Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  Probably not, thought Marcus.

  The walls had served their purpose and would slowly deteriorate into nothing more than a collapsed heap. The thought was disheartening, but Marcus felt somewhat special. His footsteps would be the last to walk the cabin's floor. Gregory never looked back. He focused his thoughts on only the journey ahead as he lifted his knees high. Marcus doubted the man would ever consider coming back here, not after all he'd been through. And to see the cabin in such a sorry state must have driven home all the memories. Even so they trod on, making a turn which led down a steep and slippery slope. They slid down it, almost falling at times, the earth was too loose for them to gain a foothold. Reaching the bottom, they laughed while they playfully scraped off the heavy mud that stuck to the soles of their shoes.

  “Come, let’s not lose ourselves,” said Gregory, striding off ahead. Bran followed. His steps quickened as he attempted to resume his pace. Marcus watched for a second, taking in the sights and smells about him as the others fell from view. He wanted a moment, just one. To see what it would feel like to be truly alone out here. He held his breath, allowing only the forest’s sound to be present.

  “Oi, what you playing at!”

  Marcus exhaled as he gave a casual thumbs up to Bran, who stood impatiently waiting.

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Bran angrily.

  “Nothing. I was just fastening my laces.”

  Bran raised his brow. Marcus may have been a loyal friend, but he was a terrible liar.

  “Come on,” said Bran hastily. “You know what the old sod’s like. He doesn’t wait about for no one. It’s like he’s got bionic legs or something.”

  Marcus nodded as he began to jog forward. He turned back while running, taking one last look at the past before forgetting. The cabin was no more.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  T he river flowed peacefully like an endless stream of glass. Its water was clear and refreshing as it splashed against their skin. The mid-day sun had peaked, sending an unwelcome wave of heat to warm the ground below. It was hot! There was no other word for it. And despite the gloominess, there was no relief, not even in the darkest patch of shade.

  “It’s like a bloody oven down here!” said Bran, waving his shirt like a fan.

  “This?” asked the amused old man. “This is nothing, son. You should have seen the heatwave of 1979. It would have melted your eyeballs straight from your sockets. Couple of acres went up in flames, too!”

  “Right now, that doesn’t seem like such a concern. I’m sick to death of trees.”

  Marcus went to the river, casting out the line and wrapping it neatly around its handle. Fish jumped playfully from the shallows, thriving on the insects that floated on the surface. Marcus’s face turned sour. He hadn’t the time or the patience for this. The old man sat beside him, watching as the young boy struggled.

  “You boys take a break,” said Gregory. “It’s been an odd few days.”

  He took the rod from Marcus, switching places while keeping close to the water’s edge. The boys seemed not to mind, resting flat against the dirt.

  Marcus woke, wondering if he’d slept at all. He trudged to the riverbank. The old man faced away, reeling in the wire, his faded shirt blotched with an ever-growing sweat stain. Next to him was a sight that made Marcus's mouth water: three large fish that were perfect for dinner.

  “How did you manage that?” asked a very surprised Marcus.

  “Just some old tricks.”

  “What kinda fish are they?”

  “Brown trout. The best you’ll ever eat.” Gregory stepped away from the water and gave a pleasing wink.

  *

  The aroma of grilling fish permeated the air. The remains of unwanted fish innards were slopped messily in a pile as the old man cleaned his blade.

  “Rest assured,” said Gregory, “a fox will be grateful.”

  Tugging two sticks from the ground he handed each of the boys his own deliciously tender trout. The taste was heavenly. If only there was more, thought Bran hungrily chewing fish off the bones. Marcus looked around him. The forest had been still that day. Calm. The tranquil sound of water babbled softly behind them as he lay under the open sky, letting his thoughts flow freely.

  “Are we safe here?” asked Marcus,

  “No safer than this morning,” replied Gregory, pulling at a missed bone wedged between his teeth. “It’s always watching… at least I think it is.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Bran sat licking his fingers.

  “Plan?”

  “Well, if we find Jack, how do we end this thing?”

