Into the Light- Lost in Translation

by Michael White

  “What about it?” asked Paul.

  “I struggle to understand your disbelief in us.”

  “It’s not a personal thing, Flip.” laughed Paul, “Only where I am from none of this exists. Groblettes do not exist. There is no Keel and so on.”

  “So you think I am not real?” asked Flip, curiosity filling his voice more than chagrin.

  “I had not thought of it that way really.” Mused Paul, “But I suppose so, yes.”

  “And yet I remember my life as a child growing up in Anchor Bay; the great flood that killed so many in the seventh year of my being. The death of my friends. These are real to me, and you did not know these things and so therefore your theory cannot be correct.”

  “Ah.” said Paul, wondering if it was a good idea to get into talking psychology with a Groblette, “Yet they are facts now only because you have told me them. That could be as much a part of my dream as you existing in it.” Flip merely looked confused.

  “So these things are real only because I said them out loud?” he asked.

  “Indeed. All part and parcel of the same dream.” Flip looked even more confused by this. “Figments of my imagination.” explained Paul and he saw the Groblette sigh.

  “You must be very important to have such a detailed a dream.” he said quietly, and after that said no more.

  Paul could not help but feel as if he had been chastised by the Groblette, and he re-ran the conversation in his head just to ensure that there he had not accidentally put his foot in it, which he concluded that he hadn’t. Paul knew that his argument made perfect logical sense and he was sorry that he had upset the Groblette, after all the cook was the nearest thing he had to a friend here, and he had saved him from a beheading but a short while ago. Yet he had spoken nothing but the truth as he saw it and was glad of it. It certainly helped to clear his thoughts.

  Yet something nagged at him like a bad tooth. He pushed himself up on one arm and gazed past the camp into the eaves of the old forest. Beyond the path he could see nothing, but he nevertheless got the definite idea that he was being watched. He tried staring into the dark for a long time but all he could see was the darkness of the night and the forest beyond the stones. Eventually the darkness took him and he slept.

  The next day progress was even more difficult. The gloom grew in intensity, the light from above sparse. It felt almost as if this part of the forest was almost pushing against them, forcing them to double their efforts to move onward. Their footsteps were slight and difficult, as if every step they took required great effort.

  Rain continued to dog their steps. After the first day Paul decided he had never seen rain as fierce or persistent as this, but on the second day of rain it actually increased in intensity, large spots of rain bouncing up from the muddy path, soaking their boots and feet. Yet somehow the tinker’s cloak kept him dry. The other Groblettes looked soaked to the skin and dishevelled, but he was dry and warm, the water from above seeming almost to run off the cloth.

  Still however he felt resisted with every step. The mud underfoot did not help, and so heavy was the rain now that they spread out on the road through the forest to avoid having to step into each other’s muddy footprints or sliding in the tracks of one of their comrades. By the time they decided it was noon, for they had no real way of checking the time of day, they were exhausted.

  “Eat here under the branches of this tree.” called Wahid from ahead of them in a rare act of friendliness, “the tree should keep your food dry if not yourself also.”

  “Too late for me!” grumbled Sparr loudly, and several of the other Groblettes grunted in agreement but they could not seem to summon up the strength for conversation and so they all descended into a weary silence. After some time Beezle called to move off again and they stumbled on through the rain.

  They journeyed weakly on through the afternoon, making little progress as the will of the forest seemed to bear down upon them as if it was daring them to go any further. Eventually they spotted through the downpour a part of the path where several especially large branches intersected overhead, affording what was probably the slightest but also greatest chance that they had of finding shelter from the elements.

  “We sleep here.” Barked Beezle, leaning forward and placing her hands wearily on her knees, “It is likely to be the only piece of shelter we will find for some good time yet, and I am not in the mood to be wandering around in the dark. Make camp and lay the stones!” Sparr and Ybarro commenced on their nightly task placing the stones around the camp as the food was distributed. The cheese now was quite hard, the bread stale and hard to chew. Paul began to find himself wishing for a biscuit, but it was all that they had and he was hungry and so the food was soon gone.

