by Julian Cheek
Mist! he thought. This is familiar.
He continued heading in the general direction of the sound, sensing that the ground he was on was slowly rising upwards. He stumbled over a few clusters of rocks in his way but generally his route led him closer to the sound. As he continued working his slow way over and around the rocks, he was aware of a darkening mass ahead of him that refused to move, and slowly this mass became more distinct until he stood in front of a large cliff face preventing further movement in that direction. He stopped and straightened up, placing his hands on his hips as he caught his breath.
It was here, for the first time, that he turned around to see if another route was available. Behind him, weaving down the small hill (as he now saw) and off into the distance, his track could just be seen through the darkness. He could see some of the outcroppings below casting their shadows from late evening moonlight. This caught his eyes and he gazed up to see a pale dark sky above, clear of clouds, the first inkling of early morning sun sending waves through two banks of incredibly high “mist”. The path below him scythed out as if cut by a giant knife, the mist to either side held back as if instructed to stay in place.
“I remember this!” he said. “A place somewhere. Mist and paths.” But that was all he remembered, for now.
He turned back to look at the cliff face, gazing as far as he could see in the gloom ahead. He could just make out a few small hand holds above him, and, without really thinking about the implications of going ahead without a recognised route, he reached out and started to climb. Scrabbling higher with each reach, the mist eased around him, as it had done on the path behind, and he progressed higher up the rock face. Now that he was here, exposed to the elements, he was aware that a cold, damp wind was blowing across the face of this cliff. He shivered slightly, gripped the rock face tighter, and continued his upward movement. It did not seem too long before he sensed the rock face start to ease and more grass came into view. The cliff came to an end and he eventually stood on a flat level, clear of rocks but with some grass and flowers around him. Again, he found he could look back, and now down, and see his route to the bottom of the cliff and, cutting away into the near distance, his original path, stopping at a point off at the bottom of the hill. Otherwise, everything else around him lay strangely still. Still, that was, other than the now louder and more insistent drumming behind him and seemingly off to the side but definitely closer than before.
He also noticed that his senses were starting to give this type of drumming more definition, and what had started out as a direction indicator now started to hold some feeling of danger. Also, and this was very hard to pinpoint, another sound. Almost as if some form of interference was cutting into the drumming. Sometimes for a long period, at other times short and sharp, and then it was gone.
Sam started to feel that perhaps he should rather NOT be heading in the direction of the noise, but, he convinced himself, if he was going to discover where “here” was, he had no choice but to travel towards the sound. “Perhaps with a little more care though!” he said to himself.
He set off again towards the noise, noticing that the ground still rose slowly, but this time as if coming to the brow of a grassy hill. As he steadily gained altitude, he started to discern what seemed to be flickering in the distance. It had an unusual effect through the mist, as it seemed to fluctuate between a low ember sort of glow and definite points of light, but not light from a room, more like…
I know! It looks a bit like a camp fire over there, he thought. But it was a camp fire unlike any he had ever seen. The glow seemed to spread out over a fairly wide area, as if multiple sources somehow seemed to merge together into splashes of oranges, reds and purples. Dim through the mist, but nevertheless, a source of calling. Or warning! he thought.
And now the drumming took on a more sinister tone. Incessant thumping from multiple sources all around the glow in the near distance, moving around from time to time, and the other noises he had heard earlier, then as interference, now seeming to take form and, if he was not mistaken, sounds of crying, some screaming even. Loud murmurings, deep, as from a male voice; others, keening, coming probably from women, and children.
This does not sound good, he thought. But where else can I go? Perhaps I can skirt around this place and go on beyond. A strange power seemed to be coursing through him, urging him, if anything, to venture closer to the slowly emerging event ahead. He was now so intent on what was possibly happening ahead that he failed to notice that he was, and had been for some time, walking on a path, like in his previous dream. A well-worn, dirty, muddy path, rutted with the tracks of many wheels over time, all heading either to or from where he was heading. And then, slowly emerging from the mist, a bent and frail wooden post and sign became apparent.
“Welcome to Rudhjanda” was painted in a strange archaic font scrawled across the timber face. The sign was bent down as if, over time, it had given up its ghost and instead was now lying limp, held only in place by a rusty nail, it too looking as if it was about to fall away from the post at any time, to land finally on the ground below. His mind registered all this, but only in part, locked away in his brain for retrieval at a later stage. For now he started to see and feel more of the events unfurling before his slowly horror-stricken view.
The drumming was definitely a call. Not, as he first thought, a call-to-arms, but rather a call to attack, to attack, maim and destroy if possible. The glow was indeed fires, but not happy, comforting camp fires, but, in places, bright sprites of fire burning spars of timber, and elsewhere, glowing stumps of crisp and burnt wreckage of what could only be described as houses.
