by Evren, S. K.
His body collapsed and sprawled out around him. He had felt no pain at the impact, and he was not unconscious. His mind, in its depths, still raced, but on the surface, he only called, weakly, to his mother. He called to his mother as might a wounded and frightened child, unsure of all around him. He called to his mother and to his Maker, alternating between some protective childhood and shattered fragments of prayerful lucidity. He begged his mother and his God for protection. He begged his mother and his God to keep his sanity, to keep it warm and safe. He sobbed, silently, trying to explain to his mother and to his God that he wasn’t sure he could care for his sanity anymore. “No,” he told them, “I’m just not certain anymore.”
He grasped a handful of leaves and clutched them in his hand. He gathered more and more leaves to his breast until he had a pile large enough to hug. He clung to the leaves as a child might cling to a favorite stuffed toy. He would squeeze the leaves, crushing them to his frame, and then relax his grip, as if he were crushing not a toy, but comforting a lover. He would release his hold on the leaves, and pat them gently, trying to make some order out of them. Then, gripped in a fear that couldn’t even show in the expression of his face, he’d crush the pile to himself again. The leaves would enter his rib cage, and he’d desperately scramble to assemble more, afraid that the leaves, like everything else, would desert him.
He had no idea of how much time had passed on the floor in the leaves. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Nothing mattered to him at that point. “Nothing,” he thought to himself.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he repeated in a sing-song voice in his mind, “nothing, nothing, nothing.” It became his new mantra. Rocking in the leaves, fearfully working to keep his pile with him, he sang his chant within his mind, over and over. His head still swiveled from time to time, looking for answers. Occasionally, his view jerked to one corner of the cottage or another, as if some answer were lurking there, hiding just out of sight. His head would snap from one position to another, as he tried to catch the furtive movements of the elusive answers. His empty eyes would focus on the equally empty space, waiting for the answers to misstep and appear. Then his body would go back to rocking, and leaves would again scatter on the floor.
The sun returned to the sky with the morning, shining through shattered windows to find Drothspar still prone on the floor. Unable to sleep, his rocking had subsided, receding to almost rhythmic twitches. Leaves would scatter with the occasional violent lurch of his body, but the intervals between the occurrences were becoming greater and greater. The twitches devolved into tremors, slight movements which only rustled the mass of leaves around him.
Dust rose up into the cool morning rays of the sun’s light. The sun continued to pour through the windows, covering the skeletal form lying on the ground. The light became a blanket, warming both leaves and bones. If Drothspar felt the warmth of the sunlight, he did not acknowledge it. If he had been living, he might have been blessed with sleep, but no sleep came. In time, a protective form of silence blanketed his mind just as the light had blanketed his body. As the sun reached over the cottage, no longer visiting through the windows, Drothspar’s trembling body stilled. The leaves did not rustle, the bones did not shake. All was silence around him, save only for the stirring of the vagrant breeze.
The skeleton lay motionless on the floor of its former home. Trees surrounding the cottage sang a soft, dry dirge in the stirring winds. The waters of the nearby lake rippled, shattering reflections of the sky overhead. As the day moved on, clouds in the sky bundled together thickly, darkening the day prematurely. The dirge of the trees became louder, picked up by many others as the wind blew strongly off the lake. The ripples of the water became waves lapping against the shore. With a clap and a hiss, they joined in with the rustling of the leaves.
Light bled from the cottage to dissipate in the world outside. The darkening clouds kept their promise, and rain began to fall, gently at first. The patter of rain tapped on the roof and slapped at the leaves in the trees. The hiss of the water grasping the shore was replaced by the ever-louder sizzling of the rain on the lake itself. The strong scent of moisture filled the air. Slanted diagonally by the winds, the rain came first in one set of windows and then the other, covering the floor and leaves with water. Still, the silent skeleton did not move. No tremors touched the body now. Only the sounds of the falling rain disturbed the stillness in the cottage.
