by Unknown
“She’ll beat us if we go near their house,” Cervis said unhappily, “and anyway, Röark will be heading up the headlands along the river before nightfall, to pray to Lugh.”
Mihaela nodded, seemingly lost in her thoughts, “he seems to prefer to do that alone. Why does he insist on being alone so much?”
Cervis wasn’t listening, instead taking the opportunity to impress. Heaving, he lifted the pinewood again until it was perfectly vertical, and searched for more nails. When he realised there were none, he snivelled pitifully.
“I think I will fetch more nails from the hall,” Mihaela smiled with reassurance.
Cervis let go of the wood, and again it tipped onto the leafy surface by his feet.
“Then Collarbone and I will get some more tools,” Cervis responded, smiling affectionately.
---
Making her way across the cobbled road, Mihaela waved to various townsfolk who passed by. She was lucky enough to live in a beautiful village blessed with old Romanian traditions untouched by the stigma of increasing tourism by wealthy western European countries. Horse drawn carts rode past her, delivering fresh produce to town. A single violin sung a haunting tune nearby while locals performed ancient rites of planting and harvest dressed in colourful traditional costumes. To the south, lush vineyards surrounded the land, yielding copious amounts of wine.
“Mihaela?” chirped a hoarse, familiar voice behind her. Turning in curiosity, she noticed Orlat’s church pastor, Father Hugal coming towards her.
Greeting him with an apt smile, she paused where she was and waited for him to make his way along the road. He was slow in his pace, his elderly bones frail. Father Hugal had been the pastor in the town’s historic twelfth century church since Mihaela’s father was a young boy. He had even had her parents wed, blessing their marriage. Mihaela remembered her father’s tales of that day. Her father often told tales of his childhood in the beautiful surrounds of Orlat. She enjoyed his stories, even though she had heard many of them enough to recite herself. She was very close to her father, especially since the passing of her mother.
“Good morning Father Hugal,” Mihaela called, offering a quick wave followed by a soft smile.
“Child,” he spoke, his voice strained and croaky. He grasped her arm tightly and stared into her eyes, “child, are you safe?”
“Father?” Mihaela asked, confused, “what do you mean?”
He said nothing, his eyes not shifting, an almost pitiful and cheerless look serving as his expression.
“Child,” he whispered, his hand still wrapped around Mihaela’s left arm, “if you need help, you make sure Röark helps you.”
“Father Hugal, Röark and I are not wed, we’re just friends, remember?” Mihaela reminded him, as she had done again and again. Most days she thought he might be coming across with bouts of amnesia sickness like her father claimed, but she hoped not. He was such a lovely man, and she would hate to see his mental or physical health decline. She had not sensed anything this extreme or erratic in his behaviour before, a bout of urgency in his croaky voice.
“Child,” he whispered, his voice now barely audible above the street noise, “you come and see me in church if you need help. I’m always there for you. Always.”
“I understand father,” Mihaela nodded, placing her free hand on his clenched hand around her arm. “Are you okay?”
“You say your prayers tonight, do you hear me? You say them. And you let God hear them, and he will love you and care for you.”
His eyes seemed to vacate, and a distance took hold. His hands went cold, and a small tear formed in his right eye.
“Father?” Mihaela whimpered, her voice filled with concern.
“Go home child,” urged Father Hugal, releasing his grip of her arm, “go home to your father.”
---
That evening, Röark finished top-dressing the soil beneath the apple trees with compost and made his way inside as the last of the sun’s golden rays vanished, the sky a deep, harmonious red. His mother remained outside by the barn, preparing the hay stacks ready for the cattle the next morning.
Once inside, he started on preparing tomato and eggplant seeds for sowing the next day. By the small square window to his left, a single white candle flickered. Röark’s attention was soon drawn outside, and his mind wandered. He spotted his mother, now poised by the outskirts of the orchard, staring out towards the windmills at the edge of town. Motionless, she stood. The cotton scarf wrapped over her head constricted her dark brown hair from falling victim to the prevailing winds from the mountains, but her olive skirt lashed left and right, succumbing to the gusts.
