Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  Jacket, he thought, placing his arm through the gap of the door and feeling his way along the floor.

  “Bloody thing. Where is it?”

  He crawled inside to grab his coat. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly rose and his mind went blank. He was paralysed by the sight before him. Bran lay comfortably wrapped in the sleeping bag, deep in sleep and snoring loudly. A shiver clawed through him as he watched his friend peacefully slumber.

  Breaking his trance, Marcus turned to look at the woods, afraid of what he might see. The wood lay bare. Silent as night. Not even the sounds of the wildlife making their presence known. And as he looked to the place where he thought Bran stood, all that remained was a colourful hat. Its fluorescent colours caught his eye through the tall green grass.

  His hand delved deep into his pocket. His chest became tight and constricted. The symptoms he had come to know all too well throughout his childhood presented themselves, and he lifted his inhaler to his lips.

  A hand grabbed Marcus firmly by the shoulder, followed by a prompting squeeze. A sound moved past his lips. A sound he had not heard before, yet felt little embarrassment for. Falling backwards his head hit the wet earth, his inhaler rebounding quietly from the ground. He looked up. Gregory stood above him. It was obvious by his expression he was clueless as to what had caused the young boy's reaction.

  “You OK there, son?” said Gregory. “For a moment there, I could have swore you were struggling for air?”

  The old man lowered a hand down to Marcus, helping him up with a strong and sturdy pull. Marcus looked around him, avoiding the question and collecting his inhaler. He made sure it was undamaged, pressing the container down and sending dry power to fire suddenly into the breeze.

  “Won’t you waste it? Doing that, I mean?” asked the old man.

  “It’s fine,” replied Marcus, trying to get over the shock.

  The old man frowned, watching as the young boy was still trying to survey the distant tree line.

  “You sure everything is OK, boy?”

  “Hmm?” replied Marcus bringing the inhaler to his mouth for a third time.

  “I said, you alright.”

  Marcus didn’t answer. Was he alright? At this particular time, he wasn’t entirely sure. Images of what had just occurred bounced about his mind. And with this, in his very soul there lived the lingering knowledge of eyes following him from afar.

  Movement in the tent broke through the uneasiness as Bran sat up to yawn and rub the sleep from his eyes. His hair was standing on point.

  Gregory looked to the morning sky, stretching his upper back.

  “Best get a move on, boys,” said Gregory, walking back to his rifle.

  “What? Before breakfast?” Bran decided to resume his position in the sleeping bag.

  *

  The morning was warm and pleasant and not nearly as hot as the previous day. It was still early, and despite the old man’s eagerness, the boys took their time to pack. The tent was folded neatly, allowing space for their jackets. Marcus was quiet, far more quiet than usual. He tiptoed around the camp, jumping at any noise, not to mention the sight of his own shadow.

  “What’s with you?” asked Bran.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s with you. You’ve been on pins all morning.”

  Marcus scowled, quickly looking over at the old man who also eyed him suspiciously.

  “Nothing’s with me. Just a bad dream, that’s all.” Marcus placed the colourful hat upon his head.

  “Hey! You found it!” said Bran.

  “Found what?”

  “That stupid hat. I’m sure I watched that vile thing float off down the river.”

  Marcus tightened the cords on his backpack, ignoring the interrogating glares from either side while he looped the straps around his shoulders.

  “Ready?” said Marcus, still dismissing their questioning stares.

  The old man stood and walked past Marcus without a word. His rifle led the way, sinking into the ground with every given step. Bran began to follow, casually strolling past Marcus, whistling a familiar tune that was popular well before their time. Marcus’s stare lifted from the ground. Evidently, time had slowed for only Marcus. A dizziness shook his head, and his vision blurred into one continuous loop. He was struggling to regain his focus, but staring at Bran's checked shirt caused the pattern to jump out at him. There was something different about it. He knew there was, but the more he studied the shirt, the more his feelings intensified.

  “Bloody thing,” said Bran looking down at the loose pocket bouncing about his chest. He grabbed at it, giving it a good hard yank. The stitching tore effortlessly from the shirt, ripping a larger hole beneath.

  Marcus gazed at the torn pocket, his memory searching back to what had occurred that morning. Then it hit him. The memory belted him like a brick to the face. Bran's ripped pocket was on the left.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Forty-Two

  They were closer now. The old man could feel it coming. Those same feelings that absorbed his senses for what felt to be a lifetime were returning. He hated the thought, the memories. However, his footing stayed true, never straying from his chosen path, moving forward as his past became the present. He never gave so much as a flinch as he repeatedly looked back to make sure the boys stayed close. He could hear them. It was impossible not to. Young folks today seemed to do nothing but bicker, despite holding the most desirable friendship. Gregory couldn’t understand it, but it was quite obvious this generation of youth was miles apart from what he had known. Marcus and Bran continued their quarrel. Each voice raised in volume in a feeble attempt of one hot head to pathetically out voice the other.

  “What’s your game, boys?” Gregory slammed the rifle stock on the ground.

