There,
over by one of the thick copse of trees that surrounded the field,
George suddenly espied something from out the corner of his eye. An
indiscernible figure, a mobile featureless mass, dissolving into the
shelter of the trees. “ HULLO ?” he called out instinctively. “
HULLO? OI, YOU OVER THERE !” he continued more persistently with
his attempt at contact. But to this there was still no reply. It
should be noted that of all the things that George had question to
doubt in life, his ability to talk – often and loudly - was not one
of them. So the absence of any reaction from the mysterious passer-by
gave him cause for concern. He could only speculate one of two things
accountable for such behaviour: either the intended recipient had
simply chosen – for what ever reason – not to reply to the calls,
or it just hadn't heard them. And as George had watched the short
lived imprint of his warm breath in the freezing air, like an audible
smoke signal, it seemed fare to conclude that the fault was not in
the sending of the message, but in it's reception. A lone, wild,
thought set out on the long journey across his troubled mind. Was it
possible that the dismal climate, itself - by natural or unnatural
means – be strangely responsible for the interference of the
message's dispatch ? That the freezing moisture-laden air was imbued
with some kind of curious nonconductive property – impervious to
sound, heat or life ? Capable of restricting the travel of words
passing through it's saturated ether, like a drowning man trying to
converse whilst submerged in water. Or was the estranged figure
merely... as deaf as a post ! It seemed that the field of conjecture
was still as unfathomable as the space between George's ears.
He
stood motionless, for what seemed an interminable age, staring into
the treeline waiting, watching, in case anything else threatened to
emerge. But, it didn't. Eventually, with no other sign of movement or
life imminent, he began to question if he had actually seen anything
at all. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, a misbehaving
shadow, or some other unknown errant peculiarity. Then again, it may
have purely been a figment of his imagination ( vivid as always )
creating something out of nothing. Whatever it was, he knew it
deserved further investigation. He glanced around to check on the
whereabouts of the rest of the group, and to see if any of them had
witnessed his phantom mirage, too. But they were all too far away and
wrapped up in their own singular thoughts to have noticed anything
else. The closest person in proximity to George was Buster, and
without his spectacles on he couldn't be relied on to see any further
than his own hand – unless there was a pint at the end of it. And
his hearing was so impaired – not to mention selective - that he
only ever heard the penny drop, relatively speaking, when it was to
his own advantage. In fact, the only one of Buster's sense's not to
be affected, apparently, by age or abuse was his sense of smell, as
it always seemed to detect trouble.
George
was not acquainted with the phrase, 'so near but so far', but never
had it applied so appropriately as to his current situation. For
though his fellow brothers-in-arms were indeed in sight, spread out
as they were, they may as well have been a hundred miles away - for
all the good they were to him. To be surrounded by people and yet
still feel alone inside was not a new experience to George. In fact,
it was quite the contrary – it was an old and all too familiar one.
And it only served to resurrect long buried emotions and memories
which had haunted him for most of his life.
Orphaned,
as he was, from an early age and never to experience the joy of
adoption, due in part to his recurring ill-health issues and a series
of unfortunate events that seemed to conspire against him. His only
constant companions throughout his 'internment' were hope and dreams
– as he painfully witnessed his friends slowly desert him, one by
one, as they were taken from him to be part of their 'new' family.
Eventually, after years of abject rejection and disillusionment of
life, George was released into his, not so, brave new world. Standing
outside the orphanage's iron gates, cold and bitter, with nothing
more than the clothes on his back, a fistful of coins and an empty
heart, he pledged that he was never going to rely on anything or
anybody else ever again. Swearing to himself that from that moment on
he would take care of himself – and only himself ! Since life had
chosen to so mercilessly turn it's back on him, he was now going to
turn his back - on the world. For the first time in his life he was
free: free to do what ever he wanted, go wherever he wished, be who
wanted to be – yes, at last he was truly free of everything. Except
for one small matter – his past.
After
this period of prolonged tormented reflection, the decision to act
fell like a guillotine – cold, and brutally sharp. Exhaling deeply,
as if expelling the last breath of resistance at what had to be done,
he started trudging grimly through the snow towards the trees. Unable
to say to for certain whether he was compelled to follow this course
of action by his head or his heart, only that his gut was telling
him, screaming at him, to turn back before it was too late. But, it
was no good. He knew he had to see it through, call it duty, a
momentary flicker of responsibility even, or perhaps it was a whisper
of selflessness. Whichever it was, it had set him on a collision
course directly into the arms of man's greatest fear – the unknown.
The
deeper he ventured into the woods the more he lost sight of the rest
of his party, until at last they were nothing more than a minor
disruption to the ebb and flow of the murky mass that now lay claim
to them. It had been getting steadily darker, even before he had
entered the sheltering trees , but now under their looming boughs the
restricted light condition intensified. The swirling ground mist
around his legs held selfishly and tightly to any secrets it may have
harboured. Not only laying waste to any chance of finding any
footprints in the snow – earthly or otherwise - but also affecting
his ability to cover the terrain with any degree of alacrity or
proficiency. As the invisible irregularities of the ground pitted
with various scattered rocks and exposed roots – the growing pains
of large trees - hampered his progress with an endless succession of
trips, stumbles and falls.
