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- Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
My name is Sam. I am nothing special but apparently if I don't wake up, both this world and that other one will be destroyed. Nice One! All I wanted was to disappear into my own world and be left alone. But, No! Even THAT was taken away from me. Well just wait. You want me to fight? I'll show you "fight." You took the most important thing in my life away from me, and now I am coming for you. Hidden away in your mountain stronghold, even the rocks around you will not stop me getting to you. You started this war. I am going to finish it! Seventeen year old Sam just wants to be left alone! He has enough to cope with in his invisible, suburban, existence without having some fantastic and, frankly, unasked-for, alternate reality drop into his life asserting that he has powers beyond his wildest dreams. And that unless he does something, both his world, and that of Muanga-Atua, will come to a horrible end. A terrifying episode one blustery night may be enough to start to erode the impregnable shell he thought he had built up around himself. A shell, not to keep others out, but to keep the rage in. Could he afford, as was the norm now, just to do nothing? Julian Cheek's captivating debut novel is a compulsive read for all those who battle every day with the simple task of just wanting to be heard.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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The Awakened
Book One of the Ethereal Series
Julian Cheek
To the one who saw me and always believes in me, my lovely lady, Mitch. To my grounded and wonderful children, Amelia and Sebastian, and to Becky and Georgia who have always made me feel welcome and loved, and to those who continued to encourage, a little idea can sometimes go a long way. This story started a long time ago in the mist, and I trust you, the reader, will travel with me through this tumultuous experience, and be with me at the end, seeing yourself.
To Sam, David, the Ethereals and all the others who occupy my mind and heart, enjoy the telling and remember the dreaming.
Contents
Rain
It was the rain that woke him up. Rain, lashing against his bedroom window as if tapping out a code only he could understand. His bleary eyes looked groggily through the mist as he tried to gather some semblance of where he was. He noticed it was still dark and a low groan escaped his lips, summoned from deep within, as if to curse those who had sent the clouds scudding across the earth to pour their wrath on him that night.
“That night”. The night, looking back now, where the first infinitesimal chink in his tightly woven armour had ruptured, and his destiny had begun.
Sam burrowed deeper into his quilt trying to find the last bit of sleep, but it evaded him and despite his tossing and turning and protestation, he eventually gave in, snaking a hand feebly out from beneath the covers to fumble for the light switch. The clock shone its cool amber glow into his mind.
4:30.
4:30! Another 3 hours before I need to get up, but now, wide awake and a prisoner, Sam thought. Can’t get up because that will wake mum up, which will wake dad up, which is just another great start to a typical day. No music, for the samereason. And definitely no sleep! Frustrated already, he sensed his stress levels start to awaken, so, to counter this, he allowed his eyes to roam around the cluttered room.
There was his wooden window, the culprit for today. A few pictures in dusty frames resting against each other on the cill, looking for comfort. Bedside table. Half-eaten peanut butter sandwich and crumbs marking a trail from bed to table. Bumpy old sofa, bedroom cupboard – open. Bedroom door – very closed! Mirror, “whatever”, work table with depressing clutter and unfinished homework. Xbox, bookcase, old, dusty, not used anymore. Actually, never touched since… No! Don’t go there. Not today. But it held his eyes locked into traversing the room any further, as if beckoning him.
He roamed its shelves. Numerous books lay jostled together, angled like buttresses, supporting each other. Some his, some… David’s.
A deep, unbidden shock of emotion sprang up from the pit of his stomach, causing him to gasp, eyes welling up in an instant. At this hour, his now long tried and well tested ability to protect his emotional state was weak, and the impact of that innocent glance caused his world to rock, bringing back emotions forbidden normally to emerge.
David. His glue in this shattered household. His strength and companion in a world gone mad, and his brother, gone forever, cruelly taken away by a shitty, unseen, unloving, unmerciful, unkind, un-asked-for… He couldn’t go on. What was the point? Ultimately it always came back to one truth. He, Sam, was to blame, obviously. They had made it very clear, from very early days, that he was to blame. For everything! So why stop at death? No doubt, somewhere in that short six week period of hell, he did something to shut David’s lights out.
He stretched his hand out slowly and pulled one of the books belonging to David from off the shelf and scanned its cove. The Power of One stared back at him. A small smile folded itself onto Sam’s face as he remembered this one. One of David’s favourites. Science fantasy, lots of explosions, magic… Yes, right up David’s street.
Sam aimlessly turned the pages, not looking, not concentrating, just thinking, remembering, as if trying to communicate again with his brother somehow through the pages. And as he delved deeper into the book, each page felt through finger and thumb, Sam started to weep. Tears flowing down his etched face as his mind sent out a message to his brother.
