Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  “I’m not kidding!” continued Bran. “I’m done!”

  “We’re almost there!”

  “You’ve been playing that card for ages.” Bran complained vehemently, lifting his head just a little while he spoke. “You’ll have me walking to my death!”

  Marcus turned away and surveyed the land around them. It had to be nearby.

  Observing beyond the wild growth, a single step submerged his foot. It wasn’t until he felt water sloshing around his ankle that he pulled back. He again leaned forward and pushed aside the tall grass that was hiding an algae covered pool. Marcus forced himself deeper through the friction of the surrounding weeds. It took no more than a moment. Then with one wave of his hand, the misty tomb of Mother Earth evaporated. Beyond emerged the vision of a glistening, motionless lake. In perfect stillness, the surface was a polished mirror capturing the storm ridden sky.

  I’ve found it.

  *

  They walked casually along the pebbled shore, the crunching of stone loud beneath their feet.

  It was such a relief to escape the confined space of the forest. And for a time, satisfaction overcame them.

  The more they walked, the lighter Bran’s spirit became. He caught sight of an object almost too odd to be out here in such a forgotten land. But there it was... an old wooden boat was firmly stuck to the mucky bank, the bow line tied down to a large rock. Its rope was withered with age, almost to the point of disintegrating. The child buried just below the surface of each boy emerged joyfully as they scrambled aboard and sat against the creaking frame.

  “Reckon she still floats?” asked Marcus.

  “Only one way to find out.” An excited eagerness filtered through Bran. “You still got that fishing line?”

  The camping gear was carelessly thrown on the shore’s edge. They still had plenty of time to get comfortable later. Even Marcus agreed it could wait. He had been waiting for a chance to test his skills the entire trip. Now was his chance. He quickly assembled the rod while Bran pulled at the knotted rope, its tension lessening before releasing with one nimble snap.

  “Give her a push!” Bran yelled, drawing on energy he thought was lost.

  They heaved forward, pushing alongside the boat’s edges that had been long held secure by a shallow grave of muck. They tried again, determined to see her float.

  “It’s not gonna budge,” said a discouraged Marcus.

  “Oh, it’ll budge. She just needs a little encouragement, that’s all.”

  They lined themselves up, clenching over the fragile wooden beams, their feet twisting and grinding into the soft bedded shore, awaiting the final call.

  “Push!” The word was shouted almost in sync. They pushed and heaved together, doubtful they could resurrect the little boat even with their combined strength.

  Finally, the underside slid from its place. The sound of wet earthy suction releasing its hold was so satisfying!

  They pushed the old row boat down the bank, and the stern hit the water first. The entry formed ripples that danced across the lake's mirrored surface.

  They high fived, immediately feeling rather childish in doing so. Unbalanced, the boat rocked as the boys kicked their legs over the side to climb aboard. Surprisingly, the structure seemed solid. Not a leak sprang through its unstained planks as the oars were placed in the locks. Bran paddled outwards, having no sense which direction they faced. The lake was smooth, and rowing came easy to him. He soon quit paddling and let the boat wander in the middle of a motionless world.

  *

  “Here comes another,” chuckled Marcus. His excitement caused him to pull on the line too forcefully. The moment seemed to have exceeded itself. Sure enough, the fading pattern of green and brown shimmered as it was freed from the shadowy depths.

  “Careful! You’ll pull its brains out yanking it like that!” instructed Bran.

  This would be his third catch, and a generous one at that. The trout swished its slime coated tail in panic as its body was pulled carelessly from the water. It flipped violently before feeling the blunt point of an oar’s end. And quickly, it exited life without further struggle.

  “That’s enough now, yeah?” persuaded Bran, a force of guilt washing over him as he watched the fish twitch its last.

  Marcus, although overly enthused by a fair day’s catch, agreed to Bran’s terms with a nod. It wouldn’t be right to kill more. He was no killer for sport after all. And to prove it, the trout he caught would be served as tonight’s dinner. He collapsed the line and offered to help row to shore. The small boat was turned clumsily; Marcus had never rowed a day in his life.

