by M. L. Rayner
So, it really was true.
The old man shifted positions in his sleep, catching Bran off guard as he carefully folded the paper into his trouser pocket. Why he acted in such secrecy he didn’t know. To spare the old man’s feelings perhaps? Or maybe, it was to conceal an item which in reality was no business of his. Either way, he had no intention of showing Gregory, or Marcus for that matter. This whole ordeal had been stressful enough already. No, he would keep this to himself for now, trying his best to forget, like it had never occurred.
“What are you up to?” asked Marcus who was still rummaging around in his bag.
“Uh? Nothing.”
“Well, stop watching him sleep. It’s weird!”
Marcus was right. God knows how Gregory would have reacted to find him standing over him like this.
Bran sat back down next to Marcus, resuming the role of keeper of the fire. He had grown drowsy now as the warmth softly forced his eyelids to close.
*
His mother called him. She sounded pleased to see him. And, in this instance, he was glad to see her.
“I’ve missed you.” She spoke as her arms wrapped tightly around him. It all seemed so real: the touch of her hands, the smell of her clothes as his head pressed into her shoulder. He had never considered the aroma of fabric detergent before. It was odd that he recalled such a thing now. She held his arms, pushing him away to observe the expression on his face. She smiled gaily, the happiest smile he had ever seen.
“Where have you been, Branny?” she asked while playfully scuffing the top of his head. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He tried to speak, tried to explain, though for some odd reason he could not remember. His mind was blank as the woman he knew so well stared inquisitively back at him.
“Where have you been, Bran?”
Again, he searched his thoughts. His memory held no clue as to why he would feel so homesick. He couldn't explain his sadness.
“I… I can’t remember, Mum,” he said.
“You can’t? Well, that’s OK,” she said, rubbing at his wrists with her softened palms.
He looked around him. The sun shone down on his family home. The lawn on which he stood was a vibrant green of freshly cut grass, sending out a recognisable scent to stimulate his senses.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Dad. You know, that guy you married.”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Oh…”
She gazed deep into his eyes, her smile never weakening as he allowed his arms to fall.
“Would you like to play a game, Branny?”
“Not really, Mum. I’m not five anymore.”
“I know that. It’s just a bit of fun. Please?” she asked, guiding his hands to his eyes.
“Now, tell me. Think of the place you’ve always dreamed of visiting, and I will take you there.”
“What?” he said, forcefully pushing away his hand.
“No! No, Bran,” she said. “No peeking!”
He held his hand over his eyes. The sun's rays penetrated his hands and caused a red glow to seep through his fingers.
“Now count to three,” she giggled childishly. He had never heard her make such a sound.
“Why?”
“Because, it’s all part of the game, isn’t it?”
He closed his eyes regardless, counting aloud the numbers down to zero.
“Now what?”
A quietness followed as the warmth of the sun fell flat.
“Mum? Now what?”
“Open those eyes, son,” she said plainly.
Something was different. It may have been the way she spoke, or maybe it was only his desire to keep his eyes closed a moment longer. Either way, as his hand pressed firmly to his brow the sound of sobs assaulted his ears.
“Don’t be upset, Mum,” he said. “I’ll do it properly.”
Again, he counted down from three. This time thinking of the place he wanted most of all. He let down his hands, but still his eyes clenched tightly shut.
“Ok… I’m gonna open them.”
Though this time she gave no answer. Not even her loving touch reassured him of her presence.
“Mum?” he spoke, finally allowing his eyelids to split.
She was not there. No one was there. More importantly, this was not the place he wished for. A thick forest surrounded him, its trees and vines colliding as though preparing to collapse from above.
“Mum?” he yelled for the final time.
The sun had perished, and a dusk-like atmosphere shimmered disturbingly over the grounds. He realised he knew this place. He rubbed his arms in an attempt to chase away the chill. Someone stood between the far-off shadows. A small someone, yet he couldn’t see a face. The vision was elusive, fading in and out of sight. The land began to shake beneath him, making the forest frantic as trees mysteriously circled his path. Even though he tried, he was speechless. He tried to move, but his limbs turned rigid. The small figure drew nearer. Leaves rustled as it floated towards him, filling the air with fear. He watched it closely. The creepiness of its motionless body sent him closer to the edge of insanity as he struggled to free himself from invisible bonds. The image stopped. And soon, so did his battle. A crisp white light settled at his feet and coalesced into a body.
It was a girl. A young girl. Far too young to be roaming alone out here. She was pretty, in a completely innocent way. A well presented child at that. A nightgown of the purest white hung from her shoulders. The breeze tossed her long, curly hair around her neck... She looked back at him blankly before turning to glide away. He had seen this girl somewhere. Where exactly, he couldn’t quite remember. But he knew he had seen her all the same.
He finally found his voice, “Do you need help?” he shuddered as he spoke.
The child stopped and weakly turned her head as her eyes again found his. She smiled joyfully as he began to speak, but the question brought an emotional reaction. Her eyes grew wide, and she allowed a few tears to flow.