I am sorry, David, Sam thought, Sorry I couldn’t do what I should have done so that you could still be here. Sorry for all the shitty stuff that made your life rubbish. That mum and dad lost you, rather than me… His fingers rested on a paragraph on a page and he started to aimlessly read.
“… He summoned all his strength and willed his mind and breath to be calm, focussing energy into his fingers. With crackling intensity, bolts of lightning flew from his hands, blasting the rock face into a million shards, leaving the sunlight to once more, filter into the cave.”
Wouldn’t that be good? he thought, summoning power and blasting stuff away. Sleep took him from reading further.
The Ethereals – The first time
Mist.
A deep, clawing, impenetrable mist hung around him. Stillness and isolation, its companions, attacking his senses, and, for a short while, he was at a loss as to where or what he was. Looking down, he could see his feet on a grassed area, trailing away in all directions before disappearing into the still greyness. Despite the loss of most of his senses, he did feel as if he belonged. But the mist. This was strange. He sensed that the ground on which he stood dropped away slightly to his left, so he turned in that direction and started to tentatively walk.
The sound of the damp grass being flattened beneath his feet touched his ears and this encouraged him to explore further. Step by slow step, he walked “down” the field, ears pricking for any sound beyond this ooze, but there was none. It was no use looking around to get his bearings, as the mist effectively shut out all around him.
Well. Not quite. As he did a 360-degree turn, he noticed that a clear path now existed trailing back from where this journey started. As if a hedge trimmer had come along and neatly cut a swathe through this cloaking greyness, enabling him to see. He could see now that his path had taken him down what appeared to be a large field. Damp grass and small vegetation visible, and his wet footsteps disappearing back to his starting point.
On a whim, he turned 90 degrees to the left, walked 20 steps and quickly turned and looked back. Again his path in front of him was lost in the bleakness, but behind, the path was clear, the mist seemingly held back by some invisible power so that his passing was not disturbed.
Cooool, he thought. Concocting a hasty plan, he again turned 90 degrees to the left, feeling now that he was walking “uphill”, counted off 20 steps and turned left again.
So, he thought. If my idea is correct, in a few short steps I should… And there it was. A clearing in front of him, now disappearing both to the left and the right, but as clear as day. He smiled and did a jig, complimenting himself on his own brilliance. In this place, wherever that was, his route remained open, but his forward exploration remained closed by greyness and silence.
For the first time, it dawned on him that he could see colour and feel the light on his face, and looking up, and up and up, he saw that this “hedge trimmer” had also cleared a path up into the sky so that he could see the blueness above him, some clouds above, now disappearing overhead as they were lost beyond the mist beyond where he stood. It looked like it was in the middle of the day, but what a strange place. What a strange experience. He backtracked now, just testing his theory, and after three right-hand turns on his now well-defined route, he ended up at the foot of his initial track, noticing his newly formed “entrance” into his original path, further up.
For the next thirty minutes, Sam proceeded to run up and down his self-created quadrangle, slowly revealing more of the space, until all the mist within had been burned away and a large-ish square landscape emerged.
Now he could get a better sense of where he was. It looked like he was in a small copse, surrounded by medium height trees, within which this small clearing sat. The clouds drifted lazily across the sky until they, once again, were lost beyond the film of mist, now visible beyond the tree line. Looking up into the skies, he tried to get his bearing as to where north was, but there was too much interference from the mist banks surrounding him to warrant any fixed decision of where “north” was.
And still, the silence surrounded him, now starting to take on a sinister air, as if something or someone lay just beyond his field of vision, waiting for him.
There was no need to explore further really. There was enough around to occupy him, but that background, nagging prickle refused to go away. A prickle, prompting him to step outside this comfort zone and venture, once again, into the unknown. A prickle that got bigger and more uncomfortable until he decided enough was enough and that he needed to explore this new place. Until this time, he still did not question why he was there, or how he got there. It was as if he knew that this place, strange and mysterious though it was, was part of him, in some way. Part of his life. He no more questioned his disposition than he would question why he breathed. It is as if, he thought, the mist represents my life outside of the here and now, and that anything else is still “out there”, to be discovered, or not.
The still woodland beyond held his gaze, calling him, so he decided to continue his exploration, resolving in himself that if the worst came to the worst, he could just carry out a 360 degree “bubble” again, as at the beginning, thus revealing more of the “here and now”.
Stepping forward, he moved off into the tree line, brushing the branches away and disappearing into the gloom until his space lay quiet, empty, yet expectant, awaiting his return.