Yet she didn’t move, an unrelenting gaze out into the wilderness, her thoughts lost.
Röark knew if he could see her eyes, they would be full of sorrow; of angst and regret. They would be cloudy and full of tears. Every night she would wait. She would gaze out over the hills, towards the woods, expecting her husband to return. Her expression would be fragile, filled with woe. But she would never allow Röark to see her like that.
Weakness gives birth to humility, she would insist whenever Röark would cry.
Deciding to wait a little longer to coerce her inside, Röark kneeled to wash the seeds. Having filled an old wine bucket up with water from the well, he lifted the seeds carefully, blowing away dust. In the distance, howls from wild dogs echoed, their mournful cries haunting. Ten or twelve, Röark guessed, listening intently. Their howls made him uncomfortable, especially recently with accounts from farmers on the edge of town purporting packs of dogs have been spotted roaming progressively closer to the village during the short summer nights. Stories from folks, both local to the village and merchants beyond, tell of people being torn limb from limb without warning while they slept.
They’re not all bad, Röark comforted himself as the howls continued, Cervis’ dog was wild once, and she has never hurt anyone.
A fervent, aggressive scratching noise on the exterior of the house caught his attention, right outside, lasting seconds. He froze, a tingle climbing down his spine. Bathed in silence again, he turned his head in a bid to pitch his ears. Still kneeling he was out of view of the window, and so by resting a hand on the cold floor, he slowly pushed his body up, peering outside past the flickering candle.
Perhaps his mother was scraping the hay and hit the stone by mistake?
It was now almost dark. The houses in the neighbouring fields donned various glowing windows and chimneys blowing smoke. The silhouettes of apple trees broke view, their scattered, timid branches still from wind.
His mother was nowhere to be seen. Again, the chorus of wild dog howls broke the silence, seemingly closer than before. A shadow burst away to his left, and he flicked his head to investigate. Several heavy crunches on plant and hay debris suggested footsteps. Someone was there.
“Mother?” Röark called, rising to open the old hatches on the glass panels.
“You need to secure the cattle on the Hürdern’s fields,” his mother’s brazen voice boomed from behind, inside the cottage, “the family is struck down ill and the dogs are close.”
Röark spun, shocked to find his mother behind him, broom in hand. He turned to gaze outside again, peering across to where he thought he saw the shadow and heard the scratching on the exterior of the house.
“Don’t ignore me,” she crowed, lifting the broom, “now you get outside and take the chains up that field or I’ll lash you!”
Careful to avoid knocking the bucket of water, Röark moved the seeds safely to a nearby bookcase and reached across the old woollen sofa to collect his father’s old pitchfork.
“How close are the dogs?” Röark asked.
“What in Lord’s name are you taking that for?” she bellowed, her faced screwed up, “get up there and chain the fence, light the wicker and then get back here for dinner.”
In the distance, the frenzied barking from Cervis’ dog Collarbone mixed in with the howls, along with nervous whinnies from nearby horses.
Placing the pitchfork back in its resting place, Röark ventured past his mother, and outside. Turning immediately right found him on the outskirts of their orchard, and he entered, following the side of the house to investigate what could have made the scratching sound near the kitchen window.
Could a wild dog have made it this close to their cottage?
The apple trees, although skinny, were densely populated making the path difficult to traverse. Reaching the clearing, Röark diverted his path towards the exterior of the cottage, by the window. On the stone, just below the window sill, was a small etching about the size of a pinky finger;
AO|79|005|XXX
Confused, Röark leaned closer, staring intently and jabbing his finger into the freshly etched grooves. He mouthed the letters and numbers again and again, perplexed at their significance. He looked left and right, careful not to make a sound so he could identify any trespasses nearby.
This must be a joke, he considered, Cervis must be up to something.
