by M. L. Rayner
*
The sound of puttering below disturbed their peace. There was nothing at all sinister about the sound, and since they had no concerns, they all sat up sluggishly from their curled positions. The dim room was now dark, giving them the sense that the hour was late and everything around them was peacefully at rest. Marcus pressed down hard at his watch, activating the backlight which pierced his eyes in the process. “Get up!” He yelled at the others as he sat upright, for the moment forgetting about his current wounds.
“Uh… Why?” Bran moaned, unwilling to lift his head away from the comforting warmth.
“Get up, both of you! It’s eight thirty.” Marcus had allowed himself to get into a rather emotional tizz.
It took only a second before the boys vacated the room and were scurrying back through the narrow hall. The building was dark, too dark to be conducive to their wanderings. Six palms felt along the surface of the walls at either side, scanning for a light switch.
“Found it!” Jack called with accomplishment.
A short pause followed as they waited for light to brighten the hallway.
“Flick the bloody switch then, you idiot!” Bran remarked, still half dazed and tired of making his way through the shadows.
Click, click, click, click.
“I am!” stated Jack as the noises appeared again. Click, click, click. “It doesn’t work.”
“Great,” said Bran.
Feeling their way through the lower level of the house, and stumbling more than once, Bran was first to notice a faint glow peeking underneath a door at the end of the hall. He followed it and led Marcus and Jack without explaining what enticed him. He grasped the handle and twisted it slowly. The door opened to a dimly lit room. A kitchen. Several candle sticks stood on a solid wooden table, the candlelight flickering in response to their entrance. A partially consumed glass of red wine was in the centre, and to the side was the opened bottle. Although they hadn't decided to stay, the smell of dinner cooking on the stove made the choice easy. The outer door swung open, and in walked a dark figure, masked by a backdrop of darkness. The light of the candles revealed the old man.
“So, here you are then. I did wonder whether you’d make your way down here at all. I waited some time, you know, but couldn’t take the chill in my old bones any longer. So I decided to nip outdoors to fetch some firewood. Come, come, don’t just stand there. Please take a seat, rest yourselves. I imagine you’re rather hungry?”
Each of the boys slumped to a seat, thinking only of their bellies and the possibilities of food. Whatever bubbled away on top of the hob smelt delicious. So much so, that as the food was ladled from a very large pot, it caused Bran’s mouth to water and Jack to drool embarrassingly.
Gregory placed the three steaming bowls down on the table alongside an ice-cold jug of cloudy lemonade.
“Ah, nothing quite like a homemade rabbit stew, is there? Tuck in boys, there’s plenty more if single servings don’t suffice.”
Bran didn’t need telling twice. He sat shovelling down the meat and fluffy potatoes that were swimming in thickened gravy. As for Marcus and Jack, they ate steadily, not wanting to cause discomfort to their grumbling stomachs. Eating contentedly, they paid no attention to the dim room lit by candle flame. Gregory squatted by the fire grate, his old knees cracking as they slowly bent. The fire soon caught, causing the room to glow and their hearts to warm.
“So,” the old man began. “I trust you managed to find sleep? I thought it sounded too quiet overhead.”
The boys nodded, each of them far too involved with their meal to respond politely.
Gregory continued to talk, and talk he did. He spoke of the seasons, the winters, springs, and summers. He griped about the upkeep of the house, the sadness of being alone, each amongst other facts that held the interest of not one of the boys. Still, Bran, Marcus, and Jack nodded along all the same. Marcus’s mind wandered, noticing items within the room that grabbed his curiosity.
In the far corner of the kitchen stood a large pamphlet stand, very much like any ordinary stand you’d find situated at tourist spots. There was, however, one distinct difference compared to others he had seen. The inner tray to every slot was empty, holding only a thin sheet of dust.
The sign above, painted in large gold font, ironically read. Things to do in Thyme.
A depressing sight, thought Marcus. His eyes scanned the upper walls. There were many pictures, but none were of the old man or even any people. All of the pictures looked to be original works depicting nature.
“You like my work?” asked Gregory. He, too, was looking at the paintings above him.
Marcus gulped down a mouthful of stew before beginning to speak. “Your work… all of them?”
“Yes. Call it a hobby if you will, but it seems to pass the time. I apologise if the house seems flooded with these old paintings. I don’t consider myself an expert by any means. I just very much like to paint and struggle these days with where to store them.” He sat back, taking an inelegant swig of wine. The dark fluid stained the tip of his moustache as the glass was lowered from his lips.
“What’s that?” asked Marcus, pointing towards a large framed picture that hung just above the fire beam.
“Hmm… oh, that,” Gregory spoke, adjusting himself to where the picture hung at a slant. To be truthful, he was rather disappointed that the conversation had strayed from his own handiwork.
“Tis just an old map, is all.”
“May I see it?” asked Marcus politely.
“As you wish.”