  “End? You mean kill? You can’t kill a myth, son.”

  “Why not!”

  “You just can’t. Ain’t no one ever done such a thing.”

  “You managed to keep it in check the last time. Can’t you just shoot it?”

  Gregory looked down at the rifle sitting across his lap.

  “No number of bullets would ever do what you’re suggesting, son.”

  “Then why the hell did you even bring it?”

  “I couldn’t find my stick.”

  “Seriously?”

  Marcus sat up to listen carefully to the old man’s explanation.

  “If it wasn’t for the gun, how did you do it?”

  “Simply with this.”

  Gregory lifted a hand. His palm was still tightly wrapped in a dirt covered and bloodstained cloth.

  “I don’t understand,” said Marcus.

  “It’s blood, you fool,” said Bran. “Blood is the weakness.”

  “On the contrary, boys.” Gregory shook his head. “Blood doesn’t discourage this beast. In fact, you’ll find it yearns for the stuff. No, it’s what hides beneath this cloth that holds its weakness.”

  Marcus and Bran gazed closer, as though the germ riddled bandage would somehow provide them with the answer.

  “The scar?” said Marcus shrugging.

  “Not the scar,” replied the old man with a twist of his wrist. “The sacrifice. And the smallest sacrifice at that.”

  His hand dropped to his lap, gripping the gun firmly before attempting to stand.

  “A sacrifice?” asked Bran nervously.

  “That’s right. But don’t you worry yourself, young man.” The old man’s words were calm and collected. “This is not the sacrifice of another but of one’s true self. This little slit to my hand here is just that. It proves my loyalty to the cause.”

  “What cause?”

  “Valuing my own life much less in an attempt to secure your own.”

  “That’s a bit steep,” said Bran. “I mean, I’m thankful and everything. But what you have there will barely be a graze this time tomorrow. Hardly what you’d call a sacrifice.”

  Gregory’s frown deepened, protruding veins pulsed along his forehead.

  “A sacrifice is a sacrifice, boy. No matter what the case.”

  “So, what are you saying? If we see this thing again, we all just go knife happy?”

  The old man placed his bandaged hand to his head, rubbing furiously, his patience beginning to run out.

  “I don’t expect you to do anything of the sort,” said Gregory. “If any one uses this blade, it’ll be me and me alone. Are we understood?”

  Bran gulped loudly with a hesitant nod, thinking of a thousand things to say while knowing he shouldn’t voice any of them.

  “Alright,” said Marcus in agreement.

  “Good!” said the old man, relaxing his shoulders. “That’s settled then. You boys are too important. I’m nothing but an old man, I can take the burden.”

  “How so?” asked Bran.

  Gregory delayed his response, anxiously cracking his knuckles before beginning to roll up his sleeve. The boys gasped in horror when they saw the tanned, elderly arm that held the marks of torture. From wrist to elbow, a crisscross of scars disfigured his sagging flesh. The wounds spread unevenly from top to bottom, giving t
he impression a single cut had not healed before another cut was made. His skin had thickened over time, healing while the arm remained swollen and plump. Gregory rolled down his sleeve, fastening the cuff with a shameful stare.

  “Now, are we in agreement?” asked Gregory.

  Marcus and Bran nodded.

  “Good. Then we’ll speak no more about it.”

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Forty

  O livia’s feet hit the ground running. Her legs moved like never before, all the while she watched the path ahead. For a time she forced herself to remain calm, but that couldn't last long. A bitter cold spiked within her lungs, causing a high-pitched whistle that cut sharply into the night. Where exactly she was headed was no longer important. All that mattered was escape. To flee and hide.

  My new existence. She looked back as she raced the unknown. The trail looked to be clear, but tricks had been played on her before. This time she was not going to be fooled. This time she would not stop. This time she would run and keep running. She would not stop until her body quit.