“Cervis?” Röark cooed, still on his knees, finger still embedded in the grooves on the wall. The only reply was a soft, hallowed wail of a single wild dog far in the distance.
He rose to his feet, brushing off soil and manure from his knees. He continued towards the barn, collecting the chain that hung from the neighbour’s fence. He jumped the short, three-foot fence, and continued past the orchard, intermittently glancing in to spot any intruders that might be responsible.
Except he didn’t want to spot anyone. The idea someone was hiding in the rows of apple trees made him tingle with terror. The tiny hairs on his arms pricked.
“Stop being a coward,” he muttered to himself. He knew his father wasn’t coming back, and he knew he would need to protect his mother as she grew old. This paranoia was unfounded and childish – you’re becoming like Cervis!
Passing the boundary to his cottage, he made his way towards the western fields. Following the dirt path, he kept his attention ahead of him, eyes on the wooden gates towards the top of the hill. It was very dark now, a moonless night. A soft hoot of an owl in a mighty oak to his right drew his attention. He increased his pace, passing the pond near the Rëichard’s mill.
On reaching the gate, he pulled it shut and flung the chain onto it. His scurrying disturbed something at his feet. An item flickered about, fluttering to and fro. Bending down, Röark plucked it from its resting place and lifted it.
A feather.
With the tip gripped between his thumb and forefinger, he spun it a few times, studying it intensely. The feather was much larger than he had ever seen, stained a dirty red, with dotted black spores and ugly, menacing green stripes. Measuring about the length of his forearm, he began guessing its origin. Owl, eagle, heron. Perhaps a plover that had been hunting by the pond.
Then the odour hit him. A ghastly repugnant decaying smell, not dissimilar to a rotting animal corpse. Glancing about, he searched for a carcass, terrified for a moment that he was too late and some dogs had made it into the field. But there was nothing. No sign of the cattle, or the lambs. The field seemed sparse, empty and eerily bare.
The smell was therefore seeping from the feather. Coughing in a gag reflex, he dropped the feather and dusted off his hands, shivering in disgust. Behind him, angry screeches from unseen birds of prey high in the oaks made him jump. Taking a short moment to compose himself, he locked the chain tight, pulling it to test its strength, before swiftly making his way back down the road towards the cottage.
---
The next morning, with a sheepskin sack his mother had sewn for him across his broad left shoulder, Röark crossed the hillside towards the lush opulent forest that ran perpendicular to the giant mountains of the Cindrel. In his backpack sat bundles of seeds, ready for offer to the statue of the Harvest God Lughnasadh, located north of the village deep within the woods.
The stream was flowing quickly today, rushing with emergency down the rock falls towards the glassy lake. He’d made a swift early morning escape from his cottage; he disliked tending the fields out the back. His mother always forced him, but he was no good at it. He was a quiet, reserved introvert, not a farmer or a fighter, no matter how hard his mother tried.
Crossing the rickety wooden bridge, Röark glanced down into the clear waters of Mino’s stream. Fish darted across the water, preying on the abundance of life that called the stream their home. Pausing for a moment of reflection, Röark smiled, before continuing his way across the grasslands to the woods beyond. Passing the lake, he noticed the village fisherman Pascal out in his tiny old boat, fishing line out, ripples dancing about in the otherwise glassy water. Waving, Röark called out.
“Catching anything?”
“Yes, but not enough for the festival!” Pascal called back with eagerness, causing his boat to rock making him lose his balance for a brief moment. He was a simple man, certainly not intelligent, and all he loved to do was fish. It’s all Röark ever saw him do. He had made quite a living from exporting his catches to the neighbouring towns and he shared his earnings with everyone he knew. He was a well-respected elder of the village.
“Good luck!” Röark called.
“And you!” Pascal replied, “may your offer to Lughnasadh be welcomed!”
Departing with a quick smile, Röark commenced along his regular path towards the forest entrance. As he past the first of the fir trees, he stopped.
