Mick Carty
I’m in Dundee, Scotland. Looking to learn, aiming for improvement. Hit me with your criticism… nicely. Author of The Célestiaá series.
Mick Carty
I’m in Dundee, Scotland. Looking to learn, aiming for improvement. Hit me with your criticism… nicely. Author of The Célestiaá series.
A Light In The Darkness
It is a strange sensation - fear. The physical manifestation of your own mind screaming at you to _run. _The chorus of a million voices in the echoing cavern of your head, warning you of the terrors that lie ahead. The battle against your own body’s unconscious need to turn and flee the existential threat standing before you; or, as I was all too well aware, behind you, too. As the gates of Hades creaked and groaned, slowly dragging themselves open, the urge to turn tail and seek sanctuary in the endlessness of space rose within me. The certain knowledge of anonymity, of concealment in the vastness of the universe, made a convincing argument as to why I should not linger here. I am not a warrior. How did I come to find myself here? At the gates of Hell? Why had this responsibility become mine? I should turn, now; return whence I came and seek the protection of my own creator. It was a sensation I found difficult to overcome, but overcome it I must, if there was to be any chance of success. I closed my eyes, reminding myself, ‘it is when fear is at its highest that courage makes itself accessible’. And, if there were any courageous words to be found amidst the screaming voices of self preservation ricocheting in my mind, I wished they were just a little louder; just a little more reassuring. ‘No courage without fear,’ I reminded myself again. The _smell—_that of rancid, raw meat—wafted into my nostrils, turning my stomach, making me gag. The internal voices screamed at me to go now, before it’s too late, before they see you. Before… Through the giant gates, standing in a widening blueish-black line as the barriers revealed more and more of my fate, I could now see the Hadean ‘welcoming’ party. Hundreds of hideous creatures, their yellow eyes scrutinising me, their curiosity at the tall personage daring to knock at the doors to the home of eternal perdition. What kind of fool asked for entry to the Shadowlands? They shook and waved their swords and spears, shouting and cheering intimidating catcalls and insults; baring their yellow teeth… growling aggressively like cornered dogs. And, behind them, coming into view as the gates opened fully, the giant three headed beast known as Cerberus… the gatekeeper to the Underworld. Charged with keeping the dead in, and the living out, each round head of this giant black and brown dog snarled and snapped, pulling at the giant chains holding it in check. The Hadeans kept a sensible distance from the dog as it growled and barked, with each head—its hanging jowls drooling feverishly—making its own terrifying, unholy noise as it lurched forward in its futile attempts at snapping them up. I swallowed, then stepped forward, using the large walking stick I’d thought to bring with me to steady my shaking legs. The stick—almost as tall as me—had been a last-minute decision, but it now seemed a wise choice, as my conviction and courage were in danger of deserting me. ‘No courage without fear,’ echoed the mantra in my head; I was only conscious, however, of the fear. The groaning and creaking of the giant gates resumed as they now closed behind me. If there had been any chance of flight, of escape, that chance had now passed. There was no going back. The Hadeans crowded around me, many holding their torches high, seeking a better look at the stranger, yet maintaining a respectful distance; almost, it seemed, unsure what to make of their unexpected visitor. The long, white hair, the thin wisp of beard; the long, brown Vicuña wool coat—a gift from a friend, adorned with its exquisite stitching patterns depicting the multitude of galaxies comprising the universe—falling all the way to my ankles. The soldiers of Hades had never seen such a sight. With each step, I felt a little bolder, a little more assured; or, at least, I tried to convince myself I was. The Hadeans, despite their growling, and their bravado, were almost in awe of me. There appeared to be a reverence to how they backed away, widening the path in which I walked; as if lining the way to the doors of the palace in the distance. I straightened my back, now walking tall and determined; forcing my earlier fear to the back of my mind. The Hadeans trudged alongside. The path wound around the crags and walls of the imposing mountains forming the outer walls of Hades, before opening up into a more level, rough and untended stretch of ground. There were crude mud huts and tattered tents everywhere; highlighted in the gloom by the many campfires, and handheld torches. The homes of these creatures were no more welcoming a sight than the wild landscape stretching out toward