Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  “What is it?” asked Bran, for some reason using a rather hushed tone.

  He stared on through the murky space. And with good instinct. A shadowed arm lifted from the surface and slapped back down to the lake.

  The voice yelled out again, followed by their reassurance that help was on the way.

  Bran witnessed it, too. A figure, desperate and panicked, thrashed in the water. If they had been a moment later, the figure would probably be dead.

  It was an unpleasant thought, but the sight in front of them raised their hopes to new heights. Bran rowed on like never before. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, urging him to forget his exhaustion.

  The boat drew nearer. The figure’s shadow was hopelessly crawling through the white water.

  “Hold on, buddy! We’re almost there,” shouted Marcus, trying his best to offer hope to the poor, unfortunate soul.

  The shadow stopped and stared. Its thrashing eased. Its kicking went limp. And as it looked toward the slowly approaching vessel, its form swiftly disappeared, sinking below the misty surface.

  Marcus plunged his hand through the surface of the lake, reaching into the empty cold. Bran rose from his seat and scrambled across the boat, nearly sending Marcus plummeting to the lake’s bottom.

  “Come on… Grab on!” Marcus cried out at his own rippled reflection.

  Bran snatched an oar and submerged it to its limit. He cautiously shifted it around in motions resembling the stirring of a cauldron.

  “Anything?” asked Marcus.

  “No… nothing,” replied Bran with a shake of his head.

  He continued to stir the oar around in the water. The thought of his possible observation of a death by drowning was horrifying.

  Suddenly, the oar froze in place. Bran could no longer force it to budge.

  “You got them?” Marcus asked with fearful shock.

  His eyes seemed to pop from his skull as they peered into the abyss. He gave a swift nod, steadied his breathing, and began to pull.

  He gave it his all, every ounce of strength that remained in his petrified body. Air bubbles broke the surface, shortly followed by a sluggish but desperate hand reaching for help. Marcus gripped it tightly as wet skin on wet skin tried to slip apart. He and Bran heaved as one, pulling on the body that felt like it was weighted with a ball and chain. Dark black hair lay flat on the person’s face, hiding any semblance of consciousness.

  “One more, and heave!” screeched Bran.

  The two fell backwards violently, leaving the lifeless body to lay limp in the bottom of the boat.

  They glared down, terrified at the thought of death having already claimed this person’s life. It was a boy without doubt, that was clear enough. But how did he come to be here? And all alone?

  “Check his pulse,” said Marcus, hoping that Bran would display the needed bravery.

  “You check the bloody pulse!”

  “One of us has to!”

  Both remained where they were and the rocking of the boat soon stilled.

  “God’s sake,” exhaled Marcus as he reached a hand out to the lifeless body. He laid only a finger on the neck when the boy startled and cornered himself in the helm of the boat. He trembled in pure terror, shaking uncontrollably.

  “It’s alright,” encouraged Marcus, holding his hands up with his palms out as a subtle sign of peace. Bran was quite different. He was scared, quivering on the spot with an oar tightly held in both hands. If needed, he was ready to swing, sending the boy back to the depths from which he came.

  A reassuring hand wrapped around Bran’s shaking fist, as Marcus desperately tried to calm him. Shock consumed their utterly fatigued bodies as they stared into the brightest eyes they'd ever seen. One blue eye, the other a vibrant green.

  A quivering lip turned wearily into a strangely confused smile. And with that, the rescued boy sat upright.

  A stillness fell across the lake, the eerie atmosphere causing goosebumps to stand sharply on end. And despite all he had witnessed, Bran still held the oar desperately waiting for any excuse to use it.

  “Jack?” whispered Bran.

  “Hiya guys.”

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  T he boat jolted, the force throwing the boys violently forward without a chance of bracing for impact. The rocks along the shore crept invisibly beneath them, piercing the underbelly of the weakened bow. Beginning as a trickle, the water soon flowed faster as the puncture was freed from the offending rock.