  The rest of the Groblettes once again seemed too tired for conversation and so they gathered about the path in as dry a spot as they could, cloaks and hoods gathered against the rain and they tried to get as good a sleep as they were able. Paul sat with his back against the trunk of a large oak that straddled the forest path, his cloak pulled tight about him, the hood keeping the rain that trickled down the tree trunk from soaking his back, the water passing easily over the cloth and puddling at his feet which were not doing quite so well. The burnt soles of his boots he had found when the rain had set in since departing the inn had sprung several leaks and now his feet and socks were soaked. Still, he thought, it could have been worse. He could have been without the cloak altogether.

  For a while he sat there thinking of the journey so far, and the journey yet to come - that is if they ever made it out of the forest! He contemplated what he would tell the Keel about the sinking of his ship and the destruction of his lighthouse, and as he sat there trying to think of a plan that did not involve the word, “accident” he slowly began to doze.

  He was not sure how long he had slept when he suddenly came awake with a start and he could not see why. He looked about the camp in a panic but he could no reason for concern and so he fell back to sleep. Sometime later he woke again, the sounds of movement seeming to fill his mind. He sat upright but everything seemed to be as it should have been. The Groblettes were fast asleep, some snoring, some not. Paul looked outside the perimeter of the stones and saw nothing but darkness all around him. Silently cursing himself for his jumpiness he noted the five shapes of the Groblettes sleeping in the dark and slowly began to doze again.

  He could not have slept for more than a moment of two when he suddenly heard another sound almost like the scraping of boots on stone, and opening his eyes he looked about the camp in a panic. Again, nothing was out of place, four Groblettes sleeping noisily about the camp. The forest was as quiet but as before but he could not help but feel that he was being watched from somewhere in the woods, but he had no proof or sight of by whom or what it was that was observing him. From somewhere far distant an owl hooted quietly and Paul leaned back in the rain and began to doze.

  He was not sure how long he had slept for but once again he awoke and this time he got to his feet, the shape of two Groblettes nearby snoring loudly almost seeming to comfort him. He turned his back on his sleeping friends and approached the perimeter of stones that marked the camp. As he approached them he felt that there was definitely a sense of wariness emanating from the evenly spaced white stones. The very thought of crossing the perimeter seemed to fill him with dread and he stepped back, panicking slightly. Which is when he heard the loud scraping sound from behind.

  Spinning on the spot Paul was just in time to see two branches rustling and shaking above the path as if they had been disturbed, but nothing else. Panic rose in his throat as he looked about the camp. The Groblettes were all gone.

  He was alone.

  Paul cried out for the Groblettes by name, spinning on the spot, trying to find here they had gone. Several wet blankets lay on the ground, and he lifted them, looking for any sign of any of his friends, but there was none. Nor was there any sign of a struggle. He approached the white stones at the perimeter o
f the camp but he could not force himself to cross it. It was as if it was defying him to break the strange circle. He ran back to the centre of the camp and stood, turning around and around. He saw a sword dropped on the first path and he went to reach for it, stopping himself only at the last second. He had sworn an oath to himself. No more weapons. Cursing under his breath he spun again just as a slight rustling sound rose from the tree branches overhead.

  To his horror he saw a long thin shape descend from above; like a worm it was, but bigger. Much bigger. In the darkness he saw it turn slightly, as if looking for something, and then another long shape hung down from above further off to his right. In the gloom Paul stood unmoving as the first shape dangling from the branches overhead seemed to spin slowly, as if examining the entire camp. As it did so Paul saw two large yellow eyes suddenly focus on him, and then a mouth with two black ugly fangs; a forked tongue shot from its mouth as if tasting the air. Paul gulped loudly. It was a snake! A snake the size of which he had never seen before!

