My mind is a silver river, my memories run like water—still at times, but mostly thick and coursing.
The currents run in chaos, but always, they move forward. This lake's reflection shows what is my past, but when I dive within, a whole new world opens beneath me.
I'm reminded of times where I was simultaneously omnipresent, but unaware of my consciousness, as if I've blended with the background itself. The permanence of verticality, replaced by a breadth of perspective.
There was no me, no "I"—only the bliss of non-cognition and suspended awareness.
Above, at the point where water meets wind, there exist thousands of wandering specters.
They drift, ethereal and aimless, colliding before separating again as they coalesce in layers of shifting luminosity.
Through their translucent forms, faintly glowing orbs of purple shimmer beneath writhing vines; vines that emanate from them, vines that tangle in a web of hallowed tapestry, weaving itself across the starry sky.
Rolling across the grey sky, thunder now smothers at the starlight, killing it in one strike.
Bang.
The water ripples, a swirling mosaic, holotropic lights refract the storm's otherworldly presence.
Then, reaching out, a hand, completely alien to this place, grabs at me through the reflection.
No—I don't want to go. Clawing scraping, it's no use.
Downward I go, sinking into the shade, the black.
Dark water churns around me, cold viscous and brackish dragging at my limbs.
The reflection dims, hiding my struggle within distant blur; arms flail, legs kick, screams bubble to a muffling stop.
But the depths crawl, mounting with pressure.
Entombed, shackled, lake-bound, my eyes witness a true nothing below.
"Wake up!"—a piercing cry.
My body jolts, lurching me up, ears burning with frost.
So cold.
My arms are clutched tight around my chest, shivering with feverish motions. Every shallow breath of mine condenses into itself, emerging, a burning vapor.
Above me, the sky hangs both bruised and swollen. From it rains down black ichor with a thunderous sigh of deference.
Awake?
The top of my head bends back as my mouth opens, savoring these droplets with a faint outward lick as they land over the roof of my moving tongue.
It's cold, metallic, tinged with a musky flavor. Smacking my lips I swish the flavour around, sucking then slurping, letting it linger.
Wet dog? Mustn't be dreaming, then.
Unable to bring myself swallow not spit, I just… leave it warm.
Ugh.
I blink rapidly, watching as the rains water lands on my nose's tip in complete droplets, before they roll off splashing to the ground.
Huh?
Raising my right hand I gently rub at the spot in question. On it, a slimy layer of film attaches itself to my finger's print—at that moment those same thick globules begin congealing down my jaw, dripping its insulation on both my neck and collar alive.
I wipe my face off, exposing my reddening skin to the endless torrents of stabbing rain.
Eugh. I'm going to puke.
Shaking my wrists violently, I fling away their filth; in doing so, my hand's back smacks against the muzzle of a wet dog staring just inches from my face; his bared teeth and drooling spittle dangle down in glistening threads.
Disgusted. I swallow,
You did this…thanks I guess, and sorry bout the "ahem."
An awkward smile escapes me as I clear my throat.
My hand reaching out ruffles the matted fur behind his chewed ears, wiping the last of his slobber from my palm with a rough but gentle pat.
It barks wildly in response.
"Not… so loud." I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, massaging the knot just tied between my brows.
Lowering his head, his ears flick as his breathing whimpers.
Looking down slowly, he attempts to stand on his hind legs, paws dirtying the thinning fabric of my loose shirt by forcefully kneading. His claws continue prickling against my chest full of hair.
"What is it, boy?" And then my eyes widen—I'm at the front of the cart. Must've been dragged here.
Investigating further I turn my neck squinting through the partition behind. There I spot old Jimson kneeling down. With his iridescent torch clutched in one blood-slicked hand, and a dented shield in the other, his balance seems shaky at best.
His face is pallid, lips tinged with a bruising colour, yet, around his neck still hangs his pendant, pulsing faintly in what I feel is a sickly light.