  The boys stopped their sparring session, frowning deeply at each other and refusing to answer the question.

  “Well?”

  The silence persisted as the old man folded his arms to wait. “We shan’t be moving until the matter is settled. I can’t be listening to you both quarrel like that.”

  The boys again exchanged glances. The stubbornness in their eyes was beginning to soften.

  “Well,” said Marcus bashfully, “you just look kind of tired, Mr Degg. I’m…I mean, we were just a little concerned about your health, is all.”

  The old man raised a single brow, preparing himself for what might come next.

  “Go on,” he said humbly, allowing them time to speak.

  “Well, we were just talking. Wondering, I suppose. If anything should ever happen to you out here, how the hell we’d get you back.”

  Marcus paused for a moment, struggling to swallow back his words.

  “I mean, you’re no young man anymore, sir.”

  “No need to remind me.”

  “How old did you say you were?”

  “I didn’t,” snapped Gregory. “And never you mind.”

  “Look, Greg,” Bran confidently stated. “All I said was, with this being Marcus’s trip and all, if you so happened to drop down dead, it would be his responsibility alone to drag your bony carcass back to Thyme. That’s all.”

  “Charming,” muttered Gregory. “How very decent of you.”

  “Yeah,” replied Bran. “But I was only having a laugh. It’s not my fault the poor sap takes everything so seriously.”

  The boys’ quarrel started again. Not even the old man could delay it.

  They pushed and prodded, eventually rolling to the ground, grasping one another in some kind of strange entangled hug.

  So, this is fighting these days, thought Gregory with a pitiful glance.

  Bang!

  A single report echoed through the woods. Bran and Marcus disengaged and lay flat on the grass, prostrate from the adrenaline of confrontation.

  “There’ll be no more of this,” directed Gregory. “Do you understand me?”

  His tone was reminiscent of the speech used by a parent,
something which had been sitting dormant in Gregory for decades.

  “Are we in agreement?” Gregory leaned forward as he repeated his question, trying to intimidate them by size alone.

  “Yes.”

  The old man accepted the answer graciously, knowing it was coerced. They didn’t have to like him or even respect him. But he had to rely on discipline. Maybe it was nothing more than a badly acted play, but there had to be discipline. He had learned for himself that to get what you wanted in life, sometimes a little pretence could go a long way. This was not one of life's big secrets. Everyone did it. Well, almost everyone. It would just take a person like him to admit it. He looked back down at the boys and brought his thoughts back to the discussion at hand.

  “Shall we continue then?” asked Gregory, holding the barrel of his gun straight in front of him.

  “And… you’ll be alright?” said Marcus, his voice filled with concern. The idea of having to carry the old man was more than he wanted to consider.

  “Indeed I will, son. There’s still life in me yet.”

  *

  The old man was determined to cover more ground. He swung his arms as he took giant strides across the land.

  Where does he get the energy? Marcus was in no mood for conversation and filtered to the back of the line. Apparently no one else was wanting to talk either, and the trek fell quiet. That suited Marcus just fine.

  The comfortable morning temperature had dissolved into another hot day in the forest. The heated air rose and shimmered. Marcus was getting dizzy, and his temples were starting to pulse.

  When was the last time I drank anything?

  He couldn’t recall.

  One day? Maybe more?

  He walked on blindly, closing his eyes and allowing the summer breeze to help guide him. If only it was just another peaceful day. If only all of this was the trip he intended. If only.

  He listened to the sounds ahead. Bran’s footfalls brushed the knee-high grass and his laces sounded like whips when they struck the greenery. He listened more closely and could almost detect the sound of the rifle as it clunked under Gregory's weight. As he continued to concentrate on what was audible, his mind began to drift to memories. They hauntingly played over and over: a play whose curtain would never fall. He knew it was embedded in his mind forever.

  Marcus opened his eyes, surprised to see the view had radically changed. The forest opened up around them, stretching out into a field that was noticeably unshielded from the sun. Dead yellow grass stood on end, hissing in the breeze as though begging for water.

  How long were my eyes closed? He was a bit bewildered and even wondered if he might have been sleepwalking. He couldn't deny that he was tired. He felt insecure and vulnerable. Was he experiencing a nervous breakdown? He asked himself that very question

  I’m being ridiculous, he thought, unable to remember the last time he sensed fear during daylight.

  Maybe I’m going insane?

  It was possible. According to his history books, people had been declared insane for far less. They would get locked up and the key would be disposed of. They would never be seen nor heard of again. Could that happen to him?

  Bran and old Gregory stopped ahead, their figures swaying in the heat haze as they slumped down to their knees. Marcus tried to catch up, but his efforts fell short and his legs began to wobble. The sound of flowing water gave each of them the push they needed. They all knelt down by the stream and lifted cupped hands to dry mouths.

  Gregory sat upright gasping for breath. Drips of water paraded down his face, and the heat of the afternoon dried his forehead in seconds.

  “Fill your boots, boys,” said Gregory while returning to the stream. “It’ll be the last clean water you’ll get.”