It was then he remembered her. That very same smile. Not in passing, nor a dream, but in memory. The missing child from the poster.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Thirty-Six
A heavy jolt struck Bran’s arm. The unexpected shock forced a grimace on his face while he wavered between a dream and reality.
“Oi,” a distant voice echoed.
Another jolt smashed against his side.
“Ouch!” said Bran, rubbing at what would soon become a very tender bruise.
“You let the fire go out,” said Marcus with a scowl.
Bran sat up, his hand pressing firmly to his side as he grabbed the stash of papers, throwing them swiftly onto the hot ash.
“I fell asleep, you moron! What is it with you?”
The papers’ centre began to glow, quickly bursting back into a violent flame and allowing Marcus to again rest easy.
“I just had the strangest dream,” said Bran, as he smeared the cold sweat along his brow.
“It’s understandable after the past few days.”
“No, this was unlike any dream I’ve ever had.
“Really? What about?”
“I’m not actually sure. My mum was there, I remember that much.”
“That doesn’t sound so strange.”
“No. But she seemed really happy to see me. Normally she doesn’t give a toss.”
“Ah,” said Marcus and paused. “Still, I’ve had worse.”
Bran laid back, the heartbeat of disturbed dreams still thumping loudly within his ears. He wasn’t quite sure what the dream meant, or why it chose to happen. Gosh, he couldn’t even recall the last time he had a bad dream. Such things were for kids to worry about. And considering he wasn’t a kid anymore, why did it worry him so?
“There’s more,” said Bran. He, too, was now eager to keep the light from fading.
“Go on?”
“Well… I was lost in the wo
ods… these woods, at least I think it was. Everything went cold, and out of nowhere appeared this girl.
“What girl?”
“That girl from the poster.”
“What! What poster?”
Bran bit his tongue, remembering the scrunched up image that rested secretly within his trouser pocket.
So much for keeping it schtum.
“Well, what girl?” insisted Marcus. His attention seemed to increase by the mention.
“Ah… No one,” he stuttered, beginning to pedal back his words. “You know, that redhead from those stupid cassette commercials.”
“Oh yeah, she’s a right corker. Anything else happen?”
“No. Nothing else,” said Bran, the blatant lie sending his skin to a beetroot shade of red.
“Ah, shame that,” said Marcus. “Well, it’s certainly a weird one, pal. I’ll give you that. I’ll look after the fire for now. Get yourself some sleep. You look like you need it.”
Despite how tired he was, Bran was opposed to the suggestion. He was unable to shake away the girl’s face from his mind whether his eyes were open or closed.
“No, it’s fine. I can’t sleep now,” he groaned. He looked away from Marcus and watched the floating ash rise calmly up the chimney.
Marcus had lowered his head, and his eyes shifted rapidly from left to right. He made the odd noise, the odd grunt, and soon he began an irritating whisper.
“What are you doing?” asked Bran.
“Reading.”
“Huh? Reading what?”
Marcus stopped for a second and lifted the small, leather bound book above him. The orange light bounced off its smooth but weathered surface.
“So, you abandoned half our food stash but decided to bring a poxy book.”
“I thought it could be useful?”
“It’s utter gibberish, Marcus,” said Bran impatiently. “Trust me, you’ll find nothing to help us in those worn out pages.”
“Actually, there’s good reason why its pages are worn,” said Marcus. “And I guarantee it’s not because they’re useless.”
Bran stubbornly folded his arms and sighed heavily. Whether he liked it or not it was inevitable Marcus would recount his findings. He could either accept it or let the story fall on deaf ears. Neither one seemed pleasant. And with that thought, he reluctantly decided to lower his guard.
“Go on then, Sherlock. What have you found?”
*
The book lay open between them, allowing the pages to flutter intermittently in the gentle waves of heat. Marcus leaned forward, his finger pressed heavily upon the printed words while moving his hand for guidance.
“This is it, right here,” said Marcus, pushing the book away from him.
Bran picked up the book and rested it comfortably in his lap. Marcus watched in anticipation, waiting for Bran to close it and arrogantly toss it aside as he had done before. Instead, he didn’t. Bran cocked his head and slowly turned the title page. He spoke not a word for the next few minutes while he lifted the book higher and higher to the burning light. For Marcus, the time went by slowly. He remained quiet as he watched Bran’s interest grow with the turn of each and every page.
*
The pages slammed shut as Bran’s thumbs gently caressed the wrinkled spine and gold printed lettering. He wasn’t quite sure what to think. If what he read was real, it would certainly give cause to worry. But it was nothing more than words on paper. Anyone, yes, anyone could have written it.
“So, what you think?” asked Marcus
“Err… I’m not a big mythology fan.”
Marcus snatched the book in a childlike huff, passionately skimming the pages to find the passage that caught his eye. “Here,” he prompted, shoving the open pages directly below Bran’s nose. “What about this then?”
The page displayed an image, a sort of charcoal representation of a darkened woodland setting. The trees stood black and twisted, as though burnt from the roots up. The talented use of shading had been created with the simple smudge of a finger. Bran had learnt the technique in art class, and it was the only way he knew of incorporating a hazy texture in his amateurish work. It was an unsettling picture, that was all. There was nothing else to see.