And, oh my goodness. The “Interference”…
The noise now became clearer. Screams of terror, of destruction. He saw shapes shifting ahead of him. Of people running one way or another. Other shapes held grotesquely in final poses, most definitely not to move of their own free will again. Others standing over dim shapes beneath them, who seemed to be raising their arms in supplication. Thrusting arms powering downwards and then the shapes beneath, flexing for a final moment before slumping to the ground. His mind didn’t need to conjure up too many scenarios. He knew what was happening here. A ransack! It appeared as if this village, “Rudhjanda”?, was being invaded by who or whatever lay behind the mists, which was itself weaving through this scene like a sword of Damocles. Despite all this though, his mind was reminding him that this was just a dream. Some sixth sense holding his mental capacity to fear in check, and that other-worldly feeling one gets, that the scene was not really there.
He had just decided that perhaps flight was better than curiosity, when, out of the mist, a young women came screaming towards him, torn cape caught in the wind and trailing back towards the danger beyond as if trying to pull her back into the carnage lying just beyond this grey curtain.
“I don’t care if this is a dream or not,” he stated to himself, “I am out of here!” And he started to turn to flee from this spectre descending towards him at speed.
“Sam! Sam,” he heard. “Help me!”
Now this really got his heart hammering. What is it with me at the moment? he thought. How is it that people know me here? But by now, the young woman had drawn level with him. Face tear-streaked and dirty with mud and ash, eyes wide in terror and an old, worn blanket tied vainly around her throat, ripped in places and covered in dead leaves and twigs.
“Sam. Stop! Where are you going?” the woman cried. And with that, he reluctantly turned around to confront this apparition. He was about to speak, when, to his horror, he heard a thin “Swack” followed by a meaty “Thunk” and, protruding out of this woman’s chest, now stuck out and gleaming, blood and grime attached to its barb, an incredibly large, lethal and death-dealing arrowhead glistened. Someone, or something, had let loose an arrow from within the mist blanket, striking the woman centrally between the shoulder blades, its speed easily sufficient to pierce her through completely, and finally!
Her eye
s opened in shock as her body started to shut down and she reached out to Sam, gripping his coat with one hand, ripping the shoulder. Then slowly, almost gracefully, she slid down his side, all the while holding his eyes with hers. Eyes of surprise. Eyes of fear. Eyes that slowly lost their light, but eyes that kept their focus on Sam until, with a long whistling breath escaping her lips, she sank to the ground, falling full-length onto the path. Her hand finally resting outstretched against his leg.
Sam, casting care to the winds, turned and fled, running diagonally away from his already clearly-defined swathe cut through the mist. He ran as if the very demons of hell were nipping at his heels. He ran until he sensed a tree-lined barrier coming into view, and he dived for cover behind the nearest and largest tree, heart hammering and breath tripping in fear.
Looking out from behind his cover, he was relieved after a while that there appeared to be no one pursuing him, and he settled himself against the bark of the tree, hardly daring to move. Pulling his coat tight around him, he tried vainly to burrow deeper into the loam beneath his body, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. His mind was just not able to join all the chaotic pieces together and instead his vision was fully occupied with the sight of that woman, pleading to him, begging him to help.
But how could I? he thought. And, more importantly, what is going on? This was definitely a dream he wanted to – no, needed to – wake up from. That thought slowly filtered into his mind and he reminded himself, again, not for the first time, that this was just a dream and that therefore he was not only safe, but also, not actually “here”. This seemed to calm him down, and his breathing mellowed and his mind eased at last. In doing so, this allowed him to turn his attention outward, and he noticed that now, the gloom had gone, and instead the early morning light was filtering through the mists around him. The noises and the drumming seemed to have ceased. Indeed, all sounds seemed to have vanished and quietness reigned supreme all around him. He ventured a careful peek from out behind the tree to see what lay waiting for him beyond his sanctuary. Of course, his path was clear to see, arrowing back the way he had come, like an accusing finger pointing straight at him from the desolation beyond. Beyond that, he still had no real perception of space or place, the mist resolutely refusing to move away to enable him to see more of the landscape he now found himself in.
Sam slowly emerged from behind the tree, casting careful looks in all directions. Ears pricking for the nearest sound, and his feet ready and more than willing to take flight as soon as the merest suggestion of danger announced itself. He stepped out from the tree line and walked tentatively back the way he had come, some morbid curiosity perhaps egging him on to go and see what had transpired to this small village.
He eventually came across the first signs of destruction. A mangled cart lay at an angle at the edge of the path, one of its wheels broken in two and its contents strewn over the floor beyond. A form lay on the path a few metres away, and he noticed that it was still. Still, unmoving, and based on the sword sticking out from his chest, very dead! Following rapidly on, he soon came across an arm, whose hand was fixed at an angle, a single index finger pointing up to the heavens. The arm trailed back to the still form of the woman he had had the misfortune to see pierced through earlier that morning, now seemingly a million miles away from where he was presently. Her hair trailed dirtily across her face. A young face and perhaps, in life, one which would have held much beauty, but now, those eyes. Looking nowhere. Fixed in a face doing nothing, attached to a body, rumpled under her cloak of torn blankets and mud. Very, very still.
