Mythical

by William Petersen

  Chapter 9

  Much to his surprise, Marcus wasn't dying, though he couldn't see anything except an intense white. It was like staring directly at the morning sun after just waking, but this light was coming from everywhere, and no matter where he looked, the intensity was uniform. The electric current pulsing throughout his body was physically rocking it, he felt himself bumping against the ice, the horn pinning his arm, the resistance of the water as he moved and the currents as they washed around him.

  Marcus was at the point at which he thought his head was going to explode, and then realized the pain had him squeezing his eyes shut as tight as they would close. The light was in his head. What the? He tried to inquire mentally, when the energy pulsing throughout his body intensified, stiffening his limbs and arching his back, cutting off all thoughts.

  He seemed to be waking up, although, coming to would be a better description; he was becoming aware and though groggy in his head, the realization of what was going on came right back. The blinding light and pulsing energy were both gone, replaced by a comfortable, floating sensation and a dull gray everywhere.

  He wasn't cold, he couldn't feel the water or the huge horn spiked through the skin on his forearm, though he was floating nonetheless, he could feel it very distinctly. The all-encompassing gray was giving way to a mist, he could see some depth to it now, and darker, somewhat amorphous shapes were materializing. He realized that he was looking down, onto what was another story entirely, but it was becoming more and more clear.

  He was looking down on a green field, there were still wispy tendrils of the gray passing by, as if he were descending through cloud cover, though there was no sensation of movement and, his perspective was not changing; the gray seemed to be moving passed him. It was an unbelievable rolling, green field that was bordered on one side by thick old-growth forest, steaming with moisture and featuring the deepest green crowns he'd ever seen.

  The emerald fields gently rose into crests of foothills and knolls in the distance, and he could clearly see there was only one sign of life here, a dark gray, almost black structure, rectangular and long. It sat atop a broad and gently-sloped hill. He could see for miles in all directions, and this was the only structure anywhere.

  There were people moving around and his vision went all white again, though not as intense this time, and then he was at the foot of the hill that the structure was perched upon. He saw the trail leading up to what was, without a doubt from this range, a castle. The six ramparts clearly visible and very distinct, each having three spikes, as opposed to the familiar open-blocks that most ramparts featured. These were obviously not for defense, maybe for viewing or just to be imposing, but definitely not for defense.

  Dozens of people were moving about in tattered clothing and cloth shoes and boots, they were very dirty and carrying tools, baskets and bundles. They were working with the drive of an ant colony. A lone figure stood at the edge of the hill's plateau, away from the bustle and movement, surveying the meadow below, looking toward the forest. He held a large staff, had flowing black robes and a long, thick gray beard, though the rest of his head was shrouded in a draping hood.

  Marcus followed the bearded man's gaze toward the treeline, seeing that there was quite a bit going on there as well, now that he was closer. The same dirty, matted-haired people were working hard here too, dragging large animals out of the woods, obviously dead, matting and flattening a trail as they did so. There were seven or eight of these very large creatures already arranged neatly on the ground, and he realized from the legs and shape that they were horses, very big, horses.

  The horses were a slate-colored base, punctuated by beige and off-white spots throughout. The one they were presently dragging had several of what looked like sticks protruding from its side and neck. The flared ends of the shafts told Marcus they were arrows. There were two in its side and four in its neck. They were apparently hunting wild horses. A cart was now in view and planks were arranged to drag two horses at a time onto it, then it was dragged away by hand.

  They should be using those horses to pull the carts... he thought, then was blinded again, and this time it really hurt. He was back with the whales, underwater, and the spearing whale had repositioned itself to put its eye as close to his face as it could get, without removing the giant horn from his arm and the ice. The whale looked, well, it looked impatient... and just a little angry. He started to ask himself if whales could be angry or impatient, but quickly remembered how he had gotten to this very point and the shish-ka-bobbed invader, concluding that these whales could be whatever they wanted to be.

  It also became clear to him that he was not breathing, water or whale breath, and that the fun little trip he had just taken, he had taken without ever leaving the farm. It was all in his head, and upon making eye-contact with the whale again, he knew it was coming from the animal. It was trying to show him something.

  As if realizing that 'the human gets it now,' the whale flexed slightly and the trip was back underway. Marcus thought to himself that he should keep those kinds of comments about the horses to himself. The animals were running this show, and they could probably hear what he was thinking. Maybe I'll just pay attention then... echoed in his head.

  He was back with the horse killers again, and he was very close this time, maybe ten or fifteen feet away from the animal with the arrows still in it. There was a lot of blood, he couldn't see it as well until he was close. It was a lot of blood. He traced the path of the arrows, and he could see now that one was embedded into its hindquarter, apparently shot from behind, wounded and then finished off, most likely. The arrows in the side were in a little deeper and those in the neck were in nearly halfway, denoting close-in, killing shots. Four, close-in killing shots.

  He started to look away when something registered in his head that this scene was not quite right. Well, there were quite a few things not right about this whole deal, but there was something wrong about this horse. It was huge, sure, bigger than a Clydesdale, but something wasn't right about it. Even in his mind, his ethereal head and neck turned sideways, resembling a dog that is trying to understand human speech. Then he got it... the horse had a horn.

  The horse had two horns, he noted upon closer inspection, similar to those of certain antelope, twisting outward from above the eyes, where the skull was thickest. Each one spiraled out to around two feet, the left one turning clockwise, the right one turning counterclockwise, thinning and straightening, until the last four inches or so were sharp spikes, coming closer together where the points formed.