This
type of prolonged exertion was something of a new experience to
George, as he had devoted most of his formative years to maintaining
a healthy and excessively respectable distance from anything that
might be construed as.... WORK ! His other foot slipped on yet
another sodden log buried beneath the surface of the treacherous snow
- laying in wait for an unsuspecting traveler like some natural land
mine – which sent him flying head over heels into the white stuff.
Struggling to his feet he wiped his cold wet ruddy face dry with the
backs of his hands, removing the excess freshness away, and then
stopped and stood still for moment. Listening to the deafening
silence and mesmerized by the shifting patterns in the mist – it
was as if he had finally surrendered to the futility of it all. This
brief 'time out' from his exertion afforded him the opportunity to
think more deeply about his recent choices, and their possible
repercussions. It was fair to say that until now his lifestyle hadn't
exactly lent itself to being 'set' by time - and it's keeping
thereof. Indeed, he had tended to prefer the more relaxed aspects of
temporal timekeeping as attributed by the movements of certain
heavenly bodies as they made their way across the firmament. The
morning sun shining in his eyes was his alarm call to rise, and the
moon in descent noted the time for him to retire for the night. But
now, in his darkest hour, even he had to abide to a general principle
of time - it's passing. The lateness of the which suddenly began to
dawn on him - perhaps a little too late ! As he recalled the vicar's
warning about the dangers of staying out for too long, and not
allowing enough time for the return journey.
It
was at this point of his deliberation that another, more troubling,
fact was drawn to his attention. Between the lessening light, the
increasing mist and the unfamiliarity of the area, he realized that
the searcher had just become ever so slightly... lost ! Whereas, he
might be able to backtrack his way to a ridge nearby, after that he
couldn't say for sure which way he had come from. Apparently woods
all look the same in the dark.
George,
stood frozen stiff, immobilized in both mind and body – caught on
the crossroads of a moral dilemma – should he carry on in the hope
of finding someone, or something else ? Or should he try to make his
way back to the field, in the hope of catching up with the rest of
his 'party' ? Damned or doomed, the double jeopardy of choices. Then
from somewhere deep within in his tangled web of emotions – spun by
fear – he erupted, “ OH, HELL'S KNICKERS !”
He
strode off, not so much in a determined manner more as desperate,
back in the approximate direction from whence he came. This option
appearing to be the slightly lesser of the two evils, from which he
derived some small comfort from the thought that perhaps someone
might actually come looking for HIM, and the nearer he could place
himself to being found - the better.
The
woods had never held that much interest to George, even at the best
of times. He tended to view them as a backward step too far. After
years committed to obtaining a better quality of life for himself he
had little time, and even less inclination, to return to the earth's
bosom - pleasure or otherwise. It was the classic debate, nature
versus comfort. And now, in the dark, his conviction only
strengthened in regards to spending as little amount of time as
necessary in the great outdoors. Driven on as he was, almost
oblivious to his the trip falls and lost footing in the snow. Blindly
stumbling his way through the undergrowth, disturbing large bushes
and small trees of the accumulation of snow that had been deposited
within their branches.
Then,
another misplaced step, leading to an unaccountable foot, a loss of
balance, and a frantic grasp for something to cling onto. His grip
mercifully finding a sturdy branch just in time, as his other foot
shot out from under him - losing all contact with the earth. He swung
from briefly before his wet fingers could no longer maintain their
grip on the dampened snow covered limb. And was sent hurtling into a
barrier of smaller branches. He almost ruptured himself with the
first action and very narrowly avoided strangulating himself with the
second. He splashed down to the ground like a dead weight. Where he
remained sat, defeated in the snow, too tired and beyond caring
anymore. No thought in mind just the sound of his heavy breathing and
winter's empty song, playing in the air as it whistled through the
trees and across the frozen ground, to keep his ears distracted.
Once
his breathing and sense of reason had settled back down he began to
became aware of an underlying background sound, which was hard to
distinguish at first from the icy wailing already whispering in his
ears, and he had to strain his hearing in order to make any sense of
it. But it soon began to claw it's own way through, growing rapidly
in strength and familiarity, a grim tonal note that would set his
heart beating on a new rate. A bell, a church bell striking it's
eerie toll slowly, steadily, purposefully calling out in the night –
to who knows what. The unheavenly ringing of which galvanized him
once more to his feet - albeit still a little unsteady - and
refocused his self-preservation instincts. The puzzling thing about
it though, was that as far as he knew, the only bell even remotely
close to his position, was the one at the old monastery – the bell
of the Mad Monk. But, that just couldn't be, George thought to
himself, positive as he was that it was no where near the fields,
they were searching. But then again, he wasn't sure just how long or
far he had strayed from it, or if it was simply an echo of his fear.
