were a maze, raising her trembling hands to barricade herself from fear. And as she did so, a heckling chuckle echoed through the wall of darkness behind her.
“Lost?”
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Five
I t felt strange being so far from home. Without knowing the time, Bran, Marcus, and Jack stayed up until the early hours of the morning. Each of them was only too happy to watch the stars parade in the clear night sky, seemingly shining only for them.
“Who’s up for a ghost story then?” Bran asked in a rather boyishly joking manner, breaking the silence of star gazing.
Marcus smiled at the idea, but Jack’s thoughts drifted elsewhere, as if he didn’t want to listen to anything that would set his nerves on edge.
“Go on then,” Marcus sniggered. “We could do with a laugh.”
Bran prepared himself, cleared his throat, and edged closer to the dancing flames for effect.
He told a rather predictable tale, one that had altered slightly over the course of time. It was a short story of a married couple. The wife had gone to visit an acquaintance for the evening, leaving her husband to wander about the house alone. As is typical in such stories, a power outage struck the neighbourhood on this of all nights. The man was left in darkness, pestered by a taunting voice that repeated the following words:
I’m a dab hand with a peeler. I’m a dab hand with a knife. I’m a dab hand with a peeler. I think I’ve got your wife.
The story to Marcus was ridiculous and not at all frightening. Jack on the other hand remained still, his eyes never leaving the same spot on the ground, all the while listening intently.
“You do better then!” Bran challenged Marcus, only too sure that his story would come out on top as the most terrifying.
Marcus chewed on the idea for a short time
before retelling the well-known story of The White Lady of Hulme. The story had been relayed time and time again at gatherings, but to Marcus it still caused a shiver up his spine as he spoke the words from his childhood years.
“A gentleman was driving through the country roads as rain hammered down on his bonnet. He came to a sudden stop as his headlights caught the form of a woman in white clothes, standing at a darkened corner of the lane. The woman was quite beautiful but soaked to the bone and lacked an umbrella to shield her from the evening storm. The man sprang from his seat and aided the woman into his car, kindly trading her dripping wet coat for his own. He drove her home, the woman whispering nothing more than an address that was isolated within the fields of Hulme. When he pulled up outside the building, the house displayed in full light from every window. The structure and gardens were an impressive sight to behold. The woman left the car promptly, running up to the doorstep of her home. She turned and gave the man a gleaming white smile as an acknowledgment before she vanished into the house.
“The very next morning, the man slouched into his car. Troubled dreams of the previous night had tormented his mind. He looked behind him, and to his surprise, the lady’s white coat still lay damp upon his rear seat. It was then he recalled the woman fleeing from the car, still wearing his long grey coat. So, that morning the man makes a return journey to the stunning country manor, only to find it in disrepair and ruin. The windows are shattered, the door is gone, and weeds grow freely from the weathered brickwork. The man walks cautiously to the open hallway, only to find his coat spread carelessly on an abandoned spiral staircase. He retrieves the coat and sprints back to the car in a fright. As he drives away in a panic, he turns to look back. The woman’s white coat is gone.”
*
Jack sat huddled, his face buried into the curve of his shaking knees, unwilling to listen further.