Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  “Ah, enough with your infernal insecurity.” Gregory stood up and reset his train of thought. He swung open the rear door and stood taking in the late-night air. Like the house, the garden showed no resemblance to the glory of its former years. The forest, once skirting the border of the land, had now completely reclaimed the gardens. He listened in peace to the softness of the breeze. And yet, no matter how quiet these once familiar forests seemed to be, hidden shadows lay in wait for him everywhere he turned.

  He was well aware he shouldn’t have drunk his fill. He knew that. The need to ease his mind was far too tempting to resist. The drink indeed helped, far more than anything else. It was the dreams he could not escape. The dreams bound him to his past. Memories shackled him and forced him to watch and relive the same old events as though it were only yesterday. He would awaken howling in fright most nights: the sweat pouring from his forehead, the bedsheet cold and wet from perspiration. There was no escape, nor was there any lasting relief. The dreams were now a part of him, a reminder that he failed the village and his granddaughter. These he could never put right.

  During the same holiday period every year, Gregory would sit and stare at the table after having just collected the several metres of rope he had used to hoist a kayak in the community shed. He sat, and he drank. His eyes never strayed from the bundle of weathered rope. One particular holiday was all too much. It was an anniversary, but not at all one worth celebrating. He would continue to stare while he drank, fall asleep, and dream. He would startle awake and remember. Then he would stare all the more.

  It was on one of these most festive holiday evenings that his particular ritual had broken him spiritually. He bolted into the forest, the rope clenched firmly in his hand, and found the perfect usable tree. The desperation for it all to end was far too powerful for him to take note of his trek there. He easily threw the rope around a reachable limb. The noose rubbed firmly against his neck as the branch bent from his weight.

  Is it really this easy? he thought as he kicked the rock from beneath him. The burn tore around his neck, sending a fire running sharply down his throat. He felt the strong pull, wishing to touch the soft earth just one more time. He thought the devil himself was dragging him down to the new home he believed he deserved. Bloodshot eyes of the swinging man watched as the trees danced, throwing peace at his torture. It was time. Breath was not important. Vision blurred. The only sound was the swinging rope. Eyes closed. A dark shape crept from the shadows of the trees.

  He fell to the ground with an unpleasant thud, choking and gagging on the fine night air. His decision to stand was made far too quickly and sent the agitated man toppling into the mud. By the time he regained himself, the shadow was gone. He sat, not caring about the cold or his regrets. Frustrated, he removed the noose from his neck. The rope had snapped from the weight of an old and desperate man. “God damn you!” he yelled aggressively at the rope. “God damn you…” The outcry caused his voice to croak and break. He had an overwhelming desire for death, but he could not seem to accomplish even that task. His inability to succeed caused the tears to flow. His heart was completely broken.

  Something shifted behind him. A branch snapped. Creeping feet shuffled. Turning quickly, he listened. His eyes opened wider, his jaw dropped, and he spoke only one word.

  “Grandchild?”

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Seventeen

  J ack awoke from a disturbing dream; the type of dream that would now be lost forever. The cool night air surrounded him, causing his senses to heighten. He looked around, noticing a ghoulish moonlight descending on his friends who looked like mounds as they stayed securely hidden beneath their quilts.

  Jack wondered if he should wake them. But what would he say? Would it be worth Bran’s abuse which would surely follow? No, not on just the whim of a bad dream he could no longer remember.

  It would be absurd to wake them.

  And with that thought, Jack moved his clammy palm from the blanket that stretched up and over his friend.

  Unease flourished within him. For what exact reason, he was not sure. He felt unsafe and vulnerable, as if at any moment his soul would be snatched and fed to the empty darkness. Desperation coursed through his body, somehow feeding the urge to leave the warm mattress and reach out to open the small, sash window. Jack pulled firmly, but the swollen frame held shut. It would not budge no matter how much brute strength he applied. Jack was in no way what anyone would describe as a physical child. A well-appointed opinion would suggest the boy was nothing more than short and weedy. Yet still he continued to pull. The pane would not give, and his mind would not calm. He rested his head on the glass. The window’s cool surface pressed satisfyingly against his forehead, causing him to calm and close his eyes. His breath formed a thin fog that spread across the glass. He sat watching it form and unconsciously etched his name on the clouded glass while his mind wandered away from the repulsive imagination that pulled him from sleep.

  Jack woz hear.

  Blowing over the childlike writing he cleared his canvas, providing an all new page on which to write. He paused, then lifted his finger again.

  JAck mRs HomE.

  Reminiscing about home soothed his mind. He longed for the comforting space of his bedroom, the presence of his doting mother, and all the security he felt at home. It wouldn’t be long until he was back in Bonhil Dale. He just needed to push on and leave his worrisome dreams where they truly belonged.

  Bran tossed in bed, chattering with a dreamlike mumble: words that not even Jack could interpret. Jack’s palm swiped the glass, removing his clouded words with one swipe. It was as this streak was made and the hand brought to a finish, he noticed a dark shadow standing beside the thickness of the outer trees.