The trees beyond the entrance were all hyper extended in precarious positions, their once straight vertical trunks now shaped like a fishing hook. All of them, as far as the eye could see.
Röark felt an uncomfortable cold chill. Scanning his surroundings, he considered for a moment he had taken the wrong path past the headlands and somehow arrived at a different location.
Yet the notion wasn’t possible - he’d been coming here since he was a child, nearly every day.
With slow calculated steps, he continued along what would be his normal route; up the small ravine, past the two giant boulders, through the site of old grave keeper’s abandoned shack, along the small creek that bore the final remnants of Mino’s stream, and to the undergrowth where the statue hid. But as he made his way further, he paused beside one of the elongated trees. He caressed his fingers down the drawn out trunk analysing the darkened colour, black residue staining his hand. It was almost like it was dead. There was no sign of life in this tree. Leaves clung to its branches in terminal desperation.
This was not the same forest Röark had come to every day in the deep snow or warm nights since childhood. This wasn’t the same beautiful and peaceful woodland surroundings he would sit in for hours.
This was an ugly, dead forest.
He ran along his usual trail passing tree after tree, all in the same odd shape, lacking sign of life. The forest was abnormally quiet, no bird calls or animal cries, the air thick and musty. Peculiar fog lifted from the dense leafy floor, lingering ominously, constricting his vision. Venturing further and further, Röark couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.
He sensed he was being watched.
Pausing quickly, he scanned the area, trying to hide his mounting concern. All around him, groups of trees, leafless and devoid of grace seemed to reach for him, their dying branches protruding like long pointy fingernails. The dry debris at his feet crunched as he turned. He didn’t know which way to look. The terrain was flat, but the forest was an untouched wilderness, the large amount of trees blocking any view.
Taking a gulp of heavy air he crinkled his nose, a hostile reaction to an immense, overpowering smell of burning flesh. Growing more extreme, the stench played havoc on his eyes. Trying to prevent his hands from shaking, Röark spun in a full circle, instinctively ready to defend against any potential danger. It was similar to the awful odour he had encountered the night before, with the giant feather.
It was then that he realised he was lost.
So overcome with confusion and worry, he hadn’t even noticed he’d been stagge
ring along a small dirt trail in an unknown direction.
He didn’t recognise anything around him. He couldn’t see the usual tracks, the giant boulders, the intermittent hedges that littered the forest’s leafy path nor the creek bed. Where was the creek bed?
And then he saw it - a tall slender shadow in the distance, masked by the increasing fog. Moving with serene grace, it passed behind two darkened leafless trees, before disappearing completely into the lingering foul-smelling haze.
Röark didn’t move, paused for what seemed like hours. A mild gust of wind brought him back to his senses. Whether it was panic or intrigue, he eventually mustered the courage to take a few steps, confidently aware this figure had certainly been following him for some time. Taking a long deep breath in a bid to reaffirm calm, he slowly made his way towards the direction of the mysterious figure.
Weakness is the birth of humility. His mother’s words rung in his ear. After all, it was probably Mihaela and Cervis playing tricks on him. They probably have Collarbone waiting behind him to leap out and surprise him.
A sudden gust of warm stale wind caused Röark to unwillingly stumble. Its invisible grasp was almost poisonous, latching to his skin, sticky like a thick spider’s web. Vain attempts at swishing away the mounting smog grew frivolous, and each breath he took made him wheeze. A crusty layer of rich ooze began forming over his face and arms as the sickening mist dried on his skin. It was then he caught sight of something that made his heart race.
The grave keeper’s old shack!
Even with the distraction of the stale odour, the thick air and the increasing fog, Röark recognised its old gothic outline, its dilapidated roof dangerously bowed due to years of neglect. The old grave keeper died years ago and no one had been out here since. The little cabin was in a terrible state of disrepair. Racing towards the recognisable landmark, Röark’s heart thumped, his palms moist and clammy. He could hide in the crumbling building until the fog passed, and he could see clearly again.