“Do you see it?” asked Marcus, shoving the yellow stained pages closer, now forcing Bran’s sight to blur.
See what? thought Bran, as he bitterly gazed at the smudges.
Yes, he saw it now. It was so clear. Between the twisted branches stood something concealed. A silhouette, camouflaged by the thick fog and cluttered brambles. It was an uncomfortable find. The creepy shadow seemed to lurk shyly in the distance. It stared out at him, watching him. Its head followed Bran through the sketch of claw-like branches and out of the page.
“That’s enough!” Bran was exhausted from thinking about it.
“There’s a poem underneath it,” said Marcus, preparing himself to read.
“I hate poetry with a passion,” uttered Bran.
Nonetheless, Marcus was determined to read it. He cleared his throat as his eyes prepared his tongue. “Ahem.” He was about to begin, when a voice they knew began to speak, alarming them both. Their eyes stared out across the smoky room. A strong deep tone filled the hut with a grand hall echo. The boys tensed, forgetting the old man's slumber as they listened to a haunting rhyme that imprinted itself in their minds.
“Amongst the oaks the shadows stride.
The shallow pools reflect the eyes.
You hear the cries and voices call,
haunting, taunting, escape to stall.
The whispers at the Folklore Stones
will guide you to their forest home.
And when you grasp this tale so true,
woodlands will wail at skies of blue.”
Gregory’s words were slow and calming. He took his time and allowed the lines to roll off his uneducated tongue. It was an unnerving poem, or possibly it was only in the way he recited it, letting the final line fall into a sinister silence. The crackle of flames again began to crowd the dingy room. No one dared speak for a time as an awkwardness seemed like an accompaniment to the poet’s dramatic words. Marcus looked down towards the pages. He was right, he thought as he cast his eyes over the faded font. Every word of it was right.
“How, how did you know that?” asked Marcus, combing his greasy hair back through his fingers.
“I wrote it. More importantly, young man,” hushed Gregory, “where did you come to find that book?”
Marcus’s mind felt numb as he searched for ways to explain. He had never wished to make a habit of stealing, nor becoming a liar for that matter. But if he didn’t tell the truth now, he would rightfully be accused of both.
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“Your place.”
“I see. So, tell me. When did you plan on returning it?”
Marcus shrugged. The thought of taking without permission was beginning to make him feel very small, indeed.
“I would have given it back...”
“I’m sure,” said Gregory.
Bran stood up, his mind now quite uneasy.
“Forget the book!”
“Forget the book?” mimicked Gregory.
“Yes, forget it. It’s just a bunch of mumbo jumbo anyway.”
The book was passed back to the old man’s hands, the cover lightly patted as he fanned out the bleached pages.
“What’s happening in this place?” asked Marcus.
“What’s happening?” said Gregory, slamming the book shut with a single hand. “Nothing that hasn’t gone on for many years. It’s all here, written down in ink.”
“We don’t have time for that!” exclaimed Marcus, placing his hands stubbornly on his hips.
“Very well,” said Gregory. "I’ll tell you. But we must make haste. Soon, the sun will show and we must rise with it. We have a long day ahead of us and not a moment to lose.”
“Where are we headed to?” asked Marc
us, curiously.
“To find your friend, of course.”
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“There are reasons why this sea of trees remains uninhabited and untouched. For the few folk who decided to wander its overgrown trails, almost all have claimed to have sensed the unknown. It goes back many, no… hundreds of years: when the hills and valleys of the surrounding lands were also a part of its magnificent estate. Times were different then. There was not so much hate in the world as we have grown accustomed to. But still, people sensed it all the same. It all began on the brightest of summer days, apparently. A typically normal day like any other. It was the most playful of calls through the woodlands that distracted a single passer-by, a young farm boy, as he pulled his wooden cart to the nearest village. Now, what exactly these calls spoke I have no idea. But what I do know is these calls were purely innocent, playful cries for attention. The boy, as you’d imagine, was scared out of his wits at first, though over time grew more curious about the voices that continually summoned him.
“He bolted home, so they say, excited to inform his townsfolk of such a peculiar experience. Over the following days people soon dragged families to witness the phenomenon. And in turn, they escorted nearby locals. The voice was said to be tireless. Yelling out day after day, night after night, to whomever should step beneath the shade of sheltering treetops. After several weeks, the local population didn’t know what to think. Many were now beginning to find their inner courage to step off the path and into the undergrowth of Sleathton. Many searched throughout the remaining summer months that soon led to a damp and dreary autumn. They searched the forest floor, each and every one of them desperate to uncover the truth of the mysterious woodland secret. They followed the drone for hours until finally reaching their limit. Whether it be when they finally reached a river, stream, or swamp, the voices would noticeably fade, leaving them with an enigma and confusing thoughts. It’s said that as the searchers turned to make their journey home, a mischievous laughter would always be heard from behind them, echoing around the trunk of every tree, playfully mocking their failure.