Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  “That’s it, get back to the stinking bog with you.”

  There was something different now. They both saw it. As the figure’s foot scraped the water’s edge, its neck strayed far from Gregory and quickly glanced over to the boys behind him. Then the likeness of Jack slowly began to fade, as it stepped back farther into the lake. The curly hair began to dissolve, the chubby shape of Jack’s childlike face collapsed. And as it looked upon them one last time, the colourful eyes Jack carried quickly dimmed, stretching down into deep hollow sockets only to bare a bright reflective orb from within.

  “Back you get now,” shouted Gregory.

  Any resemblance to their friend had evaporated. What stood before them was of no boy nor man. It was a… a Something? and something they never imagined a part of this world. It was something of evil, the purest evil. And if it hadn’t been for this crazy old fool, it was likely they’d be dead.

  The creature retreated farther into the misty lake. Its gaping eyes of bright reflecting holes bored into their souls. The human form it held had morphed, changing into a hazy shadowed mist. The clothes it once wore were absorbed like ink into porous paper. And as quickly as it started, its mighty quarrel ceased, again bringing white noise to drift through the camp.

  The three stood in fear on the pebbled bank, watching as the distance between them and the creature gradually increased. It was a frightening sight. The water never moved, never once made a sound as the dark shadow flowed bewitchingly through it.

  It stopped dead at the lake’s centre. Its giant eyes reflecting like warning lights on a stormy sea. It did nothing but watch them before slowly sinking beneath its misty bed.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  T he old man fell roughly on his rump, sighing aloud about what would soon be another scar forged by his own beaten hands. Tearing a narrow strip from his stained shirt, he began to wrap it tightly around his palm.

  “You’re meant to clean it, you know?” uttered Marcus.

  “Wah? Speak up!”

  “You’re meant to clean it. You’re trapping all the shit in there.”

  Gregory gave a sarcastic grunt as he finished pulling the knot.

  “It’ll do,” he said. “Besides, where would you suggest I clean it?”

  Marcus gave a short, hard look to the lake.

  Good point!

  Gregory leaned forward, allowing his head to fall and his eyelids to close for only a moment. The task had taken much out of him, plenty more than he had remembered. He lay back watching as the mist began to thin, slowly drifting back to the darkened spots from which it came. Bran caught his eye while standing speechless, impatiently waiting for an explanation.

  A huff of air escaped Gregory as he manoeuvred his weight.

  “You OK, son?”

  “What?” said Bran, his face scrunched with annoyance.

  “I said, you OK?”

  “Am I OK?

  “Yes…”

  “Hmm, oh yes, no concerns at all.

  “So, you’re alright then?”

  “No! I’m bloody not!”

  Marcus sat beside the old timer. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the scared child in him, or maybe he just simply feared for his own personal safety. Either way, he said nothing and only watched as Gregory began to reload the chamber of his gun. Bullets fell loose from his knee-high pocket, rebounding off his feet as he reached out to the ground. Blood from his cut already started to show through his poorly administered bandage, blotching his ammo in bright red markings as each bullet slotted into place.

  The camp descended into a deathly silence as the campfire made the sound of a weak and calming crackle.

  The gun barrel snapped firmly shut, and the old man stood, leaning on his weapon like a stick to support his weight.

  “Grab your things, boys. Grab anything. We need to move.”

  “Move? Move where?” questioned Bran.

  “Back to Thyme, of course. Once we’re back on the road, I’ll get you boys home. I knew I’d live to regret leaving you two alone. But Sleathton is no place for our kind. It never was.”

  Marcus began to gather his things, scrambling through the torchlight. Getting out of this predicament couldn't happen quickly enough.

  “You should’ve taken us home in the first place,” said Bran. “Instead, you left us at your scabby old house.”

  “It’s a lodge.”

  “That’s beside the point!”

  The old man lifted his gun uneasily, aiming at the hidden paths around them while he calculated the quickest way home.

