Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  Bran broke in, tired of dancing around Marcus’s lack of ability to speak.

  “And what exactly are you doing out here, Mr… Degg, was it?”

  “Yes, it’s Degg, but plain old Gregory will suffice just as well. And to answer your question, chopping firewood. Please don’t judge. Have you any idea of how costly it can be to keep a lodging house heated?” he said while rubbing his thumb and finger together. “Well, I can tell you, it’s not cheap. Dried wood is very expensive these days, especially during the winter months. It burns a hole right through my trouser pocket, if you’ll pardon the pun. So, throughout the year I wander into the forest and source what I can, ready for the autumn.”

  “No judging here,” said Marcus, becoming more at ease with the talkative gentleman.

  “Hang on a second,” Bran interrupted, still not altogether convinced of the man’s defence. “If you’re chopping wood, where’s your axe then?”

  Gregory gave a resounding laugh from the belly up.

  “My boy,” said Gregory, still laughing, “if I was to come marching towards you through the woodland with an axe in my hand, I assure you, you’d have thought my intentions to aid this young man not at all honourable.”

  “I guess so,” replied Bran, although his response would go unheard under the man’s infectious laughter.

  “Now, my friends, if you think it at all proper for me to call you that, tell me exactly what occurred here.”

  For the next few minutes, Gregory Degg remained absolutely silent, listening to Bran and Marcus as they bickered over the smallest of details. Jack, as usual, said nothing, never keen on involving himself in any kind of social dispute, no matter how big or small. When the telling of events had ended, Gregory stood quietly, handling his beard as though deep in thought.

  “I see,” he said, his concentration never straying past the stand of trees. “And tell me, young man, what exactly do you believe you saw?”

  Marcus scouted from one pair of eyes to the next. “I… I…”

  “Yes, young man?”

  “I… don’t remember.”

  “Yeah, because you didn’t see shit!” Bran teased. “You just don’t wanna ‘fess up to the fact that you made a complete tool of yourself. Too hyped up on rice and noodles, that’s his problem.”

  Marcus said nothing in return, but proudly presented Bran with a swift two finger salute.

  “Now, now, boys,” Gregory protested, raising both hands in order to calm the mood. “The way I see it you have a couple of options. One. You rest up here for the evening. It is what you originally planned after all. And in doing so, see how this young man’s injury fares. Option two.” He raised a second finger in the air. “You gather what you can and call the journey short. Or –”

  “No way!” Marcus yelled out, determined for the trip to go ahead as scheduled. “I’ve planned this trip for months!”

  “Shut the hell up, Marcus, and let the man finish.” Bran whispered loudly enough for all to hear, including the old man himself.

  Gregory looked around him. Again, all waited for him to continue.

  “Or…” he began where he left off, “you can come down the road with me. I have a spare room vacant at the lodging house. It may do your friend’s injury here a bit of good to sleep in the warmth of a real bed rather than on the cold, hard earth.”

  He cleared the dryness of his throat before continuing. “Of course, it is a matter for yourselves to discuss. I shall retrace my steps and retrieve my axe and timber, returning to you presently.”

  And just like that, Gregory Degg stepped back into the dimming woodland from which he came. His crunching steps faded quickly, until they could be heard no more.

  The three boys spoke quietly at first, unsure whether their words would travel any distance.

  “What you think?” asked Marcus.

  “I’m in,” replied Bran willingly. “Anything beats sleeping in that shitty tent of yours.”

  “I dunno, he seems nice enough. It’s just...”

  “Just what?” Bran asked.

  “Well… Dodgy, isn’t it?” Marcus questioned. “Think about it. Stranger in the woods entices three boys back to his rural lodge.”

  “I think you have this obsession to think the worst of any situation,” said Bran. “And plus, a stranger in the woods enticing three boys back to his rural lodge sounds a lot like one of your straight to VHS movies. This guy could be complete gold dust.”

