Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  “I never called you.”

  “You did,”

  “No, I never.”

  Marcus stopped dead in his tracks. He had the uncomfortable sense he was being watched. He became so concerned that it placed his already anxious mind further on edge, and he rapidly scanned the darkness.

  Is someone watching me? He saw no one. Was anyone calling? He could no longer tell. The sounds of the sleeping woodland influenced the night. The quietness seemed by no means peaceful. Still, he concentrated on the trees although the view was constricted by a thin layer of mist.

  “What’s taking you?” yelled Bran, never once budging from his comfort.

  Marcus turned his suspicion to the nearest clump of saplings. His nerves felt shot. The very idea of someone lurking within the deep, dark wood brought back memories of those gothic childish stories.

  Hansel and Gretel. Billy Goats Gruff. The Pied Piper. The stories no longer scared him, of course. But they were the stories that would beg every child to check twice beneath their bed. These were the tales to make one want to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. Marcus had come to accept these facts, the stories being only scary tales, but out here there was the familiar sense of repressed fear creeping up on him.

  Get a grip. He chided himself while pacing across the ground. The soft turf cushioned his steps along the camp’s boundary. He sat down with a thud, opening his book to the folded page. He needed something, anything, to steer his thoughts away from those grim fables. And reading, well, reading was by far his best option of escape. He had found his place in Chapter 2. His index finger dragged over the thin stained paper to guide his vision. He’d almost lost himself, too, almost, before Bran abruptly doused the flames, sending the black letters into a sudden state of nonexistence.

  “Sorry, were you reading?”

  “You know damn well I was!”

  “I swear I didn’t.”

  “Then you swear fuckin’ badly!”

  The hiss of smouldering stones gently faded. A cloud of steam evaporated where they sat, catching so thickly in the back of their throats that they wanted to gag.

  “Oh, come on,” said Bran with a shrug. “It was only a joke.”

  Marcus pushed down on the grass, eager for a verbal altercation. Instead, he packed the book away as best he could. He held his tongue, knowing full well once that battle began, they would be sparring until sunrise.

  “Don’t ignore me. I said it was only a joke,” repeated Bran. His expression now hardened with an angry stare.

  “Who were you talking to out there, anyway?” asked Bran, his determination to speak not about to let up. Marcus stopped, he set his bag down, and he turned while he considered an answer.

  “I… I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

  Bran raised his eyebrow in disbelief.

  Lying prick!

  He wasn’t as stupid as Marcus thought. Far from it. And if he didn’t get answers right now, he would never let Marcus forget it.

  “Don’t give me that. I heard you,” he said, waving his finger in the direction of the path.

  Marcus hesitated. “I thought I heard something but I didn’t. OK?”

  “You thought you did?”

  “Yeah, I thought I heard you call me.”

  “No, no it wasn’t me.”

  The first slight breeze drifted its way through the camp, lifting the steam and causing the tent door to flap.

  “Exactly. It wasn’t you. So, forget it!”

  Regardless of this open-mindedness, reality or not, it wasn’t what Bran needed to hear right now. They were miles from anywhere. The last thing he wanted to chew on was the idea of a woodland wanderer. He stood quietly, sticking to the spongy grass of the camp. And once he gained his night vision, he shifted around to look beyond the fallen trees.

  “What are you doing now?” Marcus snapped. He watched as Bran hobbled about the ground like James Bond’s retarded cousin.

  “Am I the only one concerned with what you heard?”

  “Or didn’t hear.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Marcus made his way over to Bran, reluctantly joining in the amateur stakeout, trying to help put the boy's mind at rest. They waited. Still there was nothing. Yet Bran would not budge. He was willing. No, willing was too feeble a word. He was determined to find something, anything, that would prove Marcus’s theory correct. So again, they sat and they waited until the hour had grown late.

  *

  “Let’s just go to bed,” begged Marcus, his joints beginning to ache from kneeling. “There’s nothing out here.”