As before, the mist eased away from him as he ventured further and, reassuring though that was, he did feel a sense of frustration at not being able to see, instantly, what lay beyond. As he traversed carefully through the foliage, brushing around and under the branches, his ears slowly picked up the sound of water running ahead of him, bubbling over rocks and sending out that calming noise, streams are best placed to do. The noise of it increased slowly and he walked towards it, ducking beneath the branch line and stepping over tufts of grasses as he maneuvered himself through the undergrowth sensing that he was indeed getting closer to what he could only imagine, was a small stream working its way through this wooded area.
After a short while, he pushed past the last of the branches and came across the source of the noise. A pond lay in front of him, surrounded by moss-covered, shiny stones and pebbles, haphazardly strewn around and disappearing into the water. A small waterfall bounced over the rocks above him, landing into the pond in front, casting ripples into the mirror of the water, reflecting its surroundings. He felt the soft spray on his face and hands as it glistened in the air around him, slowly painting him in a sheen to match the surrounding area.
He knelt down, reaching his hands out into the water, sensing its coldness as his fingers dipped into the liquid. And cupping his hands, he drew a few eager mouthfuls into his mouth. The silence of the surroundings now eased by the subtle sounds of the falling water and droplets from the surrounding fronds falling into the water’s edge.
As he was drinking, he sensed, rather than heard, a subtle disturbance in his immediate environment. For some reason he felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to lift and a feeling of danger began to weave itself into his mind. There were no apparent changes to the noises around him, no shadows casting strange shapes into his field of view, but something was not right. Something was here, he was sure of it. And that “something” was not wanting to announce itself!
He slowly lifted his gaze up from the water’s edge, scanning the surroundings, searching for a clue to his sense of danger, but nothing was there. The branches of the trees still bent down to touch the water’s edge, the moss and ferns lay quiet opposite him, the water still bubbled down the rock face above him, landing into the water. There was nothing obvious about his surroundings that advertised danger.
I must be imagining things, Sam thought. The quietness is starting to get to me. His gaze fell back to the reflections on the water, seeing the tree line, the pebbles just below the surface. But something didn’t gel, and his brain made his eyes focus on the surface. Focus on the surface of the water just in front of him. Focus on the reflections on the water just in front of him. And looking back, coming into view, now that his brain, like a radar, had picked up its target, was the shape of an animal. Small, furry, sleek bodied, a long sweeping tail brushing the grasses, talons gripping the rock face. Large eyes, looking straight down at him.
Straight down at me!… With a shock, Sam sprang back defensively as he realised that this creature had crept up behind him and was even now above him on the rock face of the mini waterfall, intent on getting closer without him knowing.
“Aaaaarrggghhhh!!!”
His world exploded as a scream powered out of his mouth, and instinctively he jumped up, grasping a rock in his hands, and throwing it in the direction of where he thought the animal was, all the while screaming out in shock, hoping to scare this “thing” as far away as possible. Arms flailing and legs kicking out instinctively, Sam shouted and cursed in pure, adrenaline-induced terror.
Nothing!
No noise, no scrabbling, no whimpering. Nothing. Whatever it was, Sam thought, had been scared away by his antics and probably long since disappeared down the hole it had scraped itself out of in the first place. His breathing calmed down a notch and he allowed himself a brief grin, thinking he had scared off whatever terror that “thing” was. He cracked out the tension from his shoulders, which had been building up whilst at the pool, and again turned towards the water, as if to seek some release there.
On the opposite side of the pond, sitting calmly and serenely on its haunches, and not more than two metres from him, the “creature from hell” gazed across as if, for all the world, this screaming banshee, that had been Sam, was a common occurrence here. Its eyes were intelligently gauging Sam’s next movements. A thin tongue snaked out, licking its ears, and those big eyes fixed Sam with steely gaze… and then it smiled!
By smiling, its mouth opened, and the most lethal looking row of sharpened, death-dealing fangs shone out from the dark pit of its mouth.
That was it! Sam, casting any sense of brevity to the four corners, sprang up and dived off into the undergrowth from where he had first arrived, screaming in terror, not caring where he went, just wanting to get away from that “thing”. Crashing through the undergrowth, any stealth tactics he thought he might have, were tossed into the wind and disappeared in an instance of pure speed and lack of care for where he was going. Branches reached out to swat him soundly across the face. Roots seemed to ease out on purpose to trip him up, and the foliage grew close around him, trying, it seemed, to disorientate him and lose him in the maelstrom in which he suddenly found himself. But Sam was blind to everything. His terror took over, propelling his legs through the woods and downwards to who knows where. At any moment, his imagination was reaching back to see where this creature was, expecting at any second to see this thing appear next to him about to sink its fangs into his neck.