Shifting my gaze around, I turn to look at the edge of the flickering torchlight outside. To where the shapes and shadows stir and the mud grows deep. Bodies, though mostly concealed, linger in the dark behind, their glossy eyes preying on the pendant's glow as if it were a delicacy.
"Bad dream?" I hear Tim's voice calling out.
"Worse..." A hangover. I cough into my hand.
"Dad gets those visions too. He also says we usually can't trust strangers. But please. Help him!"
I nod.
"Hey Grandpa, need a hand?"
"Took ya long enough, princess." His voice bounces back both gruff and brittle.
"No need! The front… lose weight… quick!" Jerking his hand at me violently, he gestures towards the space next to me.
Bones, ligaments, muscles, all frozen stiff, creak inside as I force myself in an uptight stance. The world lurches, and I almost fall into the yonks straining ahead.
Steadying myself, I hold onto the wooden planks, scanning through the nearby chaos. To my east, Tim's white-knuckled hands grasp his leash, eyes wide, staring past me. Following his gaze to the west, a large toolbox made of corroded iron, lazily sits in its spot to greet me.
"There," Tim points to my left.
"On it."
Once again, my legs creak, Ignoring the strange feeling I sweep aside the clutter. Various items stationed upright scatter around I wrench open the box.
With fading dexterity, I fumble; items slip, greased in wet mud: Rope. A clouded bottle. Dried meat gone hard. Wire. Scissors. Cloth and a sewing kit. I chuck them all into a brown sack.
Stripping the container bare then tossing aside its iron cover allows me to dig further inside the bottom compartment.
Two spare wheels, some strange shell, and a sack of labelled moon-grass seed all reveal themselves to see the night of our day.
Throwing the boxes shell over the edge, it tumbles, then falls directly into a ditch.
"Done yet?" a voice interrupts.
"Yeah."
"Good," the old man responds hoarsely. "That'll buy you enough time. Take Tim and leave—"
"NOOO! Don't listen to him!" Tim screams from the front. "Save him. You promised. Please!"
I freeze, my mind feels sluggish.
"Go on. Gyet!"
Fuck! I don't wanna orphan the kid. I hope he understands his father's love.
Turning around Tim stares at me, his eyes shining. My chest aches as I rush over and press his head to my chest.
Noticing the large hatchet in his small hands I reach out and grasp my fingers around it.
. . .
No. Not again. Not like this. Fight goddamn it, fight.
The words force themselves from out my mouth involuntarily.
"You get on Cindy—I'll go get him back." I nod my head slowly.
After rubbing his cheek, I smudge his stream of wet tears and vandalise his face with my thumbs print.
"Pass me the hatchet… Please."
His hands take seconds to part away. However slowly though, he eventually presents me the hatchet with his trembling hands and open palms.
"Thanks," I whisper, patting the top of his head.
Turning back, I grab the bottle. The hatchet chews through the seal with a dull pop, emitting a turpentine stench, sharp and chemical.
Hope it's not fire season.
I vault the wooden divider, knees gruff in squat as kinetic shock splinters up my spine and sinew.
"What the fuck are you doing? Go… save my son!"
"Foolish pride. If anyone dies here, it's me, Jim."
I stagger forward, grabbing his body through the quaking shifts.
His large and pronounced forearms become my only anchor in this seismic quake. With my most powerful grip I stabilise myself with him, shifting my gaze to look where he does, to the darkness beyond.
We stand there, shoulder to shoulder, sweat trickling down our tense faces under a shallow illumination. Facing us, it lurks.
Its monstrous outline is betrayed by the grim torchlight. Looming. Snapping and snarling.
"Hand me your match."
"Why—?"
"Do it. Now." I command.
His eyes widen. His hands fumble in his belt pulling out a paper matchbox.
Snatching it, I strike.
Dud.
My hands are wet, the box soggy.
I strike again; it snaps.
"Useless," Jim breathes loudly. His ragged hand swoops down in retaliation, scooping up the matchbox from my grasp, dropping his torch in its stead.