the huge black spires of the seat of power; the black palace. There was nothing pleasant, or beautiful in this truly dark land, and the sense of fear that had gripped me so tightly was now a feeling of pity. The sky above was dark, cloudy, as if the portent to a storm that always threatened, but never quite appeared. The light was dim; not quite twilight, but diffused enough to remain a constant reminder that the sun would never shine favourably on these cursed lands. An acrid scent of decaying flesh hung in the air, accentuating the sense of hopelessness and despair. Then, incongruous in this land of misery, a most unexpected sight; a small clump of bluebells, about two feet across, poked out from the dried, stale grass. I paused, staring at the stunning colour of the wild flowers; an oasis of hope in a desert of utter despair. Was this a sign? Had Mother Nature’s influence reached out to the end of the universe? As I continued my way up the long track toward the palace, the growing throngs of Hadeans continued to part before me, yet crowded in behind, following in a noisy procession. Strangely, amongst the growling, and the shouting, I could make out individual comments. No, not comments… pleas. “Free us!” called one. “Lead us to salvation!” another begged. To my left, one Hadean fell to his knees, discarding his sword, his hands clasped and thrust upward toward me. “Offer me redemption, my lord,” he begged. “I… we… are ready to make amends.” Many others fell to their knees, offering their hands; a wave flowing from the front to the back of the growing crowd. I halted in my tracks, caught totally off guard. I looked about and around me. This was not a hostile mob, intent on attack; it was a gathering of hope. It was the welcoming of light into darkness. It was a world of once-lost souls seeking a way back into the light. The Hadeans knelt before me, pleading as one to be led from their torment. Their yellow eyes, once so full of hate, now begged forgiveness. Their growls were not of aggression, but of pain. “My friends,” I said, “I am not a lord. I am but a messenger. Nothing more. I don’t know…” “You are Sotíras. The Deliverer, come to set us free,” claimed one. “You are the Redeemer our master promised, my lord,” cried another, taking my hand. I looked the Hadean in the eye, taken aback by the sincerity and hopefulness coming from within these most hideous of creatures. “Your master…?” I gazed all around me, turning, surrounded by a multitude of expectant faces. This was a most unexpected turn of events.
A Dangerous Obsession
What use the spoils of war, when there is no enjoyment in laying waste to another’s lands? No satisfaction in levelling cities; razing homes or churches to the ground, in conflagrations of such immensity, the gods themselves may have set them.
There is no satisfaction, either, in watching the seed of a nation trampled in the dust; the young—and not so young—men trading their futures at the ends of our swords. The unnecessary ruination of a people fighting in defence of their cowardly king. And for what? A mythical promise of eternal life in some heavenly utopia at the home of their own heathen gods?
There is no compassion, nor regret, when taking, or enjoying, the fruits of your labours; the jewels, the gold… the women. All are unceremoniously bundled onto carts, and then ships, making their way to a new home to be distributed among the triumphant warlords and their generals. They are merely trinkets to satisfy the egos of the unsatisfiable… or the simple.
For myself, however, my interest was on one thing, and one thing only; the Dragon Chest. I have jewels. I have gold. I need not the ravaged, humiliated remains of despoiled female slaves, for I have enough of those already. No, it was the chest, and its mysterious contents, that occupied my mind.
For centuries, the contents of this legendary box have driven lesser men to murder; to invasion and genocide; to the point of madness. Many have owned the chest, but none have had the courage to open it. But I am not ‘lesser men’. I am of a stronger mind, not easily swayed by the promises of neither trivial wealth, nor infamy. What others think of me is irrelevant.
It has cost much, to bring this casket to me. I have laid waste to three kingdoms now, each of them defiant to the point of their own ruin. That is upon them. I warned them, but they did not listen; did not reveal where I would find the prize I seek. These lesser kings chose death and disgrace, the slaughter of their peoples, over pragmatic surrender. How foolish they seem, protecting a treasure they had no use for. Guarding—hiding, even—a prize so revered, they feared it; feared its contents being revealed to the world.
Finding this chest has driven me all these years. It has been my obsession, my destiny, and now, finally having it here, open before me, I realise it is nothing more than my doom. Be careful what you wish for.