  “No!” replied Bran. His mind was firmly set.

  “What are you expecting to find? I’m the one who heard something, not you. There’s nothing out there, I’m telling you.”

  The night was starless, making it difficult to know how late it really was.

  “If you think I’m getting in that tent when for all we know Gregory is hunting us down, you can think again.”

  Marcus, bellowed out with laughter. It was so loud that a colony of birds flew out of the treetops in fright. Never had he thought his friend so pathetic before. It was a ridiculous notion. And it was an impression he would never live down.

  “Is that what you think?” asked Marcus. “You really are a nutcase.”

  “I’m just saying we don’t know the guy, is all.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Really?”

  “No!” Again Marcus cried out with laughter. It wasn’t like Bran to get into such a tizz, especially over something as simple as unheard voices. However, he was not one to be made fun of, either. Marcus would push him only so far. He knew Bran’s limits. And right then, he was currently hitting the line.

  "Stop laughing!" exclaimed Bran, swiping his leg viciously and removing Marcus's feet from the ground. The impact as he landed flat on his back reminded Marcus of the almost-forgotten pain of the recent past.

  Marcus gasped, the wind from his lungs knocked clean out of him. The instantly regrettable action brought Bran to tower above him. Marcus was an asthmatic, had been all his life. And without the aid of his puffer, Bran knew the consequence. He sprung over to the tent, pulling out the innards of Marcus’s rucksack until a light blue container was found. Marcus wheezed, snatched the inhaler, and hatefully grabbed Bran’s shirt. He could have punched him. He wanted to. The action would have been well justified should anyone come to ask. Instead, he pushed with all his might, sending Bran to the ground and causing several buttons to fly loose from his red checked shirt.

  A small price to pay, thought Marcus as he desperately wheezed for relief.

  Bran had seen his error, he was human after all. And he felt the remorse that came with being fallible.

  “Sorry, pal,” said Bran. He meant the words. A hand was offered to Marcus, who still lay curled on the ground, his inhaler grasped tightly in both hands as though it was the dearest of treasures.

  “Forget it,” replied Marcus breathlessly.

  Bran pulled his friend to his feet. The wheeze of his lungs was now beginning to sound more like high-pitched whistles.

  A loud piercing scream enveloped the woodland. For a second or two, they both assumed it was a prank pulled by the other. It was a dreadful sound. A miserable sound. A sound so haunting it caused Bran to bolt. Marcus didn't realise it until he turned to speak, but Bran had dived headfirst into the tent, burying himself beneath the sleeping bags. His only thought was of his impending and immediate death.

  Moments later, Marcus tugged at the cover.

  “Come on, Bran, get up.”

  “Are you kidding me? Can’t you hear that!”

  “Yes, but –”

  “But nothing. There’s something out there I’m telling you. And… it’ll have us.”

  “Yes, but –”

  “Quiet,” hissed Bran, bringing his shaking finger to his lips. “Keep your voice down, will you!”

  Marcus sighed, still listening to the painful screa
ms in the night behind him.

  “Bran,” he whispered. “It’s only a fox.”

  The movement ceased under Bran’s layers as he considered the concept. “A what?”

  “A fox… Just a fox.”

  “It sounds like the frickin’ devil!” replied Bran. His head reappeared from under his sleeping bag.

  It wasn’t in any way an unusual sound. For anyone who lived in the country, the painful scream of a fox's howl would be considered nothing but natural. It was surprising Bran had never heard it. But it explained the reason behind his actions.

  “What the hell did you think it was?” asked Marcus, biting his top lip in a poor attempt to hide a grin.

  “I dunno…” Bran was thinking of all the possibilities to justify such a cowardly response. “Could have been old Gregory?”

  “If that’s the case, he’d have to have a pair of belting pipes on him.”

