by M. L. Rayner
“Hey! How much farther?” you stubborn old git, said Bran. He was tempted to verbalise his thoughts.
“Just a little farther now, I say,” hissed Gregory, without returning so much as a glance. “Quit your infantile dallying and make use of those youthful limbs while you still got ‘em. It’s been some years since I came this way, that’s all. But we’re almost there. I can feel it in these old bones of mine. Now move yourself!”
*
A little farther, my arse. Bran was thinking the trek would never cease.
To make matters worse, the slippery path they had come to detest had vanished and had been replaced by high grass interspersed with countless stems of stinging nettles.
“Ouch!” Marcus flinched when the entwined nettles stung viciously up his uncovered legs.
“Trust you to wear shorts on a night like this,” said Bran, only now imagining the discomfort his friend suffered.
“Ouch,” he hissed again, rubbing firmly to relieve his stinging calves. “How the hell was I meant to know we’d be trudging through a torture pit?”
Enough was enough. Bran couldn’t take it anymore. If they didn’t stop soon, there’d be no reason to stop at all.
“Hey! Greg! You’re killing us back here.”
The old man turned, his eyes burning with irritation at the loud and careless outburst.
“Have you gone mad, you idiotic child? You’ll see the death of us.” He lifted his index finger to his puckered mouth.
“You’ll see the death of us both if we keep pushing on like this. How much longer?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Soon, I tell ya! Keep your damn voice down!”
“You’ve been pitching that all night. A mile or so walk, you said. We’ve been staggering on for three fuckin’ hours! We must be close to the border by now!” said Bran, now gripping Marcus by the arm and trying to steady his balance.
The old man raised his brow. Shaking his arms to relieve the stiffness caused by clearing a path.
“We… we ain’t nowhere near the border, boy.”
Bran released Marcus which let the exhausted boy fall flat.
“What?” demanded Bran. “You said an hour’s walk?”
“I did. But not to the border. We need shelter, do we not?”
“And this is the nearest place? We’ll be dead come morning.”
A strong gust swept its way between the trees, shaking the grass with a violent wave. Bran was losing it, the anger buried within him stirred, and he looked at the old man with spite.
Breathe, just breathe, thought Bran as his chest rose and fell in anger.
“If we get into any trouble, it’ll be on your head, Gregory!” hushed Bran. His words were forceful but were uttered with an air of calmness. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, clenching them tightly, as his rage began to grow.
“Hmmm,” said Gregory with a smirk, lifting his head to the cooling air. “The only thing that’s gonna get you into trouble is that smart arsed mouth of yours.”
Gregory hadn’t seen it coming. Nor would he have expected it. But before he had time to consider anything, his face was planted firmly in the dirt. He was about to regain himself when a series of blows were struck hard to his shoulder blades, causing him to gasp and groan. Gregory spun around, latched onto Bran, and pulled him to the ground while he regained his position above. The struggle didn’t end there. Bran clawed and squirmed from under the old man’s weight. Reaching out determinedly, Gregory took hold of the rifle, placing the wooden butt flat against Bran’s chest and restraining his upper body from movement.
“Get off me!” huffed Bran. Saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth in the hopeless struggle.
“Not so tough now, huh?” tormented Gregory, their faces only inches apart. “You need to learn some God damn manners, boy! Show some frickin’ respect!”
Bran hawked, spitting into the old man’s crazed eyes, and accompanied the insult with a swift knee up between the legs. Gregory cried out in pain, as he collapsed and was pushed by Bran through the wall of weeds beside them. Bran lay still for a moment, catching his breath as consistent moans from Gregory were heard coming from the deep grass.
Marcus waited back in the shadows. His rucksack had been abandoned, left neglected on the boggy ground while he contemplated fleeing into the night.
“Call yourself a friend?” said Bran while bending over to gag as the night air scratched the roof of his mouth like sandpaper.
Marcus shrugged, embarrassed by his own cowardly desire to run.