  “I’m not sure,” Marcus said, attempting to force his stiffening body to a sitting position.

  Jack stepped forward, picking up his bike and wiping the mud from his worn leather seat.

  “I think…. I think we should check it out.” He paused, waiting for a following. “If we don’t like it, we… we don’t have to stay. He was very helpful when I called for help, after all. We need to remember that.”

  Bran smirked, overly pleased that another opinion was closely in line with his own.

  “That’s the spirit, Jacko!” Bran cheered. “And I believe that’s two against one. Don’t worry, Marcus. If he turns out to be a complete perv, Jack here will take one for the team. Won’t you, Jack?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Eight

  O livia woke, lying motionless and floating in the shallows. Her weight barely touched the water’s murky bed. Fluid filled her ears. She could hear only the sound of the ripples as the water gently washed against the side of her face. She remained still. A thick mist had descended, covering her body. She watched its peaceful gliding flow, her body weightless, her mind (at this moment) calm while the thoughts of flying through endless clouds piqued her imagination. Was she awake or asleep? She herself didn’t know, didn’t care. But as the mist broke, the physical sense of flying shattered, and memories came flooding back of how she came to be there.

  Olivia sat upright with a fright. She coughed and spluttered, heaving up the grime which had somehow worked its way into her fragile lungs. It was so very cold. Freezing, in fact. For a time, all she could do was grasp her arms for warmth. She stood up slowly. The only sound was the lapping of the water. She looked around and quickly searched her memory. There was just one problem; this was not the place she remembered. She had been brought here and left to soak in the unforgiving mud.

  Where is this? she thought as she looked in every direction, removing the clumps of hair that stuck to her face. But where is the ribbon her mother had put in her hair? It was gone.

  The night was still at its darkest, but she could tell not all was the same. The trees, although still towering like giants above her, stood much more dense than she recalled. And in between, scattered boulders appeared, faintly materialising through the brume. Never had she stumbled upon such a place before, the idea of what secrets it held troubled her even more.

  Olivia began to walk carefully through the marsh, her submerging feet squelching with every step. When she finally reached the closest stone, she rested. Her head lay flat on its damp, slippery surface to catch her breath. It occurred to her that despite her desperate desire for help, she still remained mute. She worried that if she cried aloud for help, the response in return could bring her harm. So for now, she remained silent, stepping cautiously from rock to rock.

  I’m getting out of here, just keep moving.

  The words repeated around her head again and again, feeding her determination to make it past the forest’s edge unharmed.

  Just follow the rocks.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Nine

  O nce the four had passed the stone bridge, the trek to the lodge was not demanding. Gregory guided the boys up a steep dirt path and then to a wider road, out of sight of the river. A wall of green trees lined either side of the road, seeming to go on forever, which in turn provided the bluest break in the sky.

  “Is this Sleathton?” called Marcus, leaning over his bike to ease the pain from the crash.

  Gregory looked back as
he walked, his axe weighing heavily upon his shoulder as he spoke.

  “The border, yes. Won’t be long now, boys. Just farther on up this road,” he said, showing little interest in discussion.

  “Hey! My hat!” Marcus shouted, rubbing his hair. “I’ve lost it.”

  “Bloody thing went flying into the river as you crashed.” Bran was not at all sorry to see the end of it. It was a dreadful hat, its material reflecting every colour of the rainbow.

  “That was my favourite hat, too!” There was no way Marcus could conceal his disappointment.

  “It was your only hat, you plank.”

  They all walked on, the flattened road a luxury to travel. Gregory stepped out from the shadows, and for the first time the boys were able to look at him in the evening light. The old man trudged onwards, his upper back arched uncomfortably forward (or so it seemed), providing the impression that bearing weight on his shoulders was part of his daily duties.

  It didn’t take long until the relative ease of the hike ended. Their bags felt heavier; their legs began to tire. Yet the road kept stretching farther and farther, without any bend or dip in sight.