Clouds roiled overhead, eager to release their gathered water on the world below. Light fell from the land, and not even the moon pierced the thick, churning clouds. The rain continued, unabated, mastering the world out-of-doors. All the animals of the forest sought shelter, and nothing moved that was not pushed by water or wind. As the night wore on, the clouds above began to struggle, one with another. Great, thundering crashes echoed across the water of the lake, and small animals crawled deeper into their burrows. Sheets of lighting lashed across the sky, tracing their reflections in lake and puddles. Shattering cracks erupted in the night as trees exploded into splinters and hissing sap.
The storm that fell on the forest gathered strength as it poured in from the east. The sound of the falling rain was soon washed away by the howling of the wind. The howling of the wind could only be heard in the brief intervals between shattering blasts of thunder. Brilliant flashes of light blazed mere seconds before the thunder replied, and the replies were coming more and more quickly. The lightning turned the darkness brighter than midday and all the world flickered between positive and negative. The limits of the lake expanded as the ever hungry water sought to overpower the land. Engorged by the constantly falling rain, the lake swelled until its wind-blown waves crashed over the top of the old wooden pier.
The gusting wind turned chill and cold, sucking the heat from both land and water. Leaves blew in clusters from the trees, flying off into the night like erratic bats. The trees, themselves, were left naked to the world—great skeletal creatures surrounding the little home. Their branches, so denuded, reached with bone-like branches to scratch and scrape at the walls and roof of the cottage. Eerie screeching accompanied the creaking of the wood, as the trees worked to open the structure. The howling of the wind laughed and hooted a counterpoint to the hungry clawing, mocking all resistance in the darkness.
Through all the darkness and light, through all the howling and screeching, Drothspar remained unmoving on the floor. The water of the storm had rolled in among his leaves and bones. He did not stir. Shattering cracks of thunder rolled off of him as if he were stone. The blinding flashes of lightning did not move him. The leaves he had gathered swirled around him in gusting drafts of wind. He made no effort to stop them or to gather more. He remained silent and still.
The storm raged throughout the remainder of the night. Throwing all it had against the little cottage, the storm seemed to challenge the apathy of the creature within. Reinforcing itself with strength from the east, the thunder and rain continued past daybreak. The thick, dark clouds permitted only minimal light to squeeze through, covering the landscape in a blue-gray shroud. The bare-limbed trees stood silhouetted against the leaden sky. Shadows did not exist in the diffuse steel light of the storm. The staccato lashing of the rain continued to accompany the howling of the wind.
Inside the cottage, the still remains of Drothspar were partially covered with wet and sticking leaves. Lying in the stain of his lover’s blood, he looked as if he had fallen, himself, on that very spot. One arm reached out toward the door, the other still clutched a dwindling pile of leaves. The skeleton, several feet from walls, windows or door, presented a macabre center-piece to a broken and forgotten room.
Chapter 10 – Chance
The rain had come none too quickly for the soul moving through the woods. Falling water had knocked the reek of something foul from the wind. Before the rain had come, it had smelled as if every grave had opened for miles around. The rain, however, had cleansed the air—somewhat—and though it was still cold and wet, it was
an improvement. Opening a pack, the figure pulled out a flask, unscrewed the cap, and drank deeply. The body shuddered and its head snapped away from the flask. Replacing the cover, the dark figure put the flask away and moved on through the trees.
The old man’s directions had been about as smooth as his liquor, the figure thought to itself as it slogged its way across the wet forest floor. A warm, burning sensation flowed through the living body, and the rain became less of an inconvenience.
“Smooth or not, if his directions are as effective as his drink, I’m set,” the figure whispered to no one in particular. Looking about, the traveler decided that the forest really wasn’t that bad of a place, at least now that the stench had died down. The trees, though bare, were doing something to keep the rain at bay. The water had actually plastered the fallen leaves to the forest floor, so branches and roots were a little easier to spot in the darkness.