  The snake hissed loudly, its tongue flicking in and out of its mouth as it stared at him.

  “Blimey!” said the snake suddenly, and Paul felt himself backing into a tree at the edge of the camp, “We’ve only gone and bloomin’ missed one!”

  Then the second giant snake spun from where it was dangling from the branches above and hissed as it swung there.

  “Is it a fat one?” said the second snake, “I likes the juicy ones best. Nice and fat is the best.”

  “Looks a bit hairy to me.” hissed the first snake, “Still. Juicy enough by the look of it.”

  “Nice and juicy.” said the second snake, and Paul thought that it had actually licked its lips, which given its lack of lips was unlikely.

  “I saw it first.” said the first snake, “Bagsies mine!”

  “Oo you are a mean one.” grumbled the second snake, “we could always share.” The first snake began to slowly descend into the camp and Paul found himself unable to speak. It was enormous, great black scales covering its long muscled body that seemed to go on forever. “Plenty of meat on this one to share I think.”

  Paul waited no longer. White stones or not he gathered his cloak about him and leapt over the white stones that surrounded the camp. There had been the usual sense of reluctance as he had approached the stones but the alternative of the two hungry snakes behind him made him ignore the disquiet he felt and so gathering his pace he jumped over the stones.

  As he did so he felt a force lift him and hurl him through the air as if he had been shot from a catapult. Screaming he shot through the air, branches, leaves and trees flying past him as he flew across the ground.

  “Help!” he screamed, and then with a loud thump he hit the ground and went spinning through a carpet of leaves, eventually coming to stop by way of a large fallen tree into which he flew, the hard trunk breaking his flight and sending him sprawling to the ground.

  Paul slumped winded to the ground, unsure of exactly what had happened. He remembered crossing the perimeter of the white stones and as he had done so it was almost as if a giant hand had grabbed him and thrown him through the air. Yet the trunk against which he was now slumped had broken his flight. About one hundred yards away he could just make out the forest path and so climbing unsteadily to his feet he ran back to the path. As he approached he saw the camp up ahead and could just make out the circle of stones. Still dangling from above were the two snakes, one resting its large head on the ground, looking confused as to where Paul had gone.

  “Ere!” snarled the snake still hanging from the tree, “Where’s he gone then? Only gone and scarpered, he has!”

  Unsure of exactly why he was returning Paul screamed and threw himself towards the camp, the slight thought in his mind of shooing the snakes away making little sense even to himself. Sprinting onto the forest path he leapt and hit the perimeter of the camp and the white stones again.

  This time the effect was much more powerful. He flew high into the air, his head spinning as trees and branches flew past him. At points it was as if he flew through them too. A dark wind had cast him away from the camp and he shot through the air until slowly he began to fall down, down through the air and with a thump he fell to the ground, rolling over and over, his new cloak whipping about him as leaves scattered and tore at him.

  Eventually he came to a stop.

  Cursing himself for a fool and finally realising just what the white stones did he groaned and turned himself onto his back, the cold rain falling down over his hooded face, soaking almost instantly his beard and moustache. Slowly he sat up, testing himself for any broken limbs or bones. He felt tender but as far as he could tell in the gloomy wet night he was all in one piece. Slowly and carefully he got to his feet and took stock of where he was.

  As far as he could see in the gloom he was standing in the centre of a large clearing. He was not sure which way the forest road was, nor the camp. Fallen trees littered the forest floor, leaves all around, but the clearing was but a small respite from the thickly knotted gnarled wood. Thick roots rose from the ground, running for many feet before descending back through the leaves and the forest floor. A slight breeze passed through the clearing, and high above the trees creaked, their branches doused with the rain that fell like a silver mantle all around.

  Slowly Paul heard the sound of wind chimes begin to grow in volume. He took a pace back, head spinning as he tried to determine from which direction it rose. Yet soon it became apparent. Across the clearing a small blue orb floated into view, hovering some three feet above the ground. It bobbed as if seeing him and then slowly but surely began to make its way towards where he stood.