  “How much longer?” Bran was impatient and rather tired of the same, seemingly endless view.

  “Not far.” Gregory answered without turning to look back.

  Jack walked at the rear, as he usually did. He listened, trying to catch sounds of the wilderness. Neither a whiff of a breeze nor a bird's trill could be discerned. The only sounds were the ticking of loose bike chains accompanied by the thud of each man's step. Soon, scattered buildings loomed through the shrubbery, though they were not at all welcoming. The owners of these homes had apparently long since departed, leaving the wooden shacks to rot and slowly collapse. At first, it was only Jack who took the time to observe the dilapidated structures. The other two were far too fatigued to notice. Jack said nothing about the matter, this was the wilderness after all, and he would soon come to terms with the neglected look of forgotten homes. A weathered sign leaned out from the overgrown ferns, its lettering partially covered by a thin layer of muck.

  W lcom to T ym .

  “What the frig does that say?”

  Gregory turned when he heard the question, not knowing who had asked.

  “Thyme… It reads, Thyme.” There was not a hint of pride in his elderly voice. “It was a thriving little community once. No doubt you’ve noticed the houses set back from the road?”

  Bran and Marcus immediately shook their heads. They finally took note of the structures that were barely standing upright behind the wall of conifers.

  “Why would they leave?” asked Bran, mostly to himself.

  “People just do. You live somewhere then you leave. That’s just life.” Gregory shrugged off any suspicion the boys may have insinuated.

  “What! Everyone? That ain’t normal,” stated Bran. “This place is completely deserted!”

  The old man suddenly halted and turned to face the shadows that followed him. His expression was somewhat grieved, and his head hung low. Swinging his axe to the side, he rested the handle against his thigh. “And I suppose you know the meaning of the word normal?” He wiped his brow with his unravelled sleeve.

  “Well… It’s a little odd, don’t you think? People don’t just abandon an entire village.” Bran’s words slowed while speaking, as though he were somewhat hesitant to question the old man who bore an axe.

  A short pause followed, none of them entirely sure of who would speak first.

  “Nothing odd about it.” Gregory broke the silence. “Plus, you’re wrong. The village isn’t entirely abandoned.” He swung the axe effortlessly back over his shoulder and began to make his way.

  “How many live here then?” Bran shouted outright.

  “Just me.” Gregory answered loudly and began to belt out a tuneless whistle.

  The boys glanced from one to the other with indecisiveness, concerned about making the decision to either follow their newly found acquaintance or simply make haste and vanish into the bush.

  “OK then… this guy is clearly a nut job!” said Bran, not caring about his choice of words or how loudly he said them. “You!” He pointed his finger in Marcus’s face. “You never said anything about this place.”

  The map was jerked from the side compartment of his rucksack. After tracing their route, Marcus followed a dotted line to where they supposedly stood.

  “There’s no Thyme on here?” he asked in confusion before he threw the map to Bran for further examination. In turn, it was passed to Jack. Gregory continued walking down the road with no desire to convince or enlighten his followers. The evening was drawing late, and the setting sun had already begun to turn the distance to an unappealing bloodthirsty orange. Despite the boys’ mistrust, a comfy bed was far too inviting to chance offending their host.

  “It’s only for tonight,” Marcus urged. “Please. Might not be so bad when we get there.”

  Bran said nothing more. He only shook his head at the thought.

  “Hey, Mr Degg! Hang on.” Bran shouted. He and Jack quickened their steps to catch up to the patiently waiting axeman, leaving Marcus to waddle slowly behind with his suffering.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Ten

  T o the boys’ surprise, the lodge house was far beyond the unsightly image they each anticipated. A wood chip path guided the four from the roadside, curving through the dominant overgrowth until reaching the rustic lodge. It was an old limestone building with a newly installed timber extension on the rear. An old water wheel hung loosely affixed to the side wall, its aging frame showing black decay and neglect, giving Marcus the impression that rivers once flowed freely through Thyme. But now the wheel remained dormant as it had for many, many years. The gorge below that once served its purpose was now only a gathering of dried rocks across its cracked, dusty bed.