  “What do you mean, taken you home in the first place?” questioned Gregory.

  “With Jack. You deaf as well as senile?”

  “Watch your tongue boy. And I never took Jack anywhere.”

  The regular clanking of background noise came to a sudden halt, as Marcus caught wind of the discussion.

  With bag in hand, Marcus wandered over to Gregory. The thought that Jack really had gone missing now flooded his mind with worry.

  “He never went back with you?” asked Marcus.

  “With me? No, son, I never took him back to Bonhil.”

  “Then where the hell were you both yesterday?” Bran interrupted, his manner now far too confrontational for the old man’s liking.

  “Wind your neck in, boy,” snarled Gregory, “before I do it for you. Yes, I can’t say that I never saw him. That would be dishonest. But... but there is a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  The boys remained quiet. It was the very way in which the old man used his words that somehow led them to believe he would speak without being prompted. And as he lowered his aim to the ground, the old man’s tongue began to wag in riddles.

  *

  “Horseshit!” yelled Bran.

  “It’s the God’s honest truth, son,” snapped Gregory, unable to persuade the boy further, no matter what he said or how he wished to say it.

  Marcus thought on the idea a little, piecing the story together like a drawn-out puzzle. He took his time, wanting to believe the old man. Yet he wanted out of this God forsaken forest even more.

  “You really saw him? I mean… really, you saw him?”

  Gregory had no time to speak, as Bran continued his rant.

  “Don’t give in to this crap! The old man will tell us anything.”

  A short pause stretched into a longer pause.

  “Did you really see him?” Marcus again asked, staring at Gregory’s wrinkled features.

  He nodded softly in return. “Aye, I did. I swear it.” Placing his hand firmly on his chest, he continued. “As I stood out back that night, I heard the house door swing shut with an unsettling slam. I thought you all had fled after the telling of my evening’s tale. I mean… who would blame you? I grabbed my rifle, which over the years had become nothing more than a force of habit. And I began to make my way to the front of the house. Lo and behold, who do I see but young Jack, crossing the long moist grass. Of course, I thought nothing of it at first. It was a peaceful night, and his actions were innocent enough. For all I knew, the young man had simply abandoned his bed for the pleasure of sniffing the crisp night air. It’s common enough, I remember thinking as I stood by secretly. So innocent in fact, that I thought it best not to disturb him and leave the lad to wander.”

  A branch snapped loudly in the distance, causing their heads to turn in surprise and Gregory to rest the gun to his shoulder. They waited, but alas, all remained quiet, and the old man continued to speak of his recent memories.

  “I would have left him. I was about to, when from out of the corner of my eye, the bushes parted revealing a dark path, and your young friend was striding towards it. I called for him. I called at the top of my lungs, so I did. But it made no odds. The young man looked up to the evening sky as though my warnings were nothing but soft whispers. And it was as the path consumed him that those reflective eyes glowed through the night, staring back at me like a long lost friend I
could never forget.”

  The old man paused momentarily. His voice broke a little with emotion retelling the tale.

  Awkward, thought Bran.

  Things certainly didn’t look good for Jack now. And the very thought about his whereabouts was far from encouraging.

  “So…” urged Marcus.

  “So what?”

  “Well, what happened?” asked Marcus. The dreadful considerations raced rapidly about in his overactive imagination.

  “What do you think happened?” replied Gregory. “I followed, of course. I followed all night and all day, but it was no good. I couldn’t find the lad. Couldn’t find him anywhere. And by the time I returned to Thyme, you boys were long since gone.

  “At first I didn’t know what to think. Had your fate been the same as poor Jack’s? Or had you simply travelled further into the estate?”

  “Fate?” interrupted Bran, though Gregory continued regardless.

  “It was when I saw your bikes missing, I knew there and then there was still hope.”

  “What fate?” Bran spoke more impatiently, his steps edging closer to the group, now forcing himself to be acknowledged.