The Island
The island itself was easy to find; they had meticulously detailed the parchment map regarding its location, and its outline. What the chart didn’t tell was of the hidden rock formations, stretching below the waterline, waiting to trap unsuspecting mariners - unsuspecting mariners like us.
The storm, too, had appeared from nowhere; the heavy, black clouds rolling over us… covering us… like a blanket thrown over a birdcage. The lightning came instantly, striking our masts, setting alight the sails, and bringing fiery death from above. As the wind and rain buffeted us from either side, the waves raised and lowered us with a violence that seemed—if you were a believer of such things—a deliberate, malevolent act of destruction.
A flaming shower from the skies, or a crushing death on the jagged rocks stabbing through the splintering hull of our battered and creaking ship. As the burning masts snapped and folded down upon us, the choice was no choice at all; many took their chances in the water, only to find the brutal tides as unforgiving as the flames. Their screams—piercing out from the sea, louder than even the roars of the waves—as the fragility of their soft skin and bones thrashed against the rocks, will haunt me until my death, which, I feel, may only be moments away.
I cling to the prow, cursing my vanity, cursing my naivety at allowing Mercar to convince me to make this voyage into damnation. ‘Who am I?’ I think, watching those who trusted my hubris, and arrogance of my abilities and worthiness, meet their doom without fight, without hope. It was to me, assured the priest, that the responsibility lay for saving the princess, Madellaine. None other than I could navigate the straits and make landfall, thus providing the means of escape for the young would-be queen; imprisoned on this desolate isle by the vile usurper, Hagan.
It would be to me, and only me, that the angels would release the woman. I can see them, perhaps fifty or more, standing in a line along the cliff face, waiting for my landing. They are beautiful to behold, these statuesque guardians; their pearlescent hair, as golden as I have ever seen; their white robes glowing, as if the sun shone on naught but them; their feathered wings fluttering gently as they now hover in anticipation. Behind them, I can now clearly see our princess and her captor approaching the land’s end. They stroll, arm in arm, a nonchalance to their bearing belying all that we had been told.
As the angels look to their mistress, the truth dawns on me at last; Madellaine is no prisoner. She smiles at her pets, gesturing for them to feed and then, as if a murmuration of interlinked starlings, they throw themselves into flight. Downwards, downwards toward the dead and dying; plucking up the feast delivered them by the skies and the waters.
I look at Madellaine, for a last time, as the waterline now climbs up my legs, the ocean subsuming the tattered splinters of what was once my ship.
She smiles at me, then turns, without a word, back to her treasured island; the threat of capture once again averted.
Careful What You Wish For
The pounding. The pounding. The pounding.
When will it stop?
My head is on fire, my mind grating, trying to keep focussed on… well… nothing! It’s like someone’s dragging a hacksaw across my skull, prolonging the torment, enjoying my self-inflicted implosion.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
It was supposed to be… magical. Wonderful. A boon to the world, where everything I wanted for us all was there… with but the simplest of thoughts. I was going to make miracles happen.
I never should have said it out loud—that I wanted to save the world—for, with every thought, every consideration, there comes an action; a brutal, literal result of my every whim. Whatever… whoever… enters my mind, no matter how trivial or insignificant, is now at the mercy of my unconscious.
I cannot NOT think something; as soon as it’s in my head the subject is affected. They’re here… then they’re gone… fragmenting, dust like, as I wish them away from my presence. I try to concentrate on something, anything, but not them… not my loved ones.
I crave sleep, but fear my dreams. I cannot trust myself.
I wish it would all just go awa… … … … … … …
Sacrifice
There is a circle to life; an inevitability of death, and nature will always find her path. We can no more change this fact, than we can blow the clouds from the skies. Life is precious, so they say, and yet it is only the finality that death brings that makes it so.
I am not a rich man; I cannot afford unlimited generosity in either material nor spiritual gift. But I do what I can. I have… skills… talents. I have abilities beyond those of most healers; a touch envied by physicians and surgeons the world over. I bring a message of love and forgiveness; a message so despised by many, they would hunt down and destroy those to whom I’d tended, or provided compassion.
And yet, here I sit