  The boys rested their bikes against the trunk of an old oak tree, while they still looked uneasily over the house. All of them waited for any reason, any excuse, to give them the cue to leave.

  They followed the old man further up the loose path, watching the windows and door of his home as they approached. The house itself was set much farther back into the woodland in comparison to any neighbouring building, and fallen walls could be glimpsed through the swaying branches of the trees surrounding the lodge.

  “Not so bad… is it?” Marcus sounded less than confident in his judgment.

  “No, it’s… it’s fine.” Apparently, Jack, too, was unsure about the place he had chosen to rest.

  “At first light we leave, right?” Bran had ignored the question at hand and asked one of his own. The others nodded in agreement and urged him to step over the threshold

  “Right. Let’s get it over with,” he said.

  *

  “Please, boys, this way,” Gregory directed from the front. He guided the boys through the cramped lodge house, its hallways at times so narrow that one couldn’t shake away the unnerving sense of claustrophobia. Making their way up the wooden staircase, the steps called out (as if pained) as they creaked and cracked, accompanied by a rattle from the unsteady handrail. Bran was sure the floor would give way before they could reach the upper level, causing them all to fall to their certain doom. Framed pictures were hung carelessly across the damp walls, all resting at unpleasant, crooked angles.

  The pictures represented a variety of forest scenery, each image different in colour and mood. Odd, Bran thought as he considered the choice of theme. You would think he’d get tired of the sight of trees.

  A door swung open for them at the end of the hallway, revealing a room whose interior was at once suspicious and gloomy.

  “Hold fire,” Gregory muttered, his body disappearing into the blackness. “I’ll let in some light.”

  Within seconds, the light from the evening sunset spilled into the room. The boys jumbled inside, each rushing through the doorway to bag themselves a bed. The room was small, but it didn’t matter.
There were beds, two to be exact, but anything was better than sleeping on the hard forest ground. Bran bagged the single bed, pushing against Marcus and Jack in panic to reach it first. The double bed that sat by the window, two boys would have to share. They didn’t care for the situation but were willing to make the best of it. The sleep would be worth it, thought Marcus.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a larger room, boys,” the old man said. “I don’t get too many visitors these days, so I prepare only a few rooms at a time, just in case.”

  The boys gave a smile of polite appreciation in return, though each of them eagerly waited for Gregory to take his leave.

  “My living quarters are located at the rear of the house should you want anything. I find it much more to my liking so I won’t be seen puttering where any guests are staying. Food, should you want any, will be when the chime hits seven. Again, you will find this provided in my living quarters, which again, is located at –”

  “The rear of the house?” Bran interrupted. “Yeah, we got it.”

  Marcus gave a swift kick into Bran’s naked shin, embarrassed by his friend’s impolite manner. Old Gregory caught sight of the painful stub and waited for their childishness to cease before continuing.

  “Hmmm… yes, quite. Well, as I said, when the chime hits seven. For now, rest yourselves, get some sleep. Oh… and where are my manners? I almost forgot. Welcome to Thyme.”

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Eleven

  T he door expressed its displeasure with being opened by creaking loudly before the latch clicked firmly into place. The boys were exhausted from the recent trek and took no longer than a minute to find comfort on their soft feather pillows. None of them spoke; only rest occupied their tired minds. Jack fell back. His head dropped into the fluffed-up pillow, causing both sides to balloon beside his ears. He watched as the light of the setting sun struck the pane of glass above him. The agitation of the bed caused a display of dust specks to liven and dance frantically in the air. Closing his eyes, Jack thought only of his body’s aches and pains. This trip was proving to be more challenging than he ever imagined. But to him, it was OK. Because now he had friends, real friends. And that, deep down, was all he truly wanted.