  Paul considered running but he did not know where he was, and he knew from what he had seen of it before that it could outpace him easily, and so he stood unmoving as the blue orb, shining brightly in the dark forest glade floated towards him, until it stopped six feet in front of him. Paul held his breath as the orb seemed almost to split down the centre and a large blue eye appeared in the circle, regarding him with malice but curiosity too.

  “Who are you?” said a deep booming voice that seemed to fill the ark glade, rising from the orb like a blow.

  “Who wants to know?” asked Paul, his anger rising, but his heart skipped a beat as the eye blinked, showing anger.

  “Where are you from?” Repeated the voice, anger tinting it this time.

  “Not from round here.” smiled Paul, before adding, “Nowhere that you would know anyway.” There was a small gap as if the orb was considering his answer before it spoke again.

  “What do you want?” it spat and the eye begin to shrink, showing a hooked nose, then another eye. It was as if the orb was but a crystal ball now, slowly revealing the entire face of whatever, or whoever it was that controlled it.

  “I want to go home!” shouted Paul, taking a step forward and to his surprise the orb backed up a pace as if it was suddenly afraid of him.

  The face began to reveal itself in the orb. A bald head, hooked nose and two blue eyes staring at him in anger. Still it moved back, revealing his neck, then his shirt, moving back to show the face and chest of a man clothed in red, staring at him as if he wanted to crush the life from him.

  Paul stared at the orb; the man in the red tunic staring at him. He leaned forward, doubting his eyes, and then gasping at what he was looking at. How? His mind howled. He fought for breath, not realising he was holding it, staring at the red shirted man who was staring back at him as if unsure what to do.

  Paul realised that the breeze in the glade had increased in power somewhat. Now a stiff wind was blowing through the trees and the trees were beginning to creak loudly. The orb seemed to sway to one side as from the ground there shot a long spiked length of brambles that seemed to spiral up around the orb like a whip, grasping the orb and then slowly beginning to crush it. There was a scream of rage from within the blue fire as slowly it began to dwindle in size, shrinking rapidly as the spiked vine wrapped itself about
it until with a sudden blaze of blue light the orb vanished, the bramble creeping back into the forest floor as it disappeared. Tt’s work done.

  The glade was silent again.

  Paul blinked, trying to get the afterglow of the blue flame from his eyes. Slowly he recovered, stumbling from tree trunk to tree trunk as he did like a blind man. He grasped at the trees, his mind in turmoil. Nothing seemed to make sense any more, if indeed it had in the first place. He had stared at the man in the orb with wonder and fear, but now; now he did not know who or what it was.

  He wandered for a while in the rain, his mind turning. He could not find the forest path no matter which way he turned. He was lost and could not find his way. Yet he could not get the orb or the man out of his mind.

  It had happened when the view inside the orb had begun to pull back, to reveal the man inside the vision held in the orb had shown him from the waist above that he had seen it. Yet it made no sense. Why was it there? What did it mean? The more he thought about it the less sense it made.

  It was the red shirt. When the orb had slowly revealed the man shown by the orb he was dressed in red. It looked like a tunic of sorts. Yet he knew now it was not that. It was not that. The lettering on the tunic had driven his mind to confusion and he could not reconcile what he had seen. Yet he knew that what he had seen was correct. Yet there could be no doubt. Before the vine had attacked the orb he had seen the letters upon the red shirt very clearly. Very clearly indeed.

  There could be no doubt, for the lettering was known to every person from where he came. So what were those letters doing there?

  Paul raged in confusion, thinking again of what he had seen. The familiar red shirt. The exactly correct font and lettering on the strange man’s chest. The two words that could not be there’ should not be there. Paul groaned alone in the darkness as he remembered looking upon the logo, and the two words that had been written on the t-shirt.

  The words, “Coca Cola.”

  Chapter Seventeen