“I… I’m sorry, alright? I just… I didn’t think.”
“Damn right, you didn’t,” said Bran, firmly tossing the bag back to Marcus. Its weight threw him backward like he’d been kicked by a mule.
“It’s an instinctive response, that’s all,” explained Marcus, placing the straps around his sore shoulders. “When in danger, leg it!”
“I’ll have to remember that one the next time you’re in trouble.”
“Whatever.”
The grasses beside them rustled, bringing the conversation to a short and bitter halt. The groans of pain soon mellowed, quieting to a discomforted sigh as the old man struggled to stand. Still concealed, the boys waited somewhat fearfully as the wall of weeds began to sway and part. Gregory stepped out. His rifle was held tightly but pointed at the ground. His other hand pressed tentatively and lightly against his aching groin. Beads of sweat trailed down his head, smearing as they hit the deep creases of his brow. Gregory looked up, stumbling where he stood. Adjusting his focus, he gazed drunkenly upward. He looked to Marcus, remembering the young lad instantly. A politely inquisitive boy, struck from his bike and taking a nasty bump to the head. He smiled without humour before the boy beside Marcus flinched. His addled senses wandered, and he stared over the child, observing him with great curiosity. His head bobbed frantically, resembling a man who had drunk his fill. Yes, he remembered this boy, too.
Smart mouthed runt, he thought. The words fell silently from his lips. It all came flooding back so quickly. The old man strode forward.
“You little shite!” yelled Gregory, forgetting the danger his rattling voice may provoke.
He launched forward swiping at Bran with frail shaking hands. But the young lad dodged and weaved, finding it almost too easy to evade the old man’s strike.
A hand intervened, pressing firmly on the man’s chest.
“That’s enough,” begged Marcus, but he was unable to persuade the old man to end his deadly stare. Gregory continued to edge forward.
“Please!” Marcus insisted. “This isn’t helping!”
Gregory held back. The pressure against his chest eased as his attention transferred to the boy’s hand.
“I… I’m sorry boys,” said Gregory shamefully. “I don’t like being out here.” He looked around suspiciously. “Don’t like being out here at all.”
Marcus removed his hand as the man stepped back, sulking. This night had been hard on all of them. The boys were too quick to complain about their own needs and had not spent time considering those of a tired old man.
“I’m sorry for charging you… and hitting you.”
Marcus turned, looking at Bran with a raised brow.
“OK, OK,” replied Bran. “And for kneeing you right in the bollocks.”
Gregory muttered, then smirked. “Hmm… lucky shot.”
The bitter tenseness eased like a pitiful rant that had run its childish course. And although the quarrel was dead and done, each of them waited for the other to speak.
“So… where to now?” asked Bran.
“Well… I …” the old man hesitated. “The truth of the matter is, much has changed since I last trod these grounds, so much that I barely recall it at all.”
“So, we’re lost?” said Bran, rolling his eyes.
“Not lost… I didn’t say that. Just a little off course is all.” He spoke with a reassuring wink.
We
’re lost then, Bran tried to hide his disappointment behind a forced smile.
The old man fumbled about himself, rearranging his shirt and trousers before gazing past the woodland’s upper reaches. The moon was at its highest, a thin cloud veiling its existence in a dreary glow as Gregory attempted to navigate their way. Deep in thought, he scratched at his beard. He was astounded at the very idea that he had lost his bearing.
“Any luck?” pestered Bran.
“Give me a second, boy.”
“You actually know how to navigate from those stars then?”
“Well, of course I do. Ain’t pretending, am I!” whispered Gregory. “I… well… I’ve just not exercised the practice in quite some years.”
Bloody smashing, thought Bran, who was by now getting so tired, even the idea of sleeping on bare earth began to sound appealing. Leaving the old man to mumble, Bran walked away. Quietly leaning himself against the cushioned body of his backpack and breathing heavily, he rested. His eyes were losing the good fight to stay focused.
“Wait!” yelled Marcus, stopping Gregory in his tracks and causing Bran to jump from his near sleep.