Eventually, his lack of stamina caused his legs to slow and his breath came through in huge drawing gasps and he came to a stop next to a large tree, its base hidden by autumn leaves. He looked back and scanned his route urgently, carefully, but there was nothing there. His mind also did not register at this stage that his route behind him was perfectly clear and he could look back discerning the forms of the trees, the path he had forged, and the slope he had run down. Trying to hold his breath for a few short seconds, he listened out intently to hear if there was any breaking of twigs in the undergrowth, or strange noises that shouldn’t have been there, but the woodland had returned to its original serene self and there was nothing other than the sighing of the wind through the trees
“Stuff that!” Sam said, ribs expanding and contracting quickly, trying to catch up with his fears. “No more forests. No more dark places, my friend,” he said to no-one in particular. “I want to get out of here…”
For the first time since “arriving”, the words he had just uttered by accident sprang out and hit him. Hit him hard! “Where is “here”?” he asked himself. “And how on earth did I get here? Please, please be a dream…” With that final request uttered, he again looked up and out, trying to fathom where next he should go. Backtracking right now was simply not an option, so he resolved to carry on down the slight slope. Gathering his wits to him, he let go of the bark of the tree and stumbled down into the mist, still straining for any sound out of the ordinary.
It wasn’t long before he sensed the ground beneath his feet start to level out and looking back, he saw his route still etched out between the planks of mist disappearing on up a hill, and further back, the same forest from which he had burst out in terror what felt a few short moments earlier.
As he looked back, his feet still carried him forward and again, he registered that something had changed. This time, however, this “change” was registered through his legs as he sensed that the ground conditions had changed from grass to sand. Looking down, his second shock of the day hit him as he saw that he had now stumbled onto what he could only describe was a path. A well-worn path and one whose “creators” could be anyone, or anything.
Again, fear crept into his mind like some unbidden squatter and (not for the first time) he had a strong desire to get out of there.
Logic got the better of his fevered imagination, suggesting that if he followed the path (carefully), there would be a chance that he could stumble upon habitation and perhaps, if anyone was there, they could help him get the hell out of here. So Sam, looking in both directions from which the path emerged, chose a route, turned right and started to walk down the pathway, all the while his ears and senses alert for the remotest sound that would enable him to try to find cover if necessary before whatever had made the noise discovered him. And today, he had had enough “discovery” to last a lifetime.
His wanderings took him down a dusty, wide path, well worn over the years. Some stones and small pebbles scattered into the undergrowth to the sides as if tossed there by some vehicle or something that used this stretch. The mist still clung to all the places he had not walked through, and now, looking back, he noticed that the path he was on had slowly been winding down with a long bend, such that the start of his path journey now lay hidden behind the curve of the mist wall on the opposite side.
Suddenly, and again, unbidden, he picked up a disturbance off in front of him. The blanket “grey” of the mist he had been experiencing so far, here, now seemed to hold a slightly darker form and this form was not going away, and, if anything, was getting closer. His “fight or flight” warning light in his mind flashed a lurid red and his first instinct was to dive for cover before whoever was approaching discovered him. But this form was not running or acting furtively. Indeed, if anything “it” was walking quietly, slowly, yet determinedly towards him. Strangely, as he had felt with this place before, this new form approaching seemed to “fit” in his mind’s eye and for the strangest reason, he felt drawn to whoever was getting closer. Too late now in any case. The form started to take shape and a young man became more distinct, walking up the path towards him, gazing to either side of the route, as if looking for something. He appeared to be a few years older than Sam, carried what looked to be a bow and a quiver full of arrows, and walked with a sense of “importance” (if that is possible). Eventually, this figure sensed Sam standing ahead of him and looking up, he stopped for a second and stared at Sam, disbelief, if anything, seeming to etch itself into his face.
Then he started running, running towards Sam!
If Sam had not been knocked down through shock yet, given all the stress levels he had experienced in the few short hours (already??) he had been here, what happened next was way beyond any comfort zone he had ever experienced.
Coming closer, Sam stuck on his spot as if rooted, the man seemed to change his face from shock to pure joy and a smile the size of the sun broke out and his arms reached out in anticipation to greet Sam. Sam of course, saw everything happening as if in slow motion. Who is this character? What does he want? Why does he seem to recognise me? All these thoughts rushed into his mind, overloading it and he was aware of a feeling of great dizziness descending on him.
And then…
“Sam! Sam! You have arrived at last! Babu told me you had arrived so I came out looking for you. Welcome, at long last, my dearest friend!” said the man.