  The horns spread out from the base of the skull, forming an oval shape, then curved back in, like two decorative daggers that were joined to make a single weapon. They were dark too, lightening a bit as they became slender at the tips. There were shorter, splintered arrow shafts as well, he couldn't see them at first because they had broken off in the animal. Must have been one hell of a fight, Marcus surmised.

  He felt a pang of guilt. The majestic animal had obviously been ambushed, attacked from behind and crippled, then shot from a distance as it tried to get within striking range of its horns. Then, realizing its situation, it had tried to get away. It was a sad sight, and when he looked closer at the remaining animals, all had similar wounds, signs of struggle and... the horns.

  He was trying figure out how to turn his imaginary, floating body, which he could not see, around to take in more when the light returned. When it faded this time, he was inside the castle. There were long, wooden tables with vials, trays, jars and other containers filled with an array of colored liquids, some bubbling and smoking, others containing powders and other condensates. People were working diligently here too.

  It was a lab. It was a medieval laboratory, and before he could ask, his vision flashed again and he was in another part of the castle. Mr. Gray Beard was here too, he was standing at a window and looking out, holding his staff in his right hand. Behind him was a large rectangular table made of very thick wood.
Mr. Gray Beard had a vial of his own. His contained a white powder that looked like flour.

  Doin' a little blow eh? Marcus thought. He knew it was more than that and wanted to joke as a way of diverting the seriousness of what he was seeing. He was already making small connections in his subconscious, though a clear picture was not yet available. Mr. Gray Beard turned, with staff in hand, his eyes were a piercing, pale blue and full of ill-intent. Everything went white again...

  He was back in the air, now over a village, well, more like a small town. There were primitive roads and structures, mostly housing, with small farm plots everywhere. Armored horseman were riding through, though not on the horned horses, these were much smaller, normal size horses.

  The riders were dropping small bags that puffed when they hit the ground, but the puff was not brown, as the dirt was; it was white, like the powder in the vial on Gray Beard's table. Behind them, people were running around, attacking each other, attacking their work and stock animals. They were writhing on the ground and pulling their own hair out in bloody patches. Everything was white again.

  Marcus was back at the top of the hill, looking down the opposite side from the forest's edge, where the workers were taking the bodies of the giant horses. Once on the other side, the horses were unceremoniously dumped out and decapitated, with the body being slid down the side of the hill.

  A well-worn, blood-slick track had developed, denoting the amount of use. At the bottom rested a burn pit, where more workers were pulling horse carcasses into the pit and stoking the fires. From the size of the pit, there must have been hundreds, maybe even thousands, of dead animals in there. He was glad he couldn't smell. His vision took him back to the horse heads. The workers were skinning the heads and removing the horns very carefully, ensuring to get all of the attachments that fed blood and nutrients to them, he assumed.

  He flashed again, and when his vision refocused, he was in a dark and thickly wooded area, mist and sunbeams cutting through where they could in the dense pack of trees and undergrowth. A horse was in front of him and it looked back, like it could see him, then started walking. His vision began flashing in and out so fast that he was having trouble taking it in, images appearing and disappearing, like they were being sped up. Someone hit the fast-forward button, was his mental reply.

  The horned horses had been driven farther and farther into the thick woods, pursued the entire time by Gray Beard and his minions, until there was no more forest in which to hide. They pushed the species into the swamps where, after thousands of years of cat and mouse, they began to adapt in response to their new environment. Growing shorter, the horses' legs became thicker and flatter to better navigate swamp conditions.

  As generations of horses came and went, so did the generations of Gray Beard's descendants, keeping their relentless pursuit alive. In time, even the swamps offered no more protection. The majestic animals were pushed closer and closer to the ocean, where they eventually began to spend more time in the water, ultimately trading legs for fins, a snout for a blowhole and finally, merging their two horns into one extremely long horn. They were narwhals.

  He knew what they were, and not just from television, he had seen them in real life many times. It was all coming together in his head. Then it was all white again. He was over the research station as it must have been at the start of the attack. The men in white were overtaking the camp, and he could already see two people face-down in the snow, wearing the same light-gray colored clothing Maddie wore. The three people Maddie had described, the last researchers she had watched die, were on their knees, awaiting their end.

  The two she had mentioned, the sniper and the man in charge, were there as well, and he was instantly aware of the man in charge. His eyes were a piercing, pale blue, and his hair was gray, not the gray of an old man, but the gray of a disturbing figure in long robes and with a staff, killing now-extinct horses for their horns. Except they were not extinct, they were whales, and that could only mean one thing: they were here to get what was left of the herd, which was now this pod of whales.

  The connections were coming like bullets from a machine gun now, it all came together, and it meant they would be on their way to find Maddie as well. There was no way this guy was going to chance leaving a witness, and even if she got away, he knew who she was.

  He was back underwater now, with the whale still just a foot or so from his face, though the whale's horn was no longer in his arm. He stared intently at the animal, looking deep into its eye with a new sense of understanding. The other whales were also back and using their horns to lift him to the surface, they held him in place until he could scramble back onto the ice.

  He looked back to see all of the whales at the surface, with the large one in the middle. A huge shudder passed through the ice, shaking snow from the sides of the trench, with a cracking sound wave following close behind. It was obviously another explosion. It was them. He needed to get back to the shelter, without coming into contact with any of them, and he had to do this before he froze to death from bath-time with the whales.