Occasionally, the figure would stop and listen amongst the trees, more from habit than from any real concern. After a few moments of watching and listening, it would move on, stepping carefully, warmed by the alcohol. Carried in one hand was a small box slung low in a metal handle. Every so often, the figure would lift the box and open its face to the stormy night. A small shaft of light would seep out from the covered lantern to illuminate the wet path ahead.
The path had grown over with time, just as the old man had said it would. It was still fairly clear, compared to the random lines and game trails which crossed and thatched through the trees. The old man had said there would be a farm on the way, a ruined scar left by the last invasion from the East. This path, he had said, would lead directly to that farm. The figure moved along the path, steadying itself on trees. The rough bark was a comfort to the hand, secure and hard, easy to grasp.
The night seemed to go on forever. The storm had clouded, literally, all sense of time. Darkness had fallen early under the blackened skies, and with no moon or stars to judge by, time stood still. The land still moved beneath the feet, the figure assured itself.
Looking out past the trunks and limbs of the forest, the figure spied a clutch of deformed shadows, blacker than the night around them. They presented themselves not so much as distinctive entities, but as an unbroken inky blackness so dense that even the dimmest light did not leak through. It tugged at the vision and worried the mind. The figure stopped again to listen. The patter of the rain and the howling of the wind were joined by new sounds; an eerie, squeaking creak and the slapping of wood on wood came quickly into the forest like frightened children. A chill ran down the figure’s spine, only to be countered by another pull from its flask.
Moving slowly, cautiously, the figure stepped out of the trees and into the clearing around the farm. Just as the old man had said, it thought to itself, as the warmth of the liquor took hold. The buildings had been fairly big at one point, probably fairly well made. They had also been destroyed long ago, and there was certainly nothing of value among the remains. With a small sigh and a shrug, the figure moved on to find the cattle pen.
The old man had said to trace the fence along the buildings until it turned away from them. Then, he said, follow the turn half of its length, and head straight away from the fence toward the forest. The figure did as it had been instructed, following the fence along its length. It ran its hand along the wood for a time, until a splinter convinced the hand to jerk away.
Crossing the distance from the fence to the forest had been easier said than done. What had appeared to be a clear field in the darkness contained ploughed furrows grown over with grass. The figure stumbled once before catching on to them, then walked more cautiously. It felt strange to be exposed in an open field after moving through the protective shadows of the trees. It was like passing from an alley into a great city square. Anyone could be watching.
The rain made visibility very low that night, and the figure consoled itself with that. Halfway through the field, a deafening crack, like the detonation of a massive siege cannon, crashed through all the sounds of the night. The figure dropped to the ground with a practiced speed, falling prone but alert. It was the first blast of thunder that the figure had heard that night, setting its heart to racing. Lying still on the ground, the thunder returned louder and closer than before. The figure waited flat on the ground.
With dazzling speed and brilliance, great arcs of lightning snaked through the roiling sky. A flicker that turned night into day was followed a half-dozen seconds later by a shattering crash of thunder. The figure looked at the tall, wet trees ahead and decided to double back. Feeling more than naked in the field, the figure knew it stood a better chance against the lightning in the open than among the tall trees. The farm, it thought. Perhaps one of the ruined buildings might provide at least some cover until the worst of the storm blew over. Dashing back as quickly and as carefully as it could, the figure reached the cattle fence and followed it back to the burned-out structures.
Outside one of the buildings, the figure almost fell into a wide, gaping blackness. Uncovering its lantern, the figure found the open cellar of what it thought to be the main farm house. Considering only for a moment, the figure decided to follow the steps down into the darkness, its lantern held ahead and open, and one hand concealed in its cloak. The stairs were covered with a crumbly layer of grass. The grass had grown in dirt and sediment that had washed into the cellar in storms past. Stepping down into the depths, the figure halted at the bottom of the stairs and scanned the walls with the lantern.