  Jack rubbed roughly at his eyes, not with disbelief but to reassure himself of what he saw. He looked again. Yes, the solid outline of a person remained. Jack smiled rather hesitantly, purely to determine if a pleasantry would be returned. It was not. Nothing was given. Its shape remained as solid as before, and even through the haze it appeared to be more like a statue than anything living.

  It reminded Jack of a cartoon called The Snowman. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had loved it. Every child anyway. The concept came flooding back of how a pasty-faced ginger kid, during a winter’s snow, created a snowman one day that by night would magically come to life. The rest of the story wasn’t important. The point was, it terrified Jack. The very idea of an innocently made snow sculpture prowling the grounds of his home as he lay in bed sent hairs to stand on end. Many people have fears; some of spiders, some of clowns. Yet nothing scared Jack more than running past a snowman. Its large coal eyes would follow his every step. The idea, he understood, was nothing more than a child’s vivid imagination creating something from his wildest dreams. But as he looked down to the dark stillness, he thought:

  What if it was just as easy to create something from a nightmare?

  The shadow moved to reflect the nervous stare from above. Again, Jack held his glare. The very suggestion that what he witnessed was real caused him no end of doubts. He turned to the snoring figures next to him. Neither was stirring in their peaceful sleep. He surveyed the room, knowing full well nothing lurked inside the house.

  No… nothing, he thought but checked again anyway. He returned his attention to the land beyond the window and again focused on the trees. The shadow had gone. Just like that. It suddenly just ceased to exist, disappearing back into the night from which it came. “Wake up!” he whimpered under his breath, accompanied by a rather heavy self-inflicted slap to the face, trying to shake away his delusions. Again, he peered from the window. And just as before, the blurred shadow was there, standing as though it had never departed. It waved at Jack, showing no pause in its gesture. Stunned, Jack threw himself back from the windowsill, smashing flat against a stocky wardrobe, his sight still fixated below. The wave stopped, its hand twisting abnormally as though to beckon him nearer.

/>   An unnatural sensation surged through Jack, lifting the fear, the worry, and hesitancy lingering within him. He no longer cared about anything, and like sand falling through fingers, his feelings dissolved. A childish smirk was illuminated by the moonlight.

  As though tangled in a dream sequence, he found himself outside, walking barefoot on the sharp wood chip path with no memory of how he came to be there.

  His feet took him ever closer to the forest. The night was as black as ebony, but he could not perceive the darkness. Even as he strayed into the dry, grey grass, his inner consciousness told him his predicament was nothing more than a pleasant stroll on a delightful summer's day. He knew where he was headed. A voice called him there. A voice he didn’t know but felt a mystic urge to trust. While his surroundings were as deathly as a country churchyard, the sky above burst alive with bright city lights. The branches parted like a theatre’s curtain. Beyond it was the sight of nothingness. A black hole. Just a few more steps and he would be part of it, disappearing into the unknown, vanishing without a trace.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Eighteen

  C ome morning, the sky drew crisp and clear. The rising sun cast an amber tint over the limestone, awakening the boys with its brilliance. They sat upright, still tired even after their night of undisturbed sleep.

  “Time is it?” questioned Marcus, his wide yawn throwing off his speech.

  “Early,” replied Bran as he tucked his head back under the covers to avoid the blinding rays.

  “Have you ever seen the sun that colour? I haven’t.”

  “Exactly! It’s too bloody early.”

  Marcus had already noticed Jack was not in the room and quickly concluded he had gone to the lower quarters for breakfast.

  “Come on, we best get up,” said Marcus while he pulled up his clothes from the floor.

  “Where you reckon Jack got to, then?”

  Bran sat upright, his eyes clouded with sleep, his hair messily on point.

  “He’s probably already gone down for his bowl of Special J?”

  “Very good.”

  “I thought so.”

  The house appeared deserted as they wandered through closed off rooms. There wasn't the slightest trace of Jack. In the kitchen, the glasses from the previous night still stood tall on the table, a moisture ring circling each base. The grate was over filled with ashes. The boys sensed no one had been in the room that morning. The rear door remained ajar, calmly swinging and allowing sunlight to seep through. Beyond, a jungle of nettles surrounded the paths. Marcus and Bran ventured outside, the sun's warmth so much more inviting than the chill of the house. They would wait for someone to return, and here was as good a place as any.

  So, they waited. The morning passed without a sign of their friend’s return. And what concerned them even more was the old man himself could not be found wandering his grounds. Still, they waited, passing the time with idle chat which soon turned sour in debate.

  During the course of the afternoon, they decided to venture away from the house. The path led them back to the road. As expected, the road was quiet, and no one passed by. The longer they waited, the more Marcus felt overcome with worry.

  “Where the hell has he got to?” he moaned, trying his best to hide his frustration. “And where the hell is the old man? In a few hours it’ll be dark.”

  Bran was off the road, trying to climb on a tree branch. His lack of success was rewarded with a nasty fall. He wobbled drunkenly to his feet, shaking off thousands of fir needles that had embedded themselves in his clothes.