  Bran lay awkwardly on his side after the fall sent his head bouncing off a stationary seat plank. He looked around in a stunned daze wondering who had struck him. Muffled voices drifted in and out as he tried to focus on a blurry silhouette standing over him. A hand reached down and indicated he should grab hold. He followed the scrawny arm up to a smiling face and familiar eyes.

  A distorted voice finally became clear enough for him to recognise. “Take my hand.”

  Bran took it weakly just before his sight faded away. The figure picked him up, and within seconds Bran realised he lay flat on the cold, pebbled shore. He was surprised to see Marcus already there reaching out to help. The world was spinning, and he could do nothing to stop it. All the voices and sounds merged into one. The trees, no longer rooted in solid ground, floated and swirled around him. Clouds and figures glided in the air. He remembered nothing after that.

  *

  By the time he woke, darkness was beginning to fall. He sat up too quickly, and dizziness clouded his mind once more.

  “You OK, mate?” Marcus shouted, rushing over from prepping the evening’s meal. Camp had already been set for the night. The tent was assembled, pots and pans lay jumbled, and a blazing fire gently warmed him where he sat.

  “What happened?” Bran asked, rubbing at the back of his head. “I had the most obscure dream.”

  Bran continued to speak, but was soon distracted by footsteps approaching the flames, causing him to stumble over his words.

  “You!” Bran shouted. He scowled and weakly rose to his feet. “How the hell did you even get here?”

  Jack said nothing but stood stiffly with his arms filled with firewood, his unblinking eyes staring directly into Bran’s. He smiled.

  “Answer me, Jack!” Bran demanded. “How did you get here?”

  An uncomfortable pause filled the camp. Jack’s eyes never strayed from his.

  “I followed,” replied Jack, softy, before turning away to feed the flames.

  “Don’t turn away from me!” yelled Bran.

  But it was too late. Jack had already walked away, past the camp and into the trees. And again, there were just the two of them.

  A hand firmly gripped his shoulder, as he allowed his body to gradually relax.

  “Calm down,” whispered Marcus. “You won’t get anywhere asking such things. Believe me, I’ve already tried.”

  Bran chose not to reply. He was still dizzy, and the back of his head thumped in time with his heartbeat. He sat by the fire, its spreading heat unable to quell the chill of his shaking bones.

  “How long was I out for?”

  “Not Long. I debated on looking for help, though I couldn’t be sure I’d find you again. Plus, you were breathing, even vocalised the odd mumble from time to time, as if you were asleep.”

  A bowl was gently passed to him, steam rising from the rim. “Eat up, mate. You’ll feel better.”

  Bran looked down, Not more broccoli and cheese pasta.

  “What happened to the fish?”

  “What do you think? They went down with the ship, of course.”

  Bran looked down at the steaming but disgusting bowl of slop.

  “Don’t get picky on me, eat up,” said Marcus. “This is just as good.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  *

  The night rapidly intensified in around them. And for the first time since they began, Bran ate without a word. His mind was far too busy contemplating everything tha
t had happened. Yet, no matter how many times he tried, the pieces wouldn’t fit together. His memories and thoughts remained scrambled like a long-forgotten dream.

  The surrounding trees swayed in a gust of wind that blew through the camp. Bran raised his face from his palms. As he did, Jack returned into the firelight. Like before his arms were filled with deadwood. He came and sat crossed legged by the fire, the wood still held tightly in the ridge of his arms.

  Bran gave a look that could only be interpreted as hateful. It made no difference. Jack just looked back at him, but only at him. The flames reflected something wonderful in his wide, unblinking pupils.

  “You got some answers to give, Jack!” chided Bran, putting his bowl down and pointing a trembling finger. “I’ll ask you again, how’d you find us?”

  “I followed,” replied Jack, his face unchanged as he dropped the wood and rested back against a tree.

  “Bullshit!” cursed Bran before looking at Marcus, whose mouth was full. Completely baffled, he stared at Bran in return.

  “I know a liar when I see one,” continued Bran. “What the hell is your game! Making us worry like that.”

