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 are always moving forward. From my vantage point, above, the 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 was replaced by a breadth of perspective.
There was no me, no "I"—only the bliss of non-cognition in 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 purple orbs can be seen, and behind the writhing vines that seep from them, a tangled web of hallowed tapestry weaves itself across the starry sky.
Grey thunder rolls across, concealing the sky as bright lightning strikes open the lake.
The water ripples in a swirling, holotropic mosaic, refracting the storm's otherworldly presence.
Then, reaching out, a hand, completely alien to this place grabs 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 and viscous as it drags at my limbs.
The reflection dims, hiding my struggle within distant blur; arms flail, legs kick, screams bubble to a muffling stop.
But the depth crawls, mounting with pressure.
Entombed, shackled, and lake-bound, my eyes witness the true nothing below.
"Wake up!" — a piercing cry.
My body jolts. I lurch upright, ears burning with frost.
So cold.
My arms clutch tight around myself, muscles shivering in violent motion. Every breath of mine condenses into shallow gasps, emerging as a burning vapor.
Above, the sky hangs, bruised and swollen. From it rains down black ichor with a thunderous sigh of deference.
Awake?
My head bends back, letting the droplets land on my tongue — cold, metallic, tinged with a musky flavor.
My lips smack as I swish the flavour around, sucking and slurping, letting it linger.
Wet dog... must not be dreaming, then.
Unable to bring myself swallow or spit, I just… leave it there.
Then, Warmth.
A slimy layer leaks across my cheek—thick globules congeal down my jaw, dripping onto and insulating both collar and neck alike.
Wiping my face off, the rain stabs at exposed skin.
Yuck.
Shaking my wrist to fling away their filth, my backhand accidentally smacks against a dog's muzzle. Staring just inches from my face with bared teeth and spittle dangling down in slobbery threads, I swallow in disgust
You did this… well thanks, and sorry bout the smack.
A sheepish smile escapes me.
My hand ruffles the matted fur behind his chewed ears.
I wipe the last of his slobber from my palm with a rough but gentle pat.
He barks wildly in response.
"Not… so loud." I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, massaging the knot tied between my brows.
He lowers his head, ears flicking, whilst softly whimpering.
Slowly, he rises onto his hind legs, paws dirtying my shirt by gently digging. Claws prickle against chest hair.
"What is it, boy?"
And then I notice—I'm at the front of the cart. Must've been dragged here.
Investigating further and squinting through the partition, I spot old Jimson kneeling at the back. With his burning torch clutched in one blood-slicked hand, and his dented shield in the other, his balance seems shaky at best.
His face is pallid, lips tinged with bruising colour—yet around his neck still hangs the pendant, pulsing faintly with that sickly light.
At the edge of the torchlight, behind the wagon, shapes and shadows stir. Bodies, mostly concealed, linger in the dark, their glossy eyes clearly preying on the pendant's glow as though it were a delicacy.
"Bad dream?" Tim's voice calls out.
"Yeah."
"Dad gets those visions too. He also says we usually can't trust strangers. But please. Help him!"
I nod.
"Need a hand, Grandpa?" I call out.
"Took ya long enough, princess." His voice responds both brittle and gruff.
"No need! The front… lose weight… quick!" He jerks his hand violently, gesturing towards the dark.
Bones, ligaments, muscles, all frozen stiff, creak as I force myself in an uptight stance. The world lurches, and I almost fall into the yonks straining ahead.
Steadying myself, my eyes scan the nearby chaos. To my right, Timmy's white-knuckled hands grasp the leash, eyes wide, staring past me. Following his gaze, a large toolbox made of iron, lazily sits in its spot as it greets me.
"Over there," Tim says, pointing to my left.
"On it."
Once again, my legs creak. Every step of mine grinds like frozen gears as I approach the toolbox.
Sweeping aside the clutter, items from the top clatter away as I wrench open the box.
My dexterity fades in the cold rainy air. I fumble around; 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 the sack.
Stripping the container bare and tossing aside the iron cover allows me to dig further in the bottom compartment.
Two spare wheels, some strange shell, and a sack of yonk feed all reveal themselves after being trapped for a long time, released back to see the night of day.
Pushing the iron box over the edge, it tumbles then falls into a ditch.
"Done yet?" a voice interrupts.
"Yeah."
"Good," the old man responds, his voice fraying. "That'll buy you enough time. Take Tim and leave, Now!"
"Don't listen to him!" the boy yelps from the front. "Save him. You promised. Please!"
I freeze between them.
My mind feels sluggish.
"Go on. Get."
Fuck, what do I do? I don't wanna orphan the kid. I hope he understands his father's love.
I turn back. Tim stares at me, eyes shining. My chest aches. I press his head to my chest, hiding the wet in my gaze.
I reach for the hatchet in his small hands about to snatch it… then remember my regret. The last time I didn't help someone. The kids. Fuck.
No. Not again. Not like this. Fight goddamn it, fight.
"You get on Cindy—I'll go get him back. I promise."
Our foreheads touch, then gently I smudge the tears from his eyelid with my thumbprint.
"Now pass me the hatchet… Please."
His hands hesitate. Slowly, he presents the hatchet. Trembling, he gently places it in my open hands.
"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 turpentine stench, sharp and chemical.
Hope it's not fire season.
I vault the wooden divider, knees gruff in squat as kinetic shock splinter up my spine and sinew.
"What the fuck are you doing? Go… save my son!"
"Foolish. If anyone dies here, it's me, Jim."
I stagger forward, grasping him through the quaking shifts.
His big forearms become my only anchor in this seismic storm. With a powerful grip I stabilise myself, turning to look with him beyond.
We stand there, shoulder to shoulder, sweat trickling down our tense faces under shallow illumination. Facing us, they lurk.
Their 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 matchbox.
Snatching it, I strike.
Dud.
My hands are wet, the box soggy.
I strike again; the match snaps.
"Useless," Jim breathes loudly. His ragged hand swoops in retaliation, scooping up the matchbox from my grasp, he drops the torch in its stead.
The 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 has been 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, unnoticed. 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 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 visage, wide and burning in the firelight.
"Move it," I manage to sputter out, as I crouch beside him.
"But…?"
He pauses momentarily then his pasty face regains a scratch of colour.
Turning to look at me, 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 on—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 collar, the other still wrenches on the 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. I swing at the carriage 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 and split the wooden frame.
Thin planks explode to flying shrapnel as I hear the wood behind snap.
I haul up the whimpering dog and leap forth without turning back.
Before groaning under the landing, I immediately sit up and grab the harness.
"GO!"
Samuel plows forth with breakneck speed as Cindy, carrying Tim and Jimson rides next to us.
Upon reaching the end of the rope, the tongue finally snaps, pitching the cart back violently.
Terror and momentum drive the yonks forward and through the sudden shift in momentum.
Lurching forward with muscles taut, a guttural 'noor' bellows from their throats, dry as they surge forward and regain their balance.
Over my shoulder, 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 and its frame withers, decomposing in the mouth of the ever-hungry blaze.
Howls ascend, indescribable still. All lamenting beyond their fiery grave.
Finally, I breathe out;
We're alive.