  The youngsters were far too consumed by an unquenchable thirst to hear what he said. A large cloud came to shade the ground, cooling and calming the air. They continued to drink, and soon tiredness caught up with them. Dry grass rustled beneath them as they sluggishly rolled onto their backs.

  “No time for this, boys. We must move, right this second.”

  The boys climbed to their feet and groaned. The sense of thirst was never far away. They started to walk, following the brook downstream.

  “And where are you both headed?” called Gregory. “We continue north I’m afraid, through here.” He pointed across the stream.

  Bran's eyes followed the man's shaking finger to the opposite side of the brook. A fortress of white oak blocked all paths, swallowing the land.

  “Through there?” asked Marcus.

  Gregory nodded, stepped over the shallow water, and walked towards the large protruding roots reaching out from the earth.

  “I don’t like the look of this.” Bran stared past the trees.

  “And you’re right not to,” replied Gregory.

  “Can’t we just carry on this way for a while?”

  “No, our path lies ahead, I’m afraid. And no amount of whining will make it otherwise.”

  “But why?” continued Bran childishly. “How can you even tell where you’re going?”

  “I’d have thought by now that would be perfectly obvious.”

  The old man turned away, admiring the colonnade of trees towering overhead. He remembered the forest clearly now. It had changed some over the years, but the unwelcoming sense of emptiness was still there.

  Marcus stood watching him scout beside the tree line. He's lost his way? And again Gregory backtracked. He's afraid perhaps? That would be the more understandable of those two options. After all, why wouldn't he be? Maybe coming back here was just a bad idea. Maybe it was all too much for him.

  A memory flashed through Marcus like a bolt of electricity, and he remembered the night at the hut. He looked wildly around as he recalled events that seemed so long ago. The same rhyme was written in the book that Gregory carried. He asked to see it with excitement, then flicked through the pages to find the poem. When he found it, he flattened the pages and cracked the spine in the process. The first line jumped at him in the daytime sun.

  Amongst the oaks the shadows stride.

  Marcus looked up to Bran, who by now was dawdling next to the old man.

  “Amongst the oaks the shadows stride,” said Marcus softly beneath his breath.

  It’s a map!

  His feet almost flew, barely touching the ground as he leaped over the steady flow of water.

  “It’s a map,” yelled Marcus, waving the book in his hand. “You wrote it to remember.”

  “What… what is?” asked Bran.

  “The poem! I was clueless before, but I see it now. Here, take a look for yourself.”

  Marcus tossed the book to Bran, but his gaze remained on Gregory.

  “A sharp eye, Mr White. I like that.” The old man clearly approved. “Though I assure you I was not concerned with remembering.”

  “Then, why write it down, if not to remember?”

  “That’s simple. To be warned.”

  *

  With the book handed back, Marcus carefully wrapped it, covering it tightly and tucking it safely away in his rucksack.

  “Thank you,” said Gregory, watching the book being neatly tucked away.

  “You’re welcome. I should’ve took more care of it.”

  “Just words on paper, son. That’s all it is. And when this is all over, I’d be happy to see the back of it.”

  “So would we!” interrupted Bran, slouching against the trunk of an oak tree.

  The wind shifted direction and shook the tree, causing a few leaves to fall.

  “So, what now?” Marcus was almost afraid to ask.

  “Now? Now we end this, my boy,” said Gregory.

  “And you sure you know where you’re going? I don’t like the look of these woods.” Bran was being a bit patronising.

  Gregory surveyed the stretch of woodland, sighed deeply, and spat before he spoke. “Regrettably, I know these woods all too well. Nothing ever changes. Though I
will warn you, this is a challenging place.”

  The old man thought for a second, rubbing on the back of his neck before finally making a suggestion. “Maybe I should do this alone, boys.”

  Marcus and Bran exchanged glances, not sure of the reason why.

  “You have done well, boys, honestly you have,” continued Gregory. “But perhaps you would be safer here. If I’m not back by morning, make your way home. You can contact the authorities from there. Be sure to tell them everything.”

  “Not a chance!” Marcus was adamant as he stood tall and prepared himself for whatever challenges were ahead.

  “Now, boy, see reason, will you. I…”

  “No, it’s our friend! We’re going!” yelled Marcus.

  “I’m happy to wait here.” Bran regretted the words as soon as they were uttered.

  Eyes as sharp as daggers glared back at him. He realised that he should learn to think before he blurted out anything in future.

  “What?” said Bran, ready to swallow his words. “You don’t even know if he’s in there!”

  All three turned to the bleakness of the grove.

  “He’s in there alright,” said Gregory. “I bet my soul he is.”

  “Then that’s enough for us,” whispered Marcus. “We’re coming, Jack.”

  One by one the three merged with the jumble of branches. The boys first, followed shortly by Gregory who looked back one last time to catch a glimpse of the sun. His eyes glistened with sadness as he looked down. Although his lips were visibly trembling, he never let out a sob. His features twitched and his mouth fell slightly agape as he slyly drew in a breath. He hid his face as he walked.

  Amongst the Mists