  Bran happened to feel it first. Small gem-like drops fell on the centre of his forehead. There was no time to prepare. As the short-lived sprinkling grew to a torrential downpour, the thunder crashed loudly overhead. Neither dared to look up.

  The rain pelted down, rebounding around them and giving the illusion the lake’s surface was as solid as hardened ground. Marcus continued to row, but his motion was too irregular for any meaningful progress. Bran hadn’t noticed. He was far too involved shouting commands from the front in an attempt to guide them to the shore. A dim spark of lightning caught the corner of their eyes, then struck the water. And the thunder rolled across the lake.

  “How much farther?” Marcus was breathless as he wiped the rivulets of rain running into his eyes. “We’re like drowning rats out here!”

  “Don’t stop!” yelled Bran. “Just keep rowing.” His words were partially muted by the multitude of thunder claps. To be entirely truthful, Bran wasn't too sure himself. The distance hazed in and out, making it difficult to distinguish land from water.

  Still, he told Marcus nothing. He knew Marcus would panic, and it was an extra problem he wasn’t prepared to deal with right now.

  The whole idea of seeking refuge had become rather pointless. Soaked clothes hung heavily on their bodies, the excess water dripping from their shirt hems. They should have been on the shore by now. Shouldn't they at least have seen it?

  We must be rowing in circles, thought Bran.

  “Just let me take over for a while,” Bran shouted, spitting out rain water that had seeped past his lips.

  The boat rocked left and right while Bran again readied himself to row.

  Boom!

  Thunder and lightning struck simultaneously. The rumble faded in the distance as the fury again began to build. And just as the sky quieted and only heavy rain was in their thoughts, a swishing sound, followed by a loud distinct plop, filtered through the rain. The boys remained still as statues to prevent the boat from tipping. Curiosity pushed them to peer over the side to investigate, and they tried to squint past the thick, grey haze. The rain dulled their senses. The splashing continued like a panicked soul insisting on recognition. Just as they considered speaking, a voice assaulted their hearing and echoed around the lake. Each heart skipped a beat when they heard it.

  "Drowning!"

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I n the hall were the lingering smells of spices. Olivia hastily kicked off her wellingtons, abandoning them to topple on the door mat. The same aromas permeated the house every year at this time when her mother made some of her favourite treats.

  Peeping around the kitchen door, she caught sight of her mother, wearing her usual apron, as she poured the spiced batter into her favourite cake tins.

  Mmm, spiced pumpkin cakes, Olivia thought as her eyes widened and mouth began to water. I’ll just sneak one, she promised herself. After all, pumpkin cakes were a rarity, a valid excuse to create something so delicious out of what would usually be classed as squirrel food. She had carved the pumpkins herself this year, making sure to scrape out all of the pumpkin's innards in hopes of extra cakes. And now that irresistible smell infiltrated each nostril, Olivia couldn’t resist.

  She crawled on hands and knees; the table over her concealed her presence. Her mother danced on the other side of the table. She hu
mmed an infectious tune that Olivia didn't recognize. She only knew her mother’s soft voice provided her with a sense of deeply hidden joy and peace.

  Olivia smiled and waited for precisely the right moment, excitement causing her breath to quicken. She raised her hand to the table's edge, slowly feeling along the surface.

  Easy, easy, the word repeated in her head as her fingers dragged softly across the festive tablecloth.

  Almost, almost… got ya!

  Her hand was lowered down gently, clutching at the delicate paper casing that held the cake.

  Mine, it’s all mine! A victorious smirk accompanied her greedy thought. She smacked her lips together, taking in its warm, tangy smell before opening her mouth.

  “And what time do you call this?”

  The voice came playfully from above her, along with a heavy-handed knock to the solid oak table.