  “I don’t get what you’re worried about,” said Bran, diverting attention from his fall. “The crazy old loon’s probably just disappeared off to chop wood again. And knowing Jack, he’s so frickin’ gullible, he’s probably agreed to help!”

  Marcus didn't respond. There was something more to it. He had a sense for this type of thing. Not a case of visions or gift-like messages, it was purely a gut instinct. And his gut told him something unfortunate had befallen his friend.

  “Look!” Bran’s temper was beginning to shorten. “You’re panicking over nothin’. What’s the odds of both of them disappearing?”

  Marcus shrugged and still watched the roadside for movement.

  “Exactly! I’m telling you, Jack will be fine. He’s probably helping the old man right now.”

  Marcus sighed deeply, in some slight way thankful for the sentiment that helped calm his mind.

  “You’re probably right,” said Marcus. “We do need to get moving though. You really think he’s OK?”

  As Bran turned and started walking towards the house he called back “Absolutely! I’ve told you, he’ll be fine, unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless… that Gregory is some kind sex pest.”

  “Oh, great! Thanks for that!”

  “What? It happens, you know. Kids like us get taken away and touched up in the woods all the time.”

  “Jack is not being touched up! You’re such an idiot!”

  *

  The afternoon dragged by slowly, much more slowly than they’d liked. There was little to do but sit and wait. They ate, helping themselves to the store of food they found on the kitchen shelves. They somehow knew their host wouldn't mind the self-service. Marcus perched himself at the side of an armchair and scanned a collection of books unevenly piled in stacks of ten or twenty. He enjoyed the odd read, however these books piqued no interest in him. For starters, they were hardback and lacked their dust jackets. Some had bindings as frayed as a discarded paperback. He tossed the first few aside, barely taking the time to read the title. They were covered with years of dust, and when opened they smelled damp and musty. Each title was more disappointing than the last, and he huffed his disinterest at the content.

  The Origin of Species, by Charles Darwin. Trees Worth Knowing, by Julia Ellen Rogers. The Life of Bees, Familiar with Flowers, Rocks of Time, Art of Growth, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap! he thought as he slouched back into a well used chair and allowed the towered books to lean. He tried to save them, reaching out to keep them in balance. The top book began to slip. And like a game of Jenga, they all toppled, fanning their pages across the floor.

  “Oh, whatever!” he groaned, dismissing the jumbled heap before falling unhappily to his knees.

  Marcus gathered the chaos and began restacking one book at a time. A small leather-bound volume weighed heavy in his hand. It was in pristine condition. On the cover was a faint groove of imprinted characters. He wiped the surface carefully with the hem of his shirt. Taking his time, Marcus held the book towards the light, guiding the tips of his fingers across the leather before reading the title silently. Amongst the Mists.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Nineteen

  F or some unknown reason, probably brought on by the crushing boredom, Bran took it upon himself to explore the house. He was hoping to find a note, anything really, to indicate the whereabouts of Jack and, of course, the old man himself. The afternoon soon turned to evening, and slowly the feeling of concern began to evolve and fester.

  Bran fell down on the unmade bed. He had an unquestionable predicament swimming around his brain concerning the need to stay another night in Thyme. An extra night wasn’t so bad. After all, he could think of worse places to bide his time. But what if they hadn’t returned by morning? Or night? Would he and Marcus continue with this tiresome game and wait even longer? If it was a game, Bran didn’t like it, not in the slightest. Keeping himself calm was one option. Encouraging Marcus to see reason was quite another. Marcus was an emotional chap. It was a personality flaw that had been with him throughout their school years, and Bran felt sure it would not dwindle away with age.

  Impatience itched within him. My God, what he could be doing with his precious time right now. And sitting in a dank old Lodge in the middle of a village that apparently no longer existed certainly wasn’t on his to-do list. He heard the intermittent thuds as items
collapsed somewhere downstairs. He listened as Marcus’s muffled voice complained from the room below.

  “Oh, whatever!”

  Bran relaxed, knowing his friend was safe and sound.

  The chime of the landing clock had struck the hour. And if correct, the bells vibrantly sang out six o’clock.

  Six already? Bran turned to his side. The rays of the remaining daylight leaked through the window, slowly sinking down the walls and onto where he lay. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the annoying glare.

  Maybe it’s time we left to find help. He wondered. Maybe… staying here really wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Bran lay deathly still. He had convinced Marcus that nothing bad would happen to Jack.

  He would be fine. That’s what he told him. It was a statement based on false hope.

  What if something really did happen to Jack? To the both of them? What if now it was too late? The questions frazzled his brain like a high-speed merry-go-round, never slowing to give him answers.

  A sickening foreboding clenched his stomach. He had had such sensations before, most often when he felt he could have done more, much more. Bran often portrayed it as guilt.

  What have I got to be guilty of? I ain’t done nothing!

  The realization of his own selfishness presented itself as clear as the streaks on the window. He sat up, feeling utterly ashamed of his choices. How could he have just sat here? And not only him, but he had convinced another to do the same.

  Placing his hand to his face remorsefully, he turned to the window to determine the remaining hours of light. He paused, then started to smile. His guilt faded, leaving no trace that it was ever there.