He swallowed a bitter gulp of bile and looked away, towards the glow which was still evident a little distance away. Moving on past her still form, trying not to look down and study her in any more detail, the village of Rudhjanda slowly came into focus, or what was left of it. The village lay the other side of a small stream, which appeared to have been starved of water for some time as mud and rocks were more in evidence than the water. It was separated from him by an arching timber bridge, whose spars and balustrading, in part, were either missing, or smoking still from the event that had happened that night. Beyond, and just visible in the early morning mist, broken, bent and ashen-burnt spars speared into the air in all directions. Smoke and small flames still licked around some of the timbers. Straw, fruit, kegs of all different sizes and shapes, lay scattered on the floor, disappearing off into the mists beyond. But all this seemed to merge into each other to allow other details to appear. Details which were all either lying supine or leaning against or over the destruction in front of him. People. All types of people lay scattered in strange poses. All still, yet as if some giant had thrown his toys out of his particular pram and left them as they lay.
Senses on full alert, he carefully and slowly moved onto the bridge, the creaking of the timber in protest at his weight seeming to conflict with the noises of burning timber beyond. He noticed here that a number of people had appeared to have got caught trying to ford the mud covered stream rather than flee over the bridge. Of course, the bridge was covered with broken and burning carts and bodies of people and animals, so no surprise that some unfortunate inhabitants chose the quagmire route, rather than flee past fallen comrades and family. Sam continued forward over the bridge, clinging closely to the edge for some form of support, stepping from time to time over the carnage around him.
And then. A slow, small groan! Sam saw a hand beneath a bale of hay. The fingers were flexing slowly, painfully, but moving nonetheless. Sam hurried to the bale and with some effort, managed to move it off the form of a young boy. The boy was no more than a young teen. Not much younger than himself. Like the others, the boy was unkempt and dirty. His hair was matted with dirt and blood and his blue eyes were lost in pits of dark shadows, but he was aware enough to notice Sam.
“Sam,” the boy gasped. “Sam.”
The boy swallowed hard, as if trying to extricate some air from his lungs. “If you had been here earlier, this would not have happened!”
Sam was shocked into stillness. “What on earth?” he started, but was interrupted.
“Sam. They came in the night. We tried to wait but they were too many. Too fast. But we waited, as you had asked us to. So we….” The boy rattled a slow breath and then continued. “Why did you go?” he asked with simple boy-curiosity. But any response from Sam was lost on him, for, with a final settling of his lungs, he whistled out one last breath and his eyes lost all light and focus.
If Sam was shocked to start with, hearing his name mentioned, and not for the first time, then the curious comment that he had apparently “asked them to wait” went way past any feeling of being shocked and instead, he just gazed down at the still form, unable to comprehend what was going on in this weird dream.
He heard a single, covert creak of the timber bridge behind him, sensing, more than knowing, that this creak was not settlement. Something about the way that particular noise was made resonated with the deepest darkest recesses of Sam’s mind and he was keenly aware of the hairs on his skin standing on end and his temperature spiking. This was definitely not a friendly creak. He slowly straightened up, all senses on full alert, and, summoning what was left of his nerves, he turned around. At the other end of the bridge, standing centrally as if to stop Sam retreating in that direction, stood what looked at first to be an apparition. At least six feet five tall, draped with a bear skin cloak, fur hat with horns and a massive beard with bits and pieces sewn into it, a huge man glared straight at Sam. His arms, and what was visible of his face, were covered in tattoos of all shapes and sizes, and all of these combined presented a person to whom Sam was quite sure he really did not want to meet on any dark street, or any middle-of-the-day-brightly-shining-thank-you-very-much sort of street either for that matter.
The man exuded evil, anger and malice and Sam was in no two minds that this man and his friends were probably responsible for the carnage that lay all around him.
Sam also noticed, in
a slow-motion sort of way, that the man was also armed with a mean looking and very large bow which he held in his outstretched left hand, the biceps in his arm flexing with hidden strength. His right hand was pulled back behind his body holding the twine, now fully extended away from the bow, which was bent and quivering with pent up energy. And between the two lay a wicked looking arrow, pointing straight at Sam.
Fingers relaxing in his right hand, he let the arrow fly.
Sam felt the arrow hit him squarely in the chest. Felt the shaft drive the arrow head through his torso before it punched its way out through his back. And all the while, it was as if he saw this from a third person perspective up in the air, looking back down, as if it was no longer him there on the bridge, but someone else, removed from him. He definitely felt the pain though. Excruciating beyond description. Terrifying in finality. He sensed the wetness of the blood, the sharpness of the arrow shaft grinding against his ruptured lungs. He sensed all manner of things in an instant and yet, through all this, his mind, as if removed from the scene, was calmly speaking to him saying, “Don’t worry, Sam. This is all a dream and you will wake up soon!”
He took a few slow steps back, the impact of the arrow alone pushing its energy into his feet and assisting his backward stumble. His final step took him out beyond the edge of the bridge, no longer restrained by the balustrading, and he toppled backwards over the edge, his last sight, of the man disappearing from view, the wind blowing his cape up into a waving banshee.
Again, as if time was snail-paced, he sensed his mind saying, “Relax, Sam. This is how the dream ends. You know that when you hit something, it shocks you back to reality.” So Sam relaxed in an odd sort of detached way. The shock he should have felt at effectively being killed there and then oddly removed from his situation.