Sam’s mind was just not able to assimilate all that had happened since arriving and, now with this stranger talking to him as if he was a long lost brother or friend, this was too much.
Sam felt a strong wrench tear through his body, seemingly from nowhere, and a pain greater than he had ever experienced rip through his mind, and the man, the path, the surroundings and the mist disappeared from view entirely.
Mother
Sam sat bolt upright, propelling the open book, which was on the bed, towards the cupboard, where it crashed loudly on the door before slumping to the floor. The quilt somehow managed to equally disappear in his thrashing and he came to, looking around desperately for any sign of this man who had scared the crap out of him!
The early morning stillness was all that greeted him as he gazed around, slowly getting his bearings. Recognition slowly creeping past his fear, he relaxed slightly as his familiar objects came into focus. There was his bedside table, his peanut butter sandwich, book, now on the floor, open but with the spine out of shape.
He breathed a deep sigh of relief, willing his breath to slow down. “It was just a dream,” he said thankfully. “A weird, messed-up, but very real, dream.” Relief overtook his fear and he smiled to himself thinking that whatever it was he had eaten the night before, was certainly to be avoided in future if that was the outcome!
Looking down, he focussed on the book, now abandoned on the floor. “That was what caused it,” he said. “No wonder I went off on a little trip. All that science fantasy is enough to mess up any decent sleep.” Thoughts of David, and that this was probably more a reason for his scary dream, had been successfully stowed away into the “Do not enter” part of his mind.
A funny thing, dreams. Even when your brain is convinced that it was all just imagination, you still find yourself looking around just in case a remnant of the dream has found its way into your world and is now resting behind a curtain ready to pounce when you least expect it.
Sam got up, stumbled out of his room, went to the bathroom and started his daily ritual once again. Light on, Close door (slowly and quietly), wake up on the loo with a quick go on Sudoku, no flushing allowed at this time of course. Careful washing of his hair over the cold bath, deodorant. Done.
However, today, the dream infiltrated his mind and he replayed parts of it in his mind as if trying to interpret its meaning as something significant. And it was this that really started to reinforce his normal day-to-day feeling of “invisibleness”. Just goes to show, he thought. Bloody rain waking me up, David’s book catching me unawares… He stopped himself thinking any further regarding why he was looking at David’s book in the first place. That particular stream was never to be crossed again. Never!
“I am lost!” said Sam simply. “Mist is my darkness, weird animal can only be mum and dad. And the boy! Well, what do you expect? Someone reaching out to befriend me? Yeah, as IF! Just a sick joke, really.” He scolded himself for thinking this, then turned that anger towards two people in the room next door. What do you care? he thought. I know my place. Know where I should be, and you make it so very clear who you would rather see at the breakfast table… He recognised his demon and, for the umpteenth time, he told himself to buckle up, close down and just get on with his day.
“Stupid dream anyway,” he said, as he left the bathroom and headed back to his bedroom to get changed.
As happened now on most days, since, well, since “they stopped living”, Sam shambled downstairs, rucksack hanging limply off one shoulder, jumper ruffled up against his belt, and he made his way to the kitchen to grab a quick bite to eat and try and get out of the house before his parents woke up and started their day by ignoring him.
College today, at least, held some interest as they were running a field exercise later on looking at chemical compounds and their respective reactions when brought together. This was one of his main interest groups, especially after he had demonstrated a particularly nice combination using pool chlorine and household disinfectant. He still laughed at that particular “hum-dinger”.
The college bus ride was uneventful as usual. He sat in his normal place, head down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Every now and again, he would look out the window, staring aimlessly at the passing world, getting on with its business. Sometimes they would pass the newspaper delivery man who still insisted on throwing the papers onto the front porches of some of the houses, as if reliving bygone days. It was always nice to see how much his bike wobbled as he threw the newspapers in the general direction of the houses. You could almost sense him cursing under his breath as either a pothole, a puddle or just bad steering caused his legs to shoot out and his face take on a strained look.
But not today. Today it was just grey, cold and still raining. Hmm, he thought, maybe we won’t be having any experimentation outside today after all, if this weather continues.
Later that day, and as predicted, his chemistry lesson did not venture into a field lesson but instead proceeded to look at the molecular structure of glucose, which was about as exciting as watching crown bowls, he thought. Sam doodled out the graphical representation of a glucose molecule, putting “C”s “H”s and “O”s randomly on the page, but something did not “feel” right. Whilst he was happy that he, and practically everyone in the class, knew what blood sugar was, his diagram was wrong and, for some reason, what he had drawn tickled his inner perception.