The damaged frame was removed from the arch and placed flat on the table. The picture in question was old and faded, but Marcus had begun to develop a keen interest in maps. With an eye for detail, he noticed a particular location instantly.
“Look,” Marcus pointed. “Bonhil Dale.”
Bran quit chewing a chunk of rabbit.
“And… why exactly do we need to look at that?” he slurred. “We’ve lived there our entire lives. Hardly exciting, is it?”
Jack and Gregory gathered around the table. “See here?” Gregory pointed while taking control of the map. “This is where I found you. And this,” he pointed again, “this be where you rest now.” He pressed his index finger against the glass. The shadow hovered over what appeared to be nothing but printed wilderness. The village of Thyme did not appear on his map either, very much like their own.
But… Why? thought Marcus, now reading between scattered markings. Gregory had been right enough in the matter. The village of Thyme sat just below the border’s edge of Sleathton. It would take only a few hours to reach its boundaries.
“Why is Thyme missing from the map?” asked Marcus, looking up to the elderly figure standing to his side.
“Well… it’s just not on this map.”
“It’s not on our map, either,” replied Marcus, pulling the scroll from his jacket pocket.
Gregory studied the scrolled map with interest.
“Ah, you see, your map is in fact many years older than my own. The village of Thyme was constructed in the early fifties for leisure tourism. And, well…once the trading stopped and the home owners left, Thyme in effect ceased to exist. Even for the map makers, so it seems. You’ll have a pretty hard job finding a map that displays the word Thyme.”
“So… why’d they leave?” Bran questioned with a bowl and spoon still in hand. “Or, should I say, why is there only you left?”
Gregory Degg slumped back down beside the fire. The warm glow of the flames brightened the side of his sun beaten face.
“I...” He thought for a second more. “I suppose that is a fair question. I’ve come so accustomed to the village looking a complete shadow of its former self; I forget how it must appear to outsiders wandering through. Quite the ghost town, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You can say that again!” Bran was now leaning back, his stomach was full, and the button on his trousers was ready to burst.
Gregory made himse
lf comfortable in the wooden chair, his back towards the flames. He filled his wine to the brim as he thought of the words to say.
“Very well,” he grumbled. “I’ve spent many a season alone in this house. Many seasons boys, waiting, listening, watching, but above all, wishing.”
Confused, the boys stared deep into the man’s sad eyes.
“I’m sorry,” the old man said, massaging his temple. “Do forgive me. I forget myself at times. If you wish to know, allow me to start at the very beginning.”
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Twelve
O ne by one another boulder was reached.
Would this trail ever end? Olivia thought. Her confidence was beginning to wear thin, and her sobs betrayed her frustration.
She persistently moved on, sometimes sprinting to the next rock. Her heart throbbed in her ears. The fog thickened, occasionally portraying the stones as shadowed figures. Several times she was convinced that human shapes floated in front of her. She stood her ground, only to discover that when the fog thinned a little the rough, uneven surface of solid rock would appear.
She wished for daylight. My God, did she wish for daylight. She wished for the sun to rise, for white clouds to drift above, and for the vibrant green of the hills and trees she loved so dearly to be her friends once again. It was a trying wish, one she knew would not be granted immediately, or even soon for that matter.
Again, she took to a straight line until the dark shape of a stone peeked through the murky air. She rested on it. Her mind was tired and now numb to any sensation of cold. Olivia had been walking for hours, yet she felt like she'd made no progress. She had no impression that her desperate escape was close to its end. She sobbed a little, losing the small sense of bravery that before pushed her so strongly forward. Resting on the rock, she thought of earlier that day. Why did she follow the calls? Those pestering calls now tormented her mind.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered. “That’s why!”
Olivia had heard the stories, heard the tales. Over time, she had decided they were nothing more than fables, simply stories to stop her from wandering far from home. After all, there had been no sightings in years.
Was it true, any of it? she asked herself, though her mind was already made up. Her belly cried in hunger, but she dismissed the idea instantly. How could she think of food at a time like this? She needed to move and move now. If she didn’t, Olivia knew she soon would not move at all.
Again, she pushed herself firmly away from the rockface. An efforted grunt escaped her when both feet began to sink into the gruelling muck below. A steady wheeze rattled about in her chest. The fog was becoming so thick she could choke on it. She waved her hands about as if she were moving a weighted curtain of mist. Her steps were loud and her breathing heavy as she strained both eyes to see through the murk. Something lightly tapped at her shin. No, not just one tap, but several. They felt like nothing more than floating twigs. She knelt down, waving the mist away with the flick of her wrist. Olivia’s gaze froze as the surface revealed crayons floating in the shallow water; the crayons that had fallen from her pockets. She looked around her surroundings in panic. Tears flowed unabated as she tried to understand what was happening. Olivia had travelled full circle. The rock trail had led her back to the very place she had awoken. She looked down at her submerged ankles, blubbering as she did. The thought occurred to her; whatever dragged her here had no desire to let her leave.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Thirteen
The kitchen door had been closed and locked, effectively silencing the sounds of the night. The candlelight settled to the calmness of the room and illuminated the old man’s face as he prepared himself to speak.