  Jack said nothing in return but gave a slow, uncaring shrug, severely impacting Bran’s temper.

  The camp filled with silence, and for a time only the sounds of insects were heard in the summer’s night air. They ate in awkward silence, none of them knowing what to say to one another. The plates were cleared, except for Jack's whose food remained untouched. He did nothing but stare at Bran.

  “What? You got something you wanna say to me?”

  Jack stared on.

  “Hey, retard! Answer me!”

  “Bran…” Marcus butted in, reaching out to Bran in an attempt to calm his temper.

  “Back the hell off!” snapped Bran as he slapped away his friend’s hand.

  Bran stood sharply, and in turn so did the others. Marcus had never seen him like this before. He had seen him angry, sure. But not like this. Hate pulsated around him. His face was red and wet with nervous sweat. And to be perfectly honest, Marcus was starting to feel a little scared himself.

  Bran launched forward, his steps charging through the smouldering firewood. He wasn’t sure what he would do. All he knew was he wanted to hurt Jack. Hurt him in a way he had never wanted to hurt anyone in his wildest dreams.

  A gunshot rang out. The violent burst of sound echoed across the lake, and startled birds fled in flocks from the treetops.

  “Was that a gun? Was that a gunshot?” Marcus questioned twice. Concern overcame him as he searched from side to side.

  Bran looked to the night sky, the sound slowly dying as the birds circled them overhead.

  Bang! A second shot struck, breaking the flock from above and dispersing them from view. They again waited, certain that a third would rattle the air. But no third shot came. Bran began to relax, his breathing more under control. Just as he started to speak, loud footsteps crunched through the undergrowth.

  The sound of tromping grew nearer. The shuffle of foliage. The snap of twigs. The rustle of leaves. It was all too much for Marcus, who froze solid, waiting for whomever was out there to strike. He felt vulnerable. He was prey being circled by creatures of the dark.

  “Let’s get out of here,” urged Marcus, but his feet were firmly fixed to where he stood.

  “Be quiet,” Bran replied in an overly stern, albeit hushed, voice.

  “We need to get out of here, we could be trespassing!”

  “Will you shut it! I can’t hear the –”

  But it was too late. The footfalls had halted, sending a cavalcade of paranoia descending on both boys.

  Torch light shone out from the treeline, its brightness blinding Bran as he lifted both hands to shield his squinting eyes. Branches swung forward and swiftly returned to their place as the steps again ceased.

  “You know, you can hear you boys from the other side of Sleathton.” It was a statement more than it was a question. And with that, the torch light lowered to the ground, and the boys’ night vision gradually returned.

  Gregory stood before them, tired and wretched. His head hung low as the heaviness of his rifle weighed on his shoulder. His clothes (from what could be seen) were thick with mud, his beard uncombed, his eyes carrying dark bags beneath them.

  No one spoke. The boys were leery of the man who had followed them all this way, not to mention the weapon he happily carried.

  “Not going to invite me to rest then?” Gregory removed the gun strap from his shoulder. “Very well. However, I will do it all the same.” He slumped to the uncovered ground, regarding the boys while holding his outstretched hands to the flames.

  Marcus looked to Bran, though his gaze was not returned. He was too concerned with how the old man came to be here.

  “I guess a part of me didn’t expect you boys to wait at the house. Thank goodness you biked it most of the way here. Otherwise, you’d have made it extremely difficult for me to track.”

  “You’ve been tracking us?” asked Bran.

  “Yes, indeed,” Gregory muttered, reaching out for the bowl of food that still remained untouched. “May I?”

  Bran wasn’t going to ask Jack if he cared to share, and simply nodded his head. He had no desire to cross the old man. Not right now.

  “I suppose you boys are wondering why on God’s green earth I’m here.” Again, this was no question.

  “The thought had crossed my mind.” Marcus began to edge close to the fire.