  “So, I followed your tracks. Took me most of the day, so it did. The overgrowth can get rather thick and tricky to search through this time of year. But I knew I’d find you, Marcus… you and your big mouthed friend here.”

  Both glanced quickly over to Bran.

  “I just wasn’t expecting to find the company you kept,” said Gregory.

  It was an obvious remark, though a remark that neither of them could explain. One thing, however, was certain; they wanted as far away from it as possible.

  “What the hell was that thing?” asked Bran. His body trembled when he turned towards the stillness of the moonlit lake.

  “Not here. Not now. We must move, and quickly,” said Gregory, as he held his head high on lookout.

  Marcus packed in a hurry, forgetting items that took many weeks to scrounge for this long awaited trip. He no longer cared. The tent was unhooked and shoved haphazardly into the rucksack, the pots and pans emptied and stored without a thought of cleaning them.

  “How did you know?” asked Bran, looking hard at the back of Gregory’s head. “How did you know it wasn’t him? Wasn’t Jack I mean?”

  The old man turned slowly as he looked down to the boy, his chest rising and falling uneasily.

  “Hmm… detail, boy, the smallest detail at that.”

  He turned again to avoid further questioning and stood anxiously at the lakeside.

  “What detail?” persisted Bran. “Looked like the spitting image of him to me.”

  “And you call yourself a friend, do you?” the old man muttered. Again, he tossed the young boy a shifty eyed glance.

  “Well, what was it then?”

  “His eyes, boy. Something as innocent as those bright coloured eyes struck me immediately. I noticed them the day we coincidently crossed paths. Quite unusual wouldn’t you agree? The right, blue. The left, a shade of green. It was a feature I acknowledged instantly, and strangely enough stuck to my mind onwards.”

  Bran hadn’t the foggiest notion what this daft old prune was leading to.

  So what if he had odd coloured eyes? Many weird people do.

  “So? That explains nothing.”

  “It explains everything if you’d shut your trap and allow this tired man to finish.”

  Bran bit down on his tongue, though he didn’t really want to. He wanted to understand, to agree. Yet he was undecided about his opinion of the old man. Is he trustworthy? he thought as his glance panned down to Marcus. No point asking him.

  He needed the truth, and as quickly as possible. It was the only way to decide if the old man was reliable.

  “What about his eyes?” said Bran.

  Gregory smiled knowingly, his facial wrinkles deepening in the dense light.

  “You really didn’t notice?” he spoke as though disclosing a deep secret.

  “No, what?” said Bran leaning forward, the anticipated answer pushed him towards the old man like a strong gust of wind.

  “They were mirrored, boy.”

  “Mirrored?”

  “Yes, meaning to say they were opposite. A complete reversal of those colourful eyes I bumped into just days prior. That’s how I knew, son. And that’s why…”

  “Why you pulled the trigger?” interrupted Bran.

  “Yes, boy.”

  Jesus! thought Bran. The old man took a shot at nothing but a hunch. It could have been any of us.

  Bran quickly weighed up the possibilities. The absurdity of noticing something as simple as an alteration of eye colour seemed preposterous.

  I mean, how reliable was the old timer’s sight after all.

  “You could have been wrong!” said Bran.

  The old man shook his head with conviction as he bent forward, his face getting closer to Bran's. "No, son. Once you are able to see past the form it chooses, you can see only the truest form itself.”

  “It?” Bran was astounded, his mind spinning continuously.

  Whatever Marcus's shaking hands were unable to secure now spilled out from the sides of each rucksack. He knelt and hastily placed the twisted straps over his shoulders. The unbalanced bag forced him to lean dramatically to his side which allowed even more equipment to spill from the bag's sleeves. Gregory and Bran watched as the boy panicked and again regained his balance.

  “Well?” said Bran, referring to what was left unanswered.

  “All good questions,” replied Gregory. “But now is not the time, boy. We must leave here and seek shelter until sunrise. I know a place. The walk is not too far, but a mile or two.”