  Spasms speared her abdomen, a sharpened point prodding deep within her side caused her to stumble. Olivia fell down on all fours; pain and a desperate need for breath enveloped her. She gasped violently, heaving on the biting air which tightened around her windpipe. Bile drooled from the corners of the young girl’s mouth; her stomach far too empty to produce anything else. Both hands dug deep into the loose earth. She clenched her fists tightly and allowed the muck to squeeze through her fingers. Olivia’s breathing returned to normal, and she could finally close her eyes and rest. The ground was comfortable. Much more than she anticipated. And with both eyes tightly shut, the sensation of a feather pillow blanketed her brow. Of course, she knew none of it was real. The pillow and soft mattress she laid on were only wishes. They were just desires. Simple, unadulterated desires, remembered from what seemed to be a previous life. Those were only dreams that floated in her mind. The memories didn't relinquish their hold until she opened her eyes. As quickly as it began, it ended. The comfort and the memories were gone. They had been bagged and tossed into a bin somewhere very far away. She didn't need them after all.

  Shadows terrorized her soul with snippets from her old life; the life she thought she hated. Reflection can be a powerful thing, especially when all you crave is the home where you felt most trapped. Chains of isolation bound her. If only there were others here. Real people, just like her. Someone who she could depend on, who would look after her. Even someone to share her fears would do.

  No one is coming, Olivia thought.

  “They’re not even looking for me.”

  She spoke humbly but all too calmly of a world she knew she’d lost. The very reality of this place had become her torment. Now, all she needed to do was accept it.

  She wept aloud, sobbing in misery as dry eyes failed to form a tear. What would she do now? Simply remain here, in this very spot, waiting until sleep would finally take her? Perhaps she was trapped for eternity. Her only desire was that her cries would be heard in heaven. Her pale arms embraced her body, the last human touch she would ever know.

  Olivia lay resigned, staring out into the twilight as her whimpers began to wane. The trees whispered softly against the gentle breeze, soothing her mind as she listened to nature’s song. The eerie, dark green forest dwindled to a blur as trees dressed in shadows stood to watch her rest.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Forty-One

  The sun drowned in the horizon, painting the sky in an array of pink and yellow. Its rays gleamed in the dusk as a faint moon peaked shyly from beyond a wall of cloud. Camp had haphazardly been made. They carelessly assembled the tent that immediately collapsed drunkenly on its side, though none of them had the strength to care. Poles and pegs had vanished, left behind in Marcus’s incompetent rush to pack. Still, the waving canvas served its purpose well enough. The night was cold and damp, a considerable change from the blistering heat of that scorching summer’s day. Darkness soon engulfed the twilight dimness and a stillness fell across the land.

  The meal left them dissatisfied. There was space in their bellies, and they grumbled loudly in protest, hoping to have more.

  They didn’t keep the fire going overnight, a precaution the old man demanded as he scouted the camp before they rested. Gregory settled down against a rotting stump whose roots had been pulled up from the earth: fingers reaching from a shallow grave. Still, the old man seemed happy enough, accepting the kind gesture of a sleeping bag and leaving the boys to share. A coldness invaded the tent as Bran and Marcus looked down at the one remaining bag.

  “Wanna flip for it?” asked Bran.

  “We could share it?”

  “We’d be very close, wouldn’t we?” Bran nervously eyed the narrow bag.

  “A little too close for my liking.”

  “We’d undo the zipper, you prick!”

  “Oh…”

  “Yeah, believe or not, I’m not overly keen on sharing it with you.”

  “You better be! I wouldn’t have offered mine to that old goat otherwise.”

  A deliberate grunt filtered through the blowing canvas.

  “I may be old, boys, but I certainly ain’t deaf!” Gregory’s voice was as clear as day.

  “Sorry!”

  *

  In spite of the cold, the boys slept soundly, undisturbed by the incessant flapping of the tent. Morning had broken, the weak light shining through the paper-thin wall of the tent. Marcus stirred, moving his body to shade his eyes from the glare. Bran's morning breath blew directly at his face. If it weren't for the snores that would inevitably follow, he would have punched him.

  Great, now I gotta piss.