He looked again at what he had drawn. A straight-ish line wobbled down the page, then turned through 90 degrees, then again and eventually, after a further kick, the line intersected the first, and the overall image looked to be describing a number 6. Strange! he thought. That is not how glucose is represented.
He continued to study this form he had drawn, something niggling at the back of his mind, until, with a shock, he realised what it was he had drawn. “This is my path I started to take in my dream,” he said with surprise. “Why on earth would I be drawing that?” He had surprised himself that something as trivial as a dream had got into his mind such that he was doodling elements of it. He looked up, furtively. The lecturer was otherwise occupied, his feet propped up on his table, eyes glued to a book or something. No doubt reading something other than the syllabus! Sam thought.
He looked again at the sketch and, with a shrug, decided to carry on drawing his route as best as he could recall. Why? He could not begin to fathom. Boredom probably, he thought.
His pen followed his line away from the original “6” now. He remembered going into the forested area, through a few kinks, exiting eventually at the pond. Oh yes. The pond! he remembered. “Silly idiot!” he said, reprimanding himself. Then on he drew, away from the pond now, down and down towards a path, with a bend, and then that stranger. He marked an “X” here. He had no idea why he was doodling. He had never drawn anything from his dreams before, but, he surmised, he must really be bored today, so he sketched away until the bell went, shocking him out of his musings. The class hurriedly packed away their meagre belongings and trooped out of the classroom, heading in various directions to their next lessons.
Sam forgot all about his doodles and went about the rest of his day, as he did on most. Wishing the day to end so he could just leave, and dreading the day ending as that meant he had to return home.
“Gird yourself, Sam,” he said to himself (not for the first time) at the end of the day. His bus arrived and whisked him and his college neighbours back to their respective homes.
“Mum. I am home,” Sam called out. Almost as a matter of course.
Dropping his rucksack near the door, he walked into the kitchen to see his mother standing at the sink. A statue, staring vacantly at the pots that lay there. Hands fumbling with a tea towel, her mind, for the moment, lost in whatever nightmare she was putting herself into this time. “Mum,” Sam said quietly, trying to get her attention. She looked up, coming back around, turning to him, her eyes trying to focus on this stranger who had come into her world, like almost every day before this, it seemed.
“Oh, hello Sam,” she said. “Dinner won’t be long. Dad has gone to get the papers so should be home…” Her voiced trailed away, as did her gaze. Sam saw what he hoped would one day be banished for ever; she was lost in a world with no doors and no form and she had forgotten that the “key” hung around her neck like a weighted anchor, right next to the locket she was now playing with. A locket, Sam knew, holding a photo. Just one.
David!
Sam turned away, partly to hide his frustration and hurt, partly because he just wanted to get away from being reminded of things all the time.
His dad came home soon afterwards. Stamping the rain and mud off his shoes with loud thumps and hanging his overcoat, still damp, onto the clothes rack at the door. He came into the living room, looked briefly at Sam, hesitated for a moment, and then continued into the kitchen where Sam heard him speaking to his mother. Just as if I wasn’t here, Sam thought. As usual!
Slowly dinner was laid out at the table. Sam wasn’t sure what it was. He had long given up asking, but tonight’s offering defied description. Some vegetables, chicken (?), gravy. Cold. Tired. Lifeless. Like this bloody house! he caught himself thinking.
And then….
“Are you going to stop staring at that and at least eat it?” said his dad, accusingly. “Mum spends hours slaving in the kitchen so you can have something nice to eat when you get home. Perhaps you should care a little, and then perhaps you could offer to cook once in a while, but I suppose that is asking too much?”
“I am eating it,” Sam said, not responding to the jibe just presented by his dad. It tasted horrible and mum certainly had not spent “hours” slaving away!
“You are not to leave the table until you have finished your meal,” said his dad, unhelpfully.
“I am eating it,” Sam retorted. “Leave me alone, will you.”
“Sam, don’t speak to your father that way!” he heard his mother say.
Here we go. Again! Sam thought.
“No that’s OK, love. Sam was just expressing himself in his normal “couldn’t care less” attitude. Weren’t you Sam?”
“Dad! I am here, eating this food, trying to enjoy it and I just want to be left in peace, please.”
“Peace!” said his dad. “Peace! Well I suppose it would be frigging wonderful if we could all have a bit of peace round here now, wouldn’t it? But unfortunately we are not allowed any peace, are we? No, we have to pretend that everything is just ‘tickety-boo’, that the day is just filled with wonderful things and we are all so very frigging happy!!”
His dad’s voice had slowly risen in volume and he was now starting to get red in the face, spittle and bits of chicken flying out from his mouth.