He wandered off in the distance, peering through the grass where Gregory had fallen. “Get over here,” he cried and beckoned them ecstatically, his flailing arm rotating like a turbine on a blustery day.
Old Gregory staggered there first, looking through the collapsed vegetation with a squint. He let out a joyful exclamation and immediately patted Marcus on the back.
“Way to go, son! That’s a sharp eye you have.” Gregory clenched his palm tighter on the boy's shoulder.
Hiding a sly smile, Marcus buried his mouth into his sleeve, embarrassed by the compliment but also feeling particularly proud of his find.
“Comin’,” said Bran with a huff, carelessly dragging his bag across the ground and causing it to rip. “Oh, for fuck sake!”
He stopped but saw nothing. The darkness had seen to that. But the more he concentrated past the chaotic view of spreading ferns and trees, a pointed object caught his eye, peeking out of the distance.
“Is that a house?” asked Bran.
Gregory’s smirk dwindled as he looked out to the unlit shelter.
“Was a house, yes,” said Gregory. “It’s the old Reservist Outpost. Wouldn’t have been used since the searches.” A loud gulp lingered until he regained his will to speak. “Still, it will see us safe for the night.”
A spine-tingling howl twisted around the trees. The sound sent goosebumps crawling up each and every spine as they resisted the urge to glance back. The rural land lay quiet. The howl echoed into nothingness as the branches rustled overhead.
Let’s get moving, thought Gregory.
One by one their bodies vanished into the thicket, determination pulsing through them, as they fought through pathless trails.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Thirty-One
T he entrance slammed violently behind them with a loud, shaking thud, loosening the door from its frame. Inside the hut was clouded in dust. It floated down from the ceiling's beams in a thick, snow-like flurry after the disturbance by the dramatic invasion. Heavy coughing filled the darkness as Marcus darted his hand into a pocket for his puffer, purely out of instinct. His mouth remained blanketed beneath his shirt for protection as a hacking cough took hold.
They looked around but couldn’t see much. It was dark, not overly unsettling, but a dense darkness nonetheless. Clumps of dust specks began to settle, leaving only a musty sort of smell that spoke of disuse. Yet it was to be expected. It appeared that no one had visited here in many years, not even by chance.
The small rectangular room didn’t hold much. Neither did it provide any means of comfort to its guests. Broken chairs and stools lay rotting on their sides. Cupboard doors left open displayed shattered shelves, in most cases hanging only by a rusted hinge. Fabric curtains hung shredded over small glassless windows, the material devoured by winged insects. A stone chimney arch stood solidly at the room’s centre. The grate itself was filled with a collection of fallen birds’ nests that had accumulated throughout the seasons.
“Least we can get a fire going,” croaked Bran before beginning to choke. “I can’t help but feel outside would be healthier,” he continued, as the longstanding dust continued to settle on his lungs.
“Nonsense,” said Gregory.
The old man barged past, deliberately swiping aside the clutter, and began to tap on the floorboards with the ball of his foot.
God’s sake, thought Bran, watching the old man clear away the jumbled mess. The release of an inhaler disturbed his train of thought as Marcus sucked on his container like his life depended on it.
Bran slumped down beneath the glassless window, the cool air softly caressing his neck with each twitch of the ragged curtains.
A board loosened below the old man’s feet. He knelt, digging his fingers deep into the cracks, and prised the plank from its place.
“Ah, ha!” he yelped with excitement, his hands diving deep into the filthy hole.
Scraping his palms along the ground below, the boys watched as he stretched to reach his target.
“Gotcha!” he cried and began to pull himself up.
A dark unlabelled bottle was clutched tightly in his cobweb ridden fingers, the top still securely sealed after years of abandonment.
“Always knew I left a stash here.” Gregory was overjoyed with his find. His hands smeared a grey silky web along the breast of his shirt before again diving down to retrieve more. A lantern was lifted from its dusty grave, the handle flaking shreds of rust as the body rocked like a cradle beneath.