  Bran laughed a heartly belly laugh, causing his sides to tense and head to ache. No longer did Marcus feel the need to keep his smile hidden or locked away. He accompanied Bran in humiliating laughter, and they spoke far into the night. The sound of the woodland screams became less threatening until eventually they were barely acknowledged at all.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  T he next morning, they slept late. So late that the morning had well and truly passed. They ate breakfast quietly, both starting to feel the effects of sleeping in a dingy old tent.

  They broke camp and rode farther south and deeper into the hills of Sleathton. Dark grey clouds thickly matted the skies above, foreshadowing the summer storms to come. They kept their pace, riding faster and harder through an area where the growth of trees formed cave-like tunnels.

  Marcus thought of Jack. He’d be home by now, back in the comfort of his own room and alongside his fussy mother. And on that note, the old man would have returned to the deserted settlement of Thyme, discovering his last guests had departed. Marcus couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for the old man, too. It mustn’t have been pleasant living how he had for all those years. Not a soul to speak to or friendships to share. Gregory Degg endured the loneliness of his life. And that, Marcus thought, was the saddest thing of all.

  “Wait!” Bran instructed. Yanking up on his brakes which almost caused Marcus to crash into his rear tyre.

  “Did you hear that?”

  They listened. But Marcus heard nothing unusual, only the call of a bird or the shake of colliding branches swaying innocently around them.

  “No, what?”

  “Shhh!” Bran lifted a stiff finger to the air, halting Marcus from any further interruption. Still, they heard nothing. And then, the silence was lost.

  “What you hear then?”

  “I dunno,” Bran shrugged. “Sounded kind of like a girl.”

  “A girl? Are you mental? What would a girl be doing out here? What did she say?”

  “Jesus! Twenty bloody questions! I never said it was a girl. I said it sounded like a girl.”

  “OK, so what did this girl sound like then?”

  “Hell should I know. It was just high pitched and, well… girly… You know, a girly kind of sound.”

  “Right…” Marcus questioned, his front wheel beginning to turn as he pedalled off in front.

  It was a difficult day, the hardest either had faced. The sky grew dark with clouds, confusing the mind with a sense of misplaced time. Still, not an ounce of drizzle fell from the heavens. The air felt mildly humid, giving the premonition of coming showers. It was only a matter of time.

  They followed the most sensible trail on the landscape. It was much smoother now, and after an afternoon’s ride, it was most welcoming to see the grey-topped mountains peek over the woodland ceiling. There was no intention for adventurous climbing. Not on this trip anyway, and neither had the desire to consider it. A break in the shadows presented for a very brief time, revealing the vast bodies of two grey mountains and the rock pathway between them. As they got closer, the path appeared to be a tighter squeeze than Marcus had hoped. The two of them would make it through. That was unquestionable enough. However, it was far too optimistic to try lugging their bicycles.

  Marcus assessed the narrow walkway. The upper walls collided together, and the ground claimed the unpleasantness of jagged rock pointing up like spears. He slumped down on a mossy mound and allowed himself time to think.

  “The bikes won’t fit, Bran,” he said, trying to concentrate on the rolled-out map. This was the route he had chosen and if he turned back now, his plans would fail.

  “OK,” said Bran, “then we just ride around them?” The idea to him seemed perfectly logical. But as usual, nothing ever was simple with Marcus.

  “No good,” replied Marcus, holding up the map and fully concentrating on the print. “You can’t tell from here, but these mountains run a rather strange circumference around Sleathton. We need to get to the middle. Here.” He gave a tap on its centre.

  “So, we can’t find another way?”

  “No. Not without losing a day… two at a push.”

  Bran was exhausted and, to be perfectly honest, had become exceedingly fed up with the whole ordeal. Still, he wasn’t about to prolong this god forsaken trip any more than intended. Not even if it killed him.

  “Leave the bikes,” remarked Bran, bluntly. It was a simple solution, though a proposal Marcus had not foreseen.

  “Leave them?”

  “Why not! We can get them on the way back, can’t we?”

  “It’s a suggestion.”