The shelves were empty, for the most part. Many were broken, some, near the entrance, were burned. Shards of glass littered the few that remained horizontal, remnants of jars that had once held preserves, jams, and jellies. Nothing moved in the cellar, though the storm lashed, flashed and thundered just up the stairs. A strong draft of wind pushed down the stairs and into the cellar, setting the lantern to swaying in its handle. The figure turned toward the stairs and backed, slowly, into the cellar. Its heel struck something on the ground, and its foot stopped immediately, to prevent itself from falling. Turning slowly on that heel, the lantern bathed the floor with light.
Vacant eyes stared back from an unattached skull, while stick-thin arms in tattered clothes stretched toward the figure’s foot. The figure stood stock still, certain that its heart could be heard over the thunder. Three corpses, mere skeletons, were splayed out on the floor, one arm disturbed by the pivoting heel. All three bodies were missing their heads, their skulls lying scattered on the floor. Judging by their clothing, the bodies had once belonged to a man, a woman, and a young girl. The clothing, what remained of it, was stained a dark, faded black, and revealed secrets of bone through tattered holes. The floor around the bodies was stained with the same black, but also sicklier colors of amber and brown. The skulls were surrounded by clumps of moldering hair, and similar, though smaller, stains.
The figure fought to keep its gorge down, putting all the details of the scene together. It noticed the small, deep indentations of animal teeth, and the fractures in the skulls that had cracked like hard-boiled eggs. Stains in the clothing surrounded not only the necks and shoulders of the victims, but the torsos and arms, even the legs. The figure shook its head and closed its eyes drawing its breaths with conscious effort. Great Maker, the figure thought, what kind of animals—
Something cracked loudly in the cellar, snapping the figure’s eyes open instantly. The lantern swung away from the bodies and searched through the cellar, though nothing appeared to be moving. Another sound came through the darkness, from the area of the cellar opposite of the lantern’s light. It seemed like something dragging on the dirt floor, a shuffle or a scrape. The lantern swung swiftly in that direction to find nothing. The scenes of violent deaths, it thought, were rumored to be attended by the victims long after life. Of course, it could have been a mouse, the figure thought rationally, as something slid from a broken shelf to clatter on the floor.
Backing toward the stairs and the crashing storm outside, the f
igure kept its eyes on the cellar and its grim contents. Chills ran the length of the retreating body, and the air became cold, as if suddenly freezing. Hairs rose on the chilled arms and legs, even the tiny hairs of the neck, and something deep and instinctual urged the figure to head into the physical dangers of the storm surging in the night. Backing up the stairs, the figure emerged out of the cellar and backed quickly away from the structure. Thunder and lightning chased each other in the night air and water fell in conflicting angles. The wooden shutter which had been slapping itself almost rhythmically began to beat violently against the building, reminding the figure of the lashing tail of an angry cat. The squeaking creak that must have come from a rusted door hinge screamed as if in agony, its wails carried off on the gusting winds.
For a moment, Death surrounded the figure. The farmstead, once living, and now as much a corpse as the skeletal remains it housed, cried out against the atrocities it had witnessed and succumbed to. The storm brayed like an insane audience, listening to the accusing voices of the fallen. Freezing air flooded the compound and hail began to beat down heavily on the grass and blackened wood. Racing for cover, the figure sought shelter in the standing shell of the barn.
Once inside, the lantern bled light onto shifting images dangling from the rafters. Blackened by fire, rib cages hung from iron hooks, swaying over the scattered remains of old bones. Where the cellar had held only three tortured corpses, the barn had been scene to some grisly orgy of violence. Skulls dangled loosely from eye sockets, swinging on other iron hooks. Entire skeletons fell around the sharpened stakes on which they had been impaled. Shutters which had been stuck solid to the structures for years came loose and tripped against their walls like fear-crazed hearts. The screaming of the rusted hinge became a cry of utter and complete anguish, filling the cavern of the barn. Skulls on hooks seemed to swivel and stare at the intruder and wind moaned throughout the rotting wood. Spinning with uncanny speed, the figure darted out of the barn.