“Hmm…. out of oil,” the old man said. “I’ll snoop around. There’s bound to be some hiding.”
Bran and Marcus watched as the elderly man, still on his knees, moaned his way along the floor. Finding comfort against the wall, he held the bottle lovingly in his hands as though it were his only prized possession.
“Don’t suppose you got any food stashed away down there?” asked Bran, whose stomach by now was beginning to cramp.
“No...” replied Gregory. “Though would you really want it if there were?”
Touché, thought Bran, finally resting his head back against the wall.
*
The night dragged on slowly. Despite their uneasiness about staying, the outpost, regardless of its filth, soon began to grow in comfort. Its four timbered walls shielded them from the strangeness of the murky woodland. Oil was carefully poured into the lantern from a red spouted can they found high on a shelf. Marcus had matches, thousands of them. Having no desire to wait, he handed the old man a box he kept ready at his disposal. A brief spark struck the head of the match, momentarily lighting the small room with a single flash of light. An unappealing bleakness followed as the lantern caught flame, slowly glowing brighter as it lifted the room from darkness.
“There we are,” said Gregory. “Much better.”
Bran looked up. Spiders and insects crawled across the wooden joists, and the orange light at his feet projected ghastly shadows onto the walls and ceiling of the hut. It looked like something from a horror tale, sickening Bran’s stomach, as giant shadows crept unnaturally across the ghostly lit space. None of this appeared to alarm the old man, who sat back happily on his rear, impatiently attempting to access the contents of his beloved bottle. The shadows of monsters continued to hang and dance around him.
“You boys wouldn’t happen to be carrying a corkscrew, would you?”
Marcus patted about his pockets, pulling out a small steel penknife he’d been eager to use since the journey started. “Here,” he said, sending the knife sliding noisily across the warped floor. Bran stomped his foot. The vicious impact sent a howling racket bouncing off walls.
“Hang on a damn second,” said Bran sternly. “You just plan on getting sauced? You owe us an explanation.”
“Is that so?” replied Gregory.
“Damn straight you do,” said B
ran as he twisted the ball of his foot against the knife to draw it back. “That thing out there, what was it?”
The old man sank even farther, bringing his knees to his chest as he cradled the bottle between them. “I’m afraid I ain’t been completely truthful with you boys.” His voice was gruff. “But, how could I?” he asked himself shamefully. “How could I retell those stories, relive those times. The same memories, those same sounds that have haunted my every waking breath for all too long.”
He held the bottle in his hand now, pressing the cooling black glass against his temple.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” Gregory continued. “I do indeed owe you both just that. But hear me now, boys. You will not gain the answers you seek until my mind is numbed.”
Gregory held out his hand, his palm trembled uncontrollably in the flickering light as Bran slowly relaxed his foot. The man fiddled with the penknife desperately, yearning for the taste of that sweet fix to dance on the tip of his tongue. He swigged impatiently, guzzling back the long awaited pleasure before lowering the bottle and taking an exaggerated gasp for air.
“You’ll tell us now? Everything?” asked Marcus, his body unmoved from the corner of the room.
Old Gregory took another long gulp and paused, slowly swirling the remaining spirit.
“Aye, I’ll tell you.”
“Everything?”
“Everything I wish to remember.”
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Thirty-Two
I t was never supposed to be this way. This was not what an adventure was supposed to be. And as time cruelly froze for Olivia, she couldn’t help but consider what made her long to chase it. She was in no way a religious minded girl, except for grace before dinner, but that was different. And perfectly justifiable. If she didn’t pray before meals, she simply didn’t eat. It was a no brainer for her, and Olivia accepted this to gain exactly what she wanted. That and to keep her relatives' lectures at bay. The whole ordeal just felt far too pointless for her liking. To her, it was time that would’ve easily been spent doing something much more constructive. She recalled sitting hand in hand around her family table while her mother spoke thankfully to an almighty power, one which Olivia didn’t believe existed.