“I had travelled to Thyme from the south during the summer of 1952. The word that year was passed from ear to ear of a new settlement to be constructed. Its location, to be scattered within the open wildness of Sleathton’s forests. Its goal, although to encourage settlers, was to bring tourism to the wild and out of the over populated cities.
“For a time, the houses seemed to fly up. It seemed at each waking dawn a new family would be seen arriving into the village from far away. I had moved here not alone, but with my wife and granddaughter, eager if only to make a fresh start. For months it was a happy place. Our Lodge… this Lodge, was always busy, always full. It was a joyous time. Our business thrived, and we plodded gaily through life.”
A noise broke the old man’s flow. Jack had fallen asleep where he sat, his arms outstretched and resting on the table with his head lying peacefully in between.
“He almost looks normal with his eyes closed,” said Bran who spoke with his own face disgustingly smothered in gravy.
The company fell silent; both Gregory and Marcus stared in reproach at the boy who hadn’t stopped gorging.
“What? I never know which bloody eye of his to look at, that’s all,” continued Bran.
“Hmmm,” mumbled Gregory while watching the young man slumber. “Maybe he has a point. Perhaps it is far past the hour to speak of such matters.”
Bran shrugged off the idea of listening further. He was never much for stories, his own impatience exceeded whatever the narrator had to say. Marcus on the other hand was eager, he always had been, no matter what the tale.
“No, please carry on, Gregory,” Marcus pleaded, his willingness to listen far greater than that of his companions.
The old man sat back once more. “Hmmm… Very well. Now, where was I…” he pondered and scratched his beard before having another gulp of wine.
“Ah, our business thrived and we got through life happily. I remember now.
“Well, who were we to know? Who were any of us to know? During our first winter, the purest horror would strike the village of Thyme.
“A boy. A young child only five years of age should go missing. His mother claimed she saw him playing innocently amongst the trees on that early morn. Within the blink of an eye he was gone. She protested frantically. Of course, the village folk worried, but they thought nothing sinister of such an incident. The child could have simply wandered off. Young boys do such things, don’t you know?
“That morning the men of the village gathered, determined to find the missing child and return him home to his hysterical mother. We searched long and hard into the night, returning without having any luck. But we were still quite hopeful. The next day we wrapped up and set out again. I remember the frost that morning as we began to walk the trail, the grass standing on edge like sharpened blades of ice. Despite the cold, it had only been one night, so the logic of survival was still favourable. Well, we checked every hole, every hollow tree, the rivers, and the lakes. We searched the boundaries like a hound to a fox. Still, we returned home with bowed heads and empty hands. The child could not be found.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Bran, “he was at home all along.”
Gregory turned and threw the needed logs into the withering flames.
“No… Quite the opposite. We never found him. He was gone.”
Marcus sat at the edge of his seat. He took in every word, not wanting to miss the smallest detail.
“Then what happened? Did you just give up?”
“On the contrary,” the old man continued. “We spent many weeks searching, eventually coming to terms with the fact this would no longer be a rescue search. It would be one of recovery. A grown man can last much longer in the woods. But children, they have neither the knowledge nor the instinct of survival, especially a boy of only five years.
“Times were indeed sad. However, over the course of the following weeks, people began to settle back into their normal lives. They were beginning to accept the conclusion that what they had feared had indeed come to pass. The search parties became less frequent when the men were convinced there was no chance of finding the boy.
“I remember it well. In due course, the men gathered to put the choice to a fair vote. They asked if the searches should be stopped s
o normal life might continue. We all agreed, me included. The searches would end that day.
“We made our way back through the forests. Each of us had a sickened feeling in our gut. The thought of explaining our decision to the child's mother was too emotional to bear. We followed the trail home in silence. No one, not even I, spoke a word.
“To our surprise, a clatter of voices pierced through the distance, travelling up from the lower lands of Thyme. We ran as fast as our legs would allow, many falling en route. I seemed to lead the way while the others followed to the hillcrest overlooking the huddled village. The women ran amok below. Each of them were shrieking loudly and pulling on their children like they were rag dolls. By the time we reached home, many had secured themselves behind locked doors. I remember… A woman. Yes, a woman lay tormented on the cobbled roadside. Tears flowed from her eyes; her rose coloured cheeks frostbitten from the cold of the day. She was sobbing into her apron as I uneasily looked around the area. Regardless of words not being exchanged, somehow a part of me already knew… Another child had vanished.”
*
A brief break was taken from the telling of Mr Degg’s story. The boys' jug was soon filled, and a fresh bottle for Gregory was pulled from the rack and uncorked. The old man returned to his seat, his face showing no emotion as he listened to the faint howl whistling down the chimney.
“My, it’s getting late,” said Gregory, glancing back to the wall clock. “Would you boys care to retire?”