  “Look, mate,” dictated Bran, “the way I see it, it’s the best option we got. You wanna reach the centre of this stupid estate, don’t you?

  Marcus nodded.

  “Alright then, let’s just do it. I’m certainly not prepared to sacrifice another twenty-four hours biking around a hillside, all for the sake of seeing more boring trees. My feet have enough blisters!”

  He was right, of course. The plan wouldn’t work. For one, they didn’t have enough food. Although Marcus had no desire to retrace his steps, it appeared he had very little choice in the matter. He glanced over the crinkled map repeatedly, planning a route that would return them to the opening of the mountain path.

  Alright, I got it.

  “Let’s get the gear together and make our way through,” said Marcus, with a new determination in his voice.

  The passage was exactly what they had expected. Narrow walls with sharp stone edges grabbed at their clothing in an apparent attempt to impede their progress. Deer scat lay matted across the ground, and the mountains rose like enormous tower blocks.

  Now this is an adventure! thought Marcus, his heart singing soundly in his chest. Bran, on the other hand, was not so inspired. He was tired, always hungry, and had already covered his favourite trainers and jeans in scattered stag shit.

  Bloody fantastic this! he thought, wondering how in God’s name Marcus found enjoyment in such inconvenience.

  The passage began to widen, and one behind the other they stepped onto exposed, dry ground. A spectacular sight was before them. Even Bran, a boy with very little appreciation for nature, stood mute. He wouldn’t admit it, but the view took his breath away.

  “Wow, it’s stunning,” said Marcus as he looked across the outlands. It was exactly how he imagined it. Wildflowers exploded, sprouting up from lacing tree roots. The plants and trees flourished, sending the amazing smells of nature into the open air. Nothing was left to the imagination. It was perfect.

  Yes, they had finally made it. And now the hard work was done. They would set up camp near the closest lake and spend what little time remained of their adventure not worrying about anything other than having fun.

  “I know that look,” said Bran patting Marcus on the back. “There is fun. And there’s your idea of fun.”

  Marcus smiled guiltily.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  T hunder crashed in the dr
yness of the afternoon sky. The clap was so powerful it caused the ground to tremble. Bran had never heard anything quite like it. Not in his lifetime, and he didn’t savour the experience. With each beating thud, the bass of nature struck him. The feeling of an invisible barrier pushed firmly on their chests, demanding they stop. They didn't wait for the clashes to end. They ventured on, soon becoming accustomed to the peals from the sky.

  The day drew on, the clouds remaining thick like bundled wet cotton. The colours grew darker with every upward glance, saturating the sky in hues of taupe and slate grey.

  Marcus led them through the closest wood, following unreliable trails in the mossy earth that bordered the hill’s base. Bran noticed instantly the woodland was different here. It was a darker forest. The forlorn trees clustered together here as if in fear, their branches entwined in search of anything to give them strength. Nettles were prolific among the hearty grasses. And despite their sombre impressions, the boys strode forward.

  Nature walled up all around them. Hand-like twigs grasped skin and clothes, desperate to prevent their passing.

  Camp would be in sight soon enough, thought Marcus. They just had to keep moving.

  But still it made no odds. The more progress made, the more they grunted and groaned. And the forest floor became more hazardous. More intimidating.

  That’s it, I’ve had it, thought Bran. He had been thinking about giving up for some time now, making mental notes to quit this untenable quest. He looked down at the scrapes and cuts which patterned his flesh. He felt the urge to scratch at the itch crawling under his skin. He was truly at his wits’ end.

  This trail will never stop.

  With exhaustion beginning to take its toll, his conscious mind persuaded him to rest on a toppled tree trunk.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Marcus. He was secretly happy taking a break himself.

  Bran lay sprawled over the rotting wood. His eyes firmly shut, his breathing deep and unsteady.

  “Oh, just leave me be!” he mumbled. “Just let me die in peace.”

  Marcus sniggered. It was this predictable style of overacting he had gotten so used to over the years.