Sam, with little warning, exploded. “It’s not my bloody fault he died!” he shouted, venom in his eyes and anger in his voice. “Everything was just perfect for you two when he was around, wasn’t it? But I am so sorry that you are stuck with little sad me!”
“David,” shouted his mother, “How dare you?”
“I am not bloody David, MOTHER!” Sam screamed, throwing his chair back in anger. “Never was, never bloody will be!” he said as he disappeared upstairs, diving into his room and slamming the door with all his might.
Sam was too angry now to do anything rational. Looking around at something, anything to hit out at. Instead, he fell onto his sofa, grabbed his iPad, plugged the headphones in, and disappeared into his world of dubstep and heavy metal music, trying to drown out the scream from within. The mess around him scattered to either side.
Sam curled up and looked out at the now darkened skies beyond his bedroom window, still sensing the storm outside shivering his windows as his own personal storm threatened to break through his tinder-dry mind and leave him an empty husk.
WTF! Sam thought. All the bloody time! Just go on the way you are going, guys. I am so close to just blowing thisplace and then you can sort out your lonely little worlds by yourself.
With that, he tried to tune into the thrumming of the music playing through his headphones. Its deep, earthy beat tonight, somehow, lolling him into a place of comfort. Lolling him into another world.
A flickering in Rudhjanda
His sense of perception changed slowly. The thrumming was still there, but now it was as if it came from a far off place, muffled, uncertain, vague even. And, if truth be told, the more he thought about it, the more he came to realise that what he thought was thrumming, seemed now, if anything, to sound like distant drumming. A single, repetitive “call-to-arms” type of noise. Also, where had the music gone to?
He opened his eyes.
A slowly coalescing mass of greyness weaving in and out of focus greeted him. There was no sense of up or down, near or far, just a vast field of “moving greyness”. And utter silence all around such that the noise off in the distance slowly drew his mind into the here and now.
He stood in a spot with small rocks and thin grasses around his feet. Something about this type of location tugged at his memory, but, like the moving, sinuous field all around him, nothing fixed itself, other than a vague “awareness” of familiarity. He looked around, trying to gain any bearings of where “here” was, but the only pointer lay in the sound beyond, sometimes clear, as if whatever was making that noise lay within easy reach, sometimes distant, as if leagues lay between him and “it”. He sensed, more than felt, that it was very early in the morning, but apart from that, he was effectively senseless. He slowly started to move, heading in, what he thought, was the general direction of the drumming. The greyness draping over him and around him as he moved, like a thin veil, like mist.
Mist! he thought. This is familiar.
He continued heading in the general direction of the sound, sensing that the ground he was on was slowly rising upwards. He stumbled over a few clusters of rocks in his way but generally his route led him closer to the sound. As he continued working his slow way over and around the rocks, he was aware of a darkening mass ahead of him that refused to move, and slowly this mass became more distinct until he stood in front of a large cliff face preventing further movement in that direction. He stopped and straightened up, placing his hands on his hips as he caught his breath.
It was here, for the first time, that he turned around to see if another route was available. Behind him, weaving down the small hill (as he now saw) and off into the distance, his track could just be seen through the darkness. He could see some of the outcroppings below casting their shadows from late evening moonlight. This caught his eyes and he gazed up to see a pale dark sky above, clear of clouds, the first inkling of early morning sun sending waves through two banks of incredibly high “mist”. The path below him scythed out as if cut by a giant knife, the mist to either side held back as if instructed to stay in place.
“I remember this!” he said. “A place somewhere. Mist and paths.” But that was all he remembered, for now.
He turned back to look at the cliff face, gazing as far as he could see in the gloom ahead. He could just make out a few small hand holds above him, and, without really thinking about the implications of going ahead without a recognised route, he reached out and started to climb. Scrabbling higher with each reach, the mist eased around him, as it had done on the path behind, and he progressed higher up the rock face. Now that he was here, exposed to the elements, he was aware that a cold, damp wind was blowing across the face of this cliff. He shivered slightly, gripped the rock face tighter, and continued his upward movement. It did not seem too long before he sensed the rock face start to ease and more grass came into view. The cliff came to an end and he eventually stood on a flat level, clear of rocks but with some grass and flowers around him. Again, he found he could look back, and now down, and see his route to the bottom of the cliff and, cutting away into the near distance, his original path, stopping at a point off at the bottom of the hill. Otherwise, everything else around him lay strangely still. Still, that was, other than the now louder and more insistent drumming behind him and seemingly off to the side but definitely closer than before.
He also noticed that his senses were starting to give this type of drumming more definition, and what had started out as a direction indicator now started to hold some feeling of danger. Also, and this was very hard to pinpoint, another sound. Almost as if some form of interference was cutting into the drumming. Sometimes for a long period, at other times short and sharp, and then it was gone.