  And so, without further questioning they grabbed their gear, leaving the fire and allowing it to smoulder. The boys stood waiting as Gregory took one last look at the still, reflecting water. A gurgling noise began to rise from the lake’s centre. Its sound, weak at first, slowly built as the old man watched. The surface began to ripple when a struggling, childlike hand broke through from below.

  “Drowning!” called a frail voice and the hand swept beneath the waves.

  We need to leave! Thought Gregory.

  Bran and Marcus watched while the upset man stomped up from the bank and shoved the boys towards the blackest part of the woodland.

  “Move boys!” demanded Gregory with a push.

  Bran’s stride was quick for a boy of his age, but the land was not on his side. It was more difficult than he imagined to travel through the darkness. Looking back, he found his eyes were finally adjusting and he caught sight of Marcus slowly gaining on him. The old man wasn’t far behind as he aimed his rifle to the sky.

  Bang!

  The night was alive with the cries of shrieking birds: the same birds Bran had so quickly forgotten.

  “That’ll give us some time,” Gregory shouted from behind.

  They walked quickly, forcing their blood to pulse rapidly through their veins. The fear of the hundreds of pursuers overhead spurred them on. The sound gradually faded, and in time only their own heavy breathing was heard as they clambered on through a darkened world.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Thirty

  I t seemed the trail continued for hours. Each step sent them off balance as the boys’ inappropriate footwear could gain little purchase on the protruding rocks and roots. The night had grown quiet. Too quiet. Now, only the chirrup of crickets sung out intermittently into the muggy air. They were tired now, all of them. So tired, that rest was becoming more necessary by the second. The very idea permeated their aching limbs. But regardless of their situation, the desire to sleep was almost overwhelming. They all began to crave these comforts more and more, and they yawned aloud, forgetting what could be lurking behind them

  “Quiet now.” Gregory was undeniably agitated. “Stop your moping and move.”

  Easy for him to say, thought Bran. He looked back at the old man, who had only his own weight to be
ar and was assisted by his rifle-come-walking-stick.

  It had been a hard day for them all. No, that was an understatement. It had been a tense day. Inky visions washed over them, the memories staining their minds. Nothing had felt right since the day they had crossed the estate border. Nothing! And now, the very events that had taken place felt like nothing more than a terrifying dream.

  Am I dreaming? Bran thought to himself. Still dreaming? as he inspected the sky for the hidden moon. At any moment he’d awaken and be huddled up in his sleeping bag, far away from this strange, unsettling place. Or better still, he would be protected and back in the safety of his very own home. Reminiscing on such matters provided a gentle warmth within him, a particular excitement that continued to drive both legs forward. It’ll all be over soon, he thought. And once this entire charade had come to a close, his young life would continue exactly as it had before.

  “Hold it,” whispered Gregory.

  The boys turned around, thankful for even a short break to help them calm their overly exerted, trembling legs.

  “What is it now?” asked Bran with a sigh.

  “Silence, boy.”

  The old man stood exceedingly still on a small mound of earth and closely observed the area, searching for higher ground. He glanced in every direction, once, twice, then a third time. Closing his eyes, he waited for a slight breeze to brush calmly over his clammy skin.

  “What is it, sir?” questioned Marcus politely, though past tightly clenched teeth.

  The leaden bag continued to pull on his scrawny shoulders, the straps burying deeper into flesh. Gregory opened his eyes and stared kindly at the boy who looked like he was about to drop where he stood.

  “Nothing, son, nothing. Just lost my bearings a little, is all. But we’re quite on schedule. Just a little farther this way.” Pointing indecisively northeast before altering his direction again to west. He then led off, leaving the boys to follow sluggishly behind at their own pace.

  “How much farther?” asked Marcus, now beginning to suffer and becoming too weak to keep up with the old man’s energetic pace. Only an uncomfortable pause was returned. The old man continued to plough through the thorns, causing a swishing sound in his wake.