  Olivia giggled as her head protruded from the hanging cloth. She looked up, her mother down. They exchanged glowing smiles while her mother wiped her flour coated fingers roughly against the pocket of her polka-dot apron. She loved her mother dearly and hoped to inherit her elegance and beauty one day, but most of all, she hoped to be given her voice. Olivia had been gone only a couple of hours, but when she looked into her mother’s eyes, it felt like they had been apart for an eternity.

  “And where, might I ask, have you been?” Her mother grabbed her mischievous daughter and tickled her under the arms.

  “Out,” Olivia managed to say between the bursts of laughing fits, while her warm pumpkin cake rolled across the floor.

  “Out?” her mother teased. “Out where?”

  “Just out, out,” laughed Olivia, escaping her mother’s hands and dashing for the doorway. She peeked hesitantly past the frame.

  “Well, we’ve been waiting on you,” her mother replied as she returned to her baking. “Go sit with your grandfather. Dinner will be ready shortly.

  Oh, not that old goat, she thought, reaching down to grab her cake as she made her way to the lounge. She crept in silently. Her grandfather sat sunken in his armchair, as he always did, endlessly mumbling as he slept. The impression was undeniable; his dreams were far more appealing than his reality.

  Olivia snuck past him, comfortably sitting herself down on the floor beside the sofa. It was warm and cosy here, thanks to the radiator that gave out a hearty warmth as she leaned peacefully against the padded seat.

  Her grandfather groaned again, his mouth fully open while his crooked neck rested awkwardly upon his bony shoulder.

  Daft old goat. She smiled while raising her brow. She got comfortable while looking down at her long-awaited snack. Gently, she peeled back the crisp wrapper that crackled as it came loose from the cake’s sticky sides.

  At last! She thought as the wrapping lay on the floor.

  “Where have you been?”

  Olivia jumped, the cake springing from her grasp but was luckily caught in mid air.

  “Jesus!” she spoke angrily under her breath, knowing all too well the daft old codger couldn’t hear an elephant fart if he was listening for it.

  “Afternoon, Grandfather.”

  “Uh, what?”

  “I said 'Afternoon!'"

  Olivia’s grandfather leaned forward in his chair, his dentures almost slipping from his mouth as drool stringed unpleasantly down to his shirt.

  “Where have you been?” he asked again.

  “Out.”

  “Out? Out where?”

  “What is it with everyone? Just out!” Ya deaf old bat.

  Olivia tried not to smile but remain focused on the old timer staring back at her. He reached out for his walking stick that was always at his side. Olivia didn’t quite understand why he owned it. He never used it, not once. Other than to hold in his chair, that is.

  “You’ve been wandering about those woods again, haven’t you?

  Yup. “Of course not, Grandfather.”

  “Hmmm. I’m no fool, girl. It will do you justice not to mistake me as one.” He pointed his stick to the window. “Don’t think I don’t see you from this here window, every day skipping off our land like a foolish child.”

  “Well, I am a child.”

  “Wah?”

  “Nothing.”

  Olivia was in no mood. It was the same discussion day in, day out. Night, after night, after night. Stay clear of the swamp, Stay clear of the swamp, Stay clear of the swamp. God, she wished he would change the blooming record. If the local swamp was so bloody dangerous, why on earth had he moved so bloody close to it in the first place! What was she expected to do with her youth? Sit alongside him and listen to his grumblings about the weather, tales of stamp collecting, and daily complaints of his many aches and pains? She thought not.

  “And here’s another thing,” the old man said, prodding with his stick and breaking Olivia’s idle day dream. “Stay away from that swamp!”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “I could tell you stories that would cause your hair to fall right from your scalp, girl.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “Not sure if I ever mentioned it before?”

  “Yes, you did, Grandfather.”

  *

  In a short time, the old man’s ranting subsided and a deep snore filled the room. Olivia was glad of it, overly glad in fact.