Whatever it was, it had reanimated him and he wasted no time in
trying to distance himself as far as humanly possible away from the
unholy chiming. This was no easy task, as the direction from which
the bell haled from kept shifting – as did it's volume –
seemingly in correlation with the course and strength of the wind
that borne it. It truly was the wind of change. George could no
longer tell if he was heading away or towards its, at one moment it
was nothing but a gentle murmur in the air from the East, and then
the next minute it shouted out to him from the North. He ran
mindlessly and clumsily through it all, driven on by the one fact he
believed to be true above all else – where so goes the bell, the
Monk will surely follow.
Night
had relieved day of it's charge, and the moon was now noticeable in
it's ascendancy. Which left George in even further consternation over
his plight, as his route had taken him to the bottom of a steep
narrow valley heading directly into some kind of deep round hollow
set in the hills. The bell driving him, leading him, taunting his
very soul and mocking his every effort at escape. Nearing the center
of the gorge his pace slackened, slowing gradually until finally he
came to a standstill. His rib ached sickening with the stitches and
he squeezed it tightly for relief and took short sharp breathes of
air to resupply his failing lungs. Taking advantage of this imposed
respite he glanced around the surrounding wall of hills, hoping
against hope, to see an easier way out from all this, or at least a
recognizable landmark, but all there was – was despair. One last
look back over his shoulder, to confirm whether or not anything else
had come that way, offered only the briefest of consolation to his
jangled nerves for as much as that pathway was indeed clear – the
road ahead lay as menacingly in wait for him, as before.
Never
had he felt so threatened, so in danger. And even though on some
level George knew that his fears were primarily based on undirected
sounds and faceless shadows – he was still powerless beyond
reason, to stop them running away with him. But right now he was just
standing still - except for the uncontrollable shivering - on the
spot his arms wrapped around himself vainly trying to stem any
further heat loss from his body. Then, the mysterious ringing
abruptly ceased its unholy accompaniment, leaving him confused and
alone to the cold biting night and his private nightmare.
This
sudden unexplained cessation failed to provide George with the sense
of comfort that he had hoped. Indeed, if anything, it only seemed to
worsen his state of distress even further. As he dimly recounted a
line from the poem, “ How did it go again ?” he muttered to
himself in desperation. “ Something about, ' after the bell tolls,
spectres long dead will be found ?'” he shuddered from his
shoulders down to his boots at the very thought. And spun nervously
around staring intently at the surrounding hills scanning them for
any sign of spectral activity. An act for which he was duly
'rewarded' for. For there just below the brow of one of the more
prominent hills appeared a glowing apparition, moving slowly, but
steadily, down and through the trees on a 90 degree angle. Every now
and then it seemed to dematerialize and reappear, almost immediately,
on one of the other hills on the opposite side of the gorge, still
descending on an angle, before repeating it's vanishing act again,
and again. All the while, gaining ground on George, as if it was
purposefully circling down on him, moving in for the kill.
Needless
to say, George soon found the necessary encouragement and resources
to propel himself forwards, with all expediency, towards the end of
the gorge. Once there, without hesitation he became a steep climb up
one of the bank's of hill that rose up out of it, his eyes not his
mind governing his way. Thought was discarded in favour of instinct
as the most proficient means under the circumstances. As every part
of his body was pushed to it's limits scaling the hill in the
quickest way possible, hardly daring to look back over his shoulder
at the phantom's progress. George fought the woody incline for every
step of the way, most of it almost on all fours, climbing,
clambering, pulling himself up over every obstacle. All the tme his
breathing becoming more erratic and laboured. Finally, an assault
over one of the many fallen trees, this one perhaps a little more
larger than the rest, caused him to collapse in a heap on it's other
side. Barely pausing to rest he turned round and crawled up as close
as he could to the tree, then using the thick old trunk for cover he
carefully raised his head up over it to assess the situation of this
bizarre and deathly game of ghosts and coppers.
But
to his surprise he could no longer see any sign of his spirited
pursuer anywhere. Could it be that he had actually managed to outrun
it, or was he somehow beyond it's reach, whatever it was he began to
feel the first sign of relief. That was until the horrifying
strangled cry of pain pierced the frozen void from afar. His blood
was transfused with cold terror as it coursed throughout his veins.
The petrifying nature of the scream was chilling enough without
doubt, but what followed was even worse... recognition. “ BUSTER !
BUSTER WHERE ARE YOU ? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT ? ANSWER ME ! ” George
shouted desperately out in the dark, but deathly silence was the only
answer.
Thank you for stopping in, I hoped you enjoyed my little story. Happy Halloween to you all, and to all a good night !
Lifeandfunnies.blogspot.com
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