A flame instantly blossoms in his grasp.
"I Practice. Pour… Now!" He spits through clenched teeth. Eye demanding.
Handing his torch back, I shake the bottle. Turpentine dribbles out in oily ropes. Skin splatters; eyes shut, mouths snap, gurgle, and choke on the oncoming deluge.
Eat up, my little cuties… drink deep.
Then, cutting through my malicious thoughts—a lone ember, flung high, arcs through the rain like a frail star hurled into the abyss.
The match, cast.
Bang.
The world detonates in a blinding cataract, their forms all captured within a guilty frame. A screaming firework of skyburst crimson unfurls against the blackened moor behind.
Heat bludgeons my face with a fatalistic strike. I squint, teeth bared, breath evicted from my lungs. Then, seeping through the blaze we feel it.
Fear.
Not of fire, nor death. But something much, much older.
An aura plunges over us with the certainty of man's first predator, steeped in ancient dominion. Its lingering presence doesn't request to be felt—it demands it.
No, no time to think. Die later. Live, now!
The old man falters too. Legs trembling before they give way beneath his weight. His body falls, gaze still staring up at their clear but abominable visage, burning in the firelight.
"Move it," I manage to sputter as I crouch beside him.
"But…?"
He pauses momentarily then his pasty face regains a scratch of colour.
Turning to look, we nod.
Lifting him up, whilst carrying him I leave. No further words uttered.
Lunging forward I retreat back through the stilted quagmire.
My boot slamming against the front of the carriage.
Nothing.
The wood holds. Pain shoots up my knee, jagged and electric.
So much for my quick escape.
"Climb, quick," I growl, dropping down to one knee.
Climbing over me, he plants his boot in the cradle of my thigh, heaving himself up and over the divider.
Following next I vault the barrier; my injured knee buckles upon impact. A curse tears loose from my lips.
"I told you to just leave me," he snaps.
"Never!" I hiss back.
Seizing his collar, I haul him along towards the yonks for two half-steps. Finally reaching them, I throw him ontop—His back collides with a dull, meaty thud.
"Hold him." I demand.
"I… can't!"
"Try. For his sake."
Timothy, twisting his waist in an awkward mount cinches one arm around his father's neck, the other still wrenches on his leash.
"It's… it's climbing on," old Jim spatters, pointing back with a trembling finger.
Fuck.
The hatchet's in my hand before I think, swinging at the carriage's tongue.
It bites hard. Wood screams. My palms split. Again. The grain resists. Splinters fly. Again. Nails shriek free. Again.
Groaning beneath their added weight; the yonks continue dragging forward, hooves kicking up mud, breath chafing like rope.
Faster.
With each new strike, my skin splits but this doesn't stop me.
More!
The nails in the partition behind finally start to give way, groaning like a butchered swine dragged to the slaughter.
Adrenaline pumps thick in my veins and with a final heave, I drive all my weight down, splitting the wooden frame.
Thin planks explode to flying shrapnel as I hear the wood behind snap too.
Despite this, I haul up the whimpering dog and leap forth without looking back.
Before groaning beneath my rough landing, I sit up, pulling on the harness.
"GO!"
Samuel plows forth with breakneck speed as Cindy, carrying Tim and Jimson rides slightly ahead.
Upon reaching the end of their rope, the tongue finally snaps, pitching the cart back violently.
Terror and momentum drive the yonks forward, through their sudden shift in momentum.
Lurching forward with muscles taut, a guttural 'noor' bellows from their dry throats, as they surge forward to regain their balance.
Over my shoulder from the corner of my eye, I see the cart is swallowed whole by the cold, wet, and dark.
Brown turns to black. Clear becomes Blur; the horizon chokes, smudging in smoke.
The cradle's embers kindle to flame then its frame withers, decomposing in the mouth of the ever-hungry blaze.
That howl ascends, indescribable still. Lamenting beyond its fiery grave.
Finally, I breathe out.
We're alive.