  The old man didn’t answer. And without even asking for a fork, he tucked into the cheese-dripping pasta using only his fingers. He ate ravenously, like a desperate man who had not seen food in days. And at times, it seemed he wouldn't stop gorging even to breathe. He ate until the bowl was clean and then indicated he needed more.

  A sudden movement caught the old man’s eye, and he reached for his torch with a loud, dreary grunt. The beam shone directly onto the boy who stood furthest away, the only boy who had gone unnoticed.

  “Wait!” he said, collecting the rifle that lay at his side, the light never leaving Jack’s pale face. He cautiously approached the boy, as though the child himself would cause him greater harm.

  “Have you any idea how long I’ve been searching for you?” asked Gregory.

  He was on Jack like a predator. The light shone deep into the lad’s widened eyes, as Jack stood pushed against the trunk of a large tree.

  “What nice eyes you have.” Gregory moved in closer, his nose and the light now only inches away. “Though… it’s rather amusing, they’re not at all as I remember.”

  Jack said nothing as he stared through the light at Bran.

  Marcus almost interrupted. Though his ability to speak was unwillingly tied to the back of his throat.

  “What’s different?” Bran asked, purely playing along with the old man's fantasy.

  Gregory scowled at the boy a moment longer before steadily stepping back. “Hmmmm,” he hummed, turning away and retracing his steps.

  “I said, what’s different?” asked Bran again.

  The old man crossed the fire, his back still facing the three. “Ah, young Bran. The leader of the gang, so to speak. Do you really wish to know?”

  “Yes.” The reply was slow and somewhat forceful.

  Gregory stopped. He lowered his weapon and readied to fire.

  “I’m sorry, boys. I never wanted this upon any of you.”

  It all happened so fast. The lit torch fell to the ground with a thud, sending light to trees in the rear. Gregory turned swiftly, his rifle raised high and the target locked.

  No! Bran almost bellowed to protest, but it was too late. The third shot had been fired, the noise piercing his eardrums as short-term deafness lingered. Each of them could hear nothing. The world had fallen silent, the land dark. And all they could recognise was the potent scent of gunpowder.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A hissing noise dominated Bran�
�s hearing. The natural reaction of covering the ears proved completely useless. He dropped to the ground, reaching for the torch as it rolled across the pebbles. There were no more shots fired. One was all it took. The old man casually rested the barrel of the gun across his chest, the stock balanced confidently on his wrist.

  “Are you mad!” Bran shouted. At least he thought he yelled, though the words weren’t heard by the elderly man beside him.

  The old man ignored the torch light, his sight transfixed on the tree line.

  The light shone momentarily on Marcus who was slowly regaining his balance.

  “Marcus, you OK?” Bran yelled, and again he thought He can’t hear me!

  The light panned past Gregory, whose stance remained unaltered, before finally reaching over to Jack. He was now sitting contently in place, his back still resting against the base of a tree.

  “Hey, Special, you alright?” Bran shouted as loudly as he could.

  Jack didn’t move. His body stayed rigid while his sight was fixed on Gregory.

  “Hey… you alright?” Bran repeated as he walked toward Jack. The torch light was raised. Jack’s gaunt expression glared through him.

  Bran fell back, clutching at the ground as he scrambled through the dried-up leaves.

  A single shot. One bullet to the head of his friend. The picture was sickening, as if Jack’s very head had been stapled firmly to a post. Blood dripped down from the circle between his eyes, slowly falling onto his chest. It was the blood that caused Bran to fall. He retched where he sat, gagging on the gruesome sight and struggling for breath.

  “Calm yourself, son.” Gregory spoke as if the whole ordeal were natural. It was not natural, not by any means. It was without doubt the most unnatural thing Bran had ever seen.

  “Run!” Bran screamed to Marcus, only now noticing the ringing in his ears had ceased and words again could be heard easily. He dashed past Marcus, grabbing him firmly by the sleeve and tearing the seam of his shirt. “Run, you idiot!” he implored.

  “What?... Why?” Marcus retorted, shrugging off Bran’s grasp which caused him to slip and fall.