Sam started to feel that perhaps he should rather NOT be heading in the direction of the noise, but, he convinced himself, if he was going to discover where “here” was, he had no choice but to travel towards the sound. “Perhaps with a little more care though!” he said to himself.
He set off again towards the noise, noticing that the ground still rose slowly, but this time as if coming to the brow of a grassy hill. As he steadily gained altitude, he started to discern what seemed to be flickering in the distance. It had an unusual effect through the mist, as it seemed to fluctuate between a low ember sort of glow and definite points of light, but not light from a room, more like…
I know! It looks a bit like a camp fire over there, he thought. But it was a camp fire unlike any he had ever seen. The glow seemed to spread out over a fairly wide area, as if multiple sources somehow seemed to merge together into splashes of oranges, reds and purples. Dim through the mist, but nevertheless, a source of calling. Or warning! he thought.
And now the drumming took on a more sinister tone. Incessant thumping from multiple sources all around the glow in the near distance, moving around from time to time, and the other noises he had heard earlier, then as interference, now seeming to take form and, if he was not mistaken, sounds of crying, some screaming even. Loud murmurings, deep, as from a male voice; others, keening, coming probably from women, and children.
This does not sound good, he thought. But where else can I go? Perhaps I can skirt around this place and go on beyond. A strange power seemed to be coursing through him, urging him, if anything, to venture closer to the slowly emerging event ahead. He was now so intent on what was possibly happening ahead that he failed to notice that he was, and had been for some time, walking on a path, like in his previous dream. A well-worn, dirty, muddy path, rutted with the tracks of many wheels over time, all heading either to or from where he was heading. And then, slowly emerging from the mist, a bent and frail wooden post and sign became apparent.
“Welcome to Rudhjanda” was painted in a strange archaic font scrawled across the timber face. The sign was bent down as if, over time, it had given up its ghost and instead was now lying limp, held only in place by a rusty nail, it too looking as if it was about to fall away from the post at any time, to land finally on the ground below. His mind registered all this, but only in part, locked away in his brain for retrieval at a later stage. For now he started to see and feel more of the events unfurling before his slowly horror-stricken view.
The drumming was definitely a call. Not, as he first thought, a call-to-arms, but rather a call to attack, to attack, maim and destroy if possible. The glow was indeed fires, but not happy, comforting camp fires, but, in places, bright sprites of fire burning spars of timber, and elsewhere, glowing stumps of crisp and burnt wreckage of what could only be described as houses.
And, oh my goodness. The “Interference”…
The noise now became clearer. Screams of terror, of destruction. He saw shapes shifting ahead of him. Of people running one way or another. Other shapes held grotesquely in final poses, most definitely not to move of their own free will again. Others standing over dim shapes beneath them, who seemed to be raising their arms in supplication. Thrusting arms powering downwards and then the shapes beneath, flexing for a final moment before slumping to the ground. His mind didn’t need to conjure up too many scenarios. He knew what was happening here. A ransack! It appeared as if this village, “Rudhjanda”?, was being invaded by who or whatever lay behind the mists, which was itself weaving through this scene like a sword of Damocles. Despite all this though, his mind was reminding him that this was just a dream. Some sixth sense holding his mental capacity to fear in check, and that other-worldly feeling one gets, that the scene was not really there.
He had just decided that perhaps flight was better than curiosity, when, out of the mist, a young women came screaming towards him, torn cape caught in the wind and trailing back towards the danger beyond as if trying to pull her back into the carnage lying just beyond this grey curtain.
“I don’t care if this is a dream or not,” he stated to himself, “I am out of here!” And he started to turn to flee from this spectre descending towards him at speed.
“Sam! Sam,” he heard. “Help me!”
Now this really got his heart hammering. What is it with me at the moment? he thought. How is it that people know me here? But by now, the young woman had drawn level with him. Face tear-streaked and dirty with mud and ash, eyes wide in terror and an old, worn blanket tied vainly around her throat, ripped in places and covered in dead leaves and twigs.
“Sam. Stop! Where are you going?” the woman cried. And with that, he reluctantly turned around to confront this apparition. He was about to speak, when, to his horror, he heard a thin “Swack” followed by a meaty “Thunk” and, protruding out of this woman’s chest, now stuck out and gleaming, blood and grime attached to its barb, an incredibly large, lethal and death-dealing arrowhead glistened. Someone, or something, had let loose an arrow from within the mist blanket, striking the woman centrally between the shoulder blades, its speed easily sufficient to pierce her through completely, and finally!