  Finally, peace at last. Olivia sighed as she buried her shoulders in the cushions. She picked up her cake and waited for something else to disturb her. She brought the cake to her nose one more time, then took a bite. She savoured the taste as it danced on her tongue. It was glorious! No, it was sensational! She ate contentedly, watching the snack become smaller by the second. She could never tire of the sweet, spicy cake that stuck like glue between her teeth.

  Wait. She thought, her mouth stuffed with the last remaining bites. Something doesn’t taste right.

  She kept chewing, but the sweet, fiery taste she remembered had somehow become a gross and bitter paste that caused her to gag. Even though she was reluctant, she spat it out all the same. Olivia knelt down, gazing at the semi-masticated blob. Familiar fear grasped at her heart.

  Mud?

  She straightened the balled-up wrapping, only to find the pink flowered paper smothered in dark coloured muck. She quickly tossed it away. “What’s wrong, child?” an old voice called.

  Olivia knew the voice. She turned to reply, but instead screamed in terror.

  Her Grandfather lay dead in his chair, visually decaying as she stared at the dreadful image. His frail skin sank back into his bony face, slowly discolouring to a sickening colour of yellowy green. She pushed herself back to gain more space between them, and both hands submerged in a dark, murky ooze. The nearly forgotten cold had reattached itself fiercely to each leg. And as she backed away, the corpse of her grandfather twitched, his bones cracking as he stood. His deathly eyes watched her every move.

  The sound of her mother’s humming, once so soothing, slowly whirled into an unrecognizable screech as Olivia ran to escape the house.

  “Lost… Lost!” her grandfather shrieked. The familiar voice brought tears to her eyes but did not give her the courage to look back.

  A cackle she knew droned behind her, its taunting tone bringing back a dreamlike memory she almost forgot existed.

  “Lost!” The voice called again as she turned to confront the source.

  A shadowed mass hovered and howled. Its reflective eyes, as white as stars, pierced her soul.

  Olivia awoke in fear, remembering the dark place she lay, the sounds that brought her there, and the feeling she was far from safe.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  W ater began to fill the bottom of the boat. Breathing hard, Bran pulled the oars, taking them slowly forward. The weather around them had worsened, and now they could see only a few yards ahead. The sound of the heavy rain blurred into an unusual whirring noise. But they knew they were nearer their goal. The sound of panicked splashing
grew louder with each stroke of the oars.

  “You see anything?” sputtered Bran while he tried to catch his breath and relieve the burning sensation that clawed up both his arms.

  Marcus didn’t reply. He anxiously leaned over the bow, trying to catch even a glimpse of who was out there.

  “Drowning!” the voice gurgled.

  “Starboard!” yelled Marcus, frantically pointing to the right.

  Bran manoeuvred the boat and, in spite of being almost completely spent, continued to fulfil his duty as oarsman. The evening sky faded around them, although they were too preoccupied to notice. They ignored the downpour they had once tried to escape as they searched through the water.

  “Drowning!” The voice echoed again and disappeared into the air. Although nearer, its source appeared not to be in their direction of travel.

  “Portside!” Marcus cried, again waving his arms aggressively.

  “Just say left or right!” Bran cried out in frustration. His patience and energy were beginning to run on only fumes.

  They had just travelled from that very direction.

  How is that possible? thought Bran, lifting the oars again from the surface. Could it have been they were taken by current? Dragged at the mercy of the lake regardless of their efforts? Or, was it as simple as losing their bearings? It had been known to happen to many, so why not them?

  “Drowning!” the voice yelped. It was now so perfectly clear they could not understand its visual absence.

  “Wait!” demanded Marcus. Bran raised the oars and allowed the boat to drift.

  Marcus had seen something. He thought he had. Unless his mind was prone to trickery. He peered into the cloud ahead and waited. The splashing had ceased, the yelling grew silent. And now all that could be recognised was the sound of rain drumming against the structure of the boat.

  Come on… Come on, Marcus thought, his eyes never straying from the same suspicious spot. For a time, nothing happened.