  Marcus was determined to sleep. He tossed and turned in an attempt to delay the growing urge that would force him to venture outside the relative warmth of their shelter. He couldn’t take the feeling much longer, convinced that if he didn’t move he would surely burst. He unzipped the tent. Rain had fallen during the night, dampening both the ground and Marcus’s mood as he stomped barefoot across the untamed grass. Gregory lay still, his head hidden from the elements, his position unmoved from the previous evening. Twigs snapped loudly under the heels of Marcus’s feet, projecting a startling crack that echoed up into the heights and alarmed the birds as they woke to the day. A grove of trees hid him, perfectly camouflaging Marcus completely, as he crouched to drop his kecks.

  “What you doing?” a voice called at his side.

  Marcus reacted with a startle, struggling to pull up the trousers that lay scrunched around the knees.

  “Jesus Christ!” shrieked Marcus staring toward Bran. “Trying to give me a bloody heart attack? You idiot!”

  Bran stepped back looking slightly flustered. His clothes were all creased and faded, the pocket on his right breast still dangling loosely from their fight some days earlier.

  “I saw you creep off, that’s all. Just wondered what you were up to.”

  “Up to? I’m trying to do my numbers! Hardly mischievous, is it?”

  Marcus waited, hopeful that Bran would take the hint and sulk off back to the tent.

  “Hey, you gotta check this out!” said Bran dismissing the gracelessness of his squatting friend.

  “Later.” Marcus tried to dismiss him with a wave of his hand.

  “Come on, you’re gonna want to see this.”

  “Bran, I’ve got a turtle head poking out right here. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  “But…”

  “Piss off, will you!”

  Bran began to walk back, then stopped mid-stride and kicked the ground with an irritating sigh.

  “We won’t get the chance to see it again,” said Bran.

  Marcus clenched his eyes tightly, his trousers for a second time stopping at his thighs.

  “See what?”

  “Bones.”

  “Christ! What bones?”

  “I stumbled across them yesterday. Just before we
settled for the night. Didn’t want to say anything, mind you. Not in front of the old man.”

  “What? Why?” asked a confused Marcus.

  “Because… he’ll change the route. Make it twice as long as necessary, of course. The old fart’s got a habit of doing that.”

  Marcus held his position and convinced himself that Bran’s find would only take a moment.

  “Fine, but hurry up,” Marcus stood up and zipped up.

  Bran shifted quickly through the saplings, heading back toward the path they were on yesterday.

  “This way,” whispered Bran over his shoulder. “It’s just through here,” pointing off the trail.

  Marcus began to follow reluctantly, his bare feet slowed his pace to a stop. The ground was rough and sharp allowing twigs and rocks to stab sharply at his soles.

  “Wait a minute.” Marcus lifted his foot to pick out the embedded stones. “Just let me get my trainers. I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s only around this corner,” said Bran eagerly. “The old man could wake any second. Come on!”

  Turning back, Marcus judged the distance to camp.

  “I’ll be just a second. I left my boots outside the tent.”

  “Wait… we need to check this out now.”

  “Hang fire,” whispered Marcus as he darted off back towards the tent, leaving Bran to stand and wait.

  The ground sucked at his feet as he trudged briskly through the long, wet grass. Droplets sprayed into the air in a cloud-like form, leaving his trouser cuffs glued against the skin of his legs. Gregory had altered his position some, yet still remained sound asleep. The only movement was that of his sleeping bag, rising and falling with each breath he took. Marcus sat on the ground with a groan. Tired and weak, the usual sense of adventure had truly escaped him as he slipped on the heel of his shoe. The figure of Bran could be seen in the distance anticipating Marcus’s return, now beckoning him to hurry, accompanied by a long hard glare of annoyance. Marcus ignored him, of course. He put on the second shoe slowly and secured both with a reliable double knot. He was only half way through tying his second lace when something made him stop. Perplexed, he looked back at Bran who still stood waiting at the woodland's edge staring directly back at him. A blank expression was painted clearly across his face. Immediately, a gust of wind blew across the campsite, causing Marcus to turn away from the force. The tent’s door flapped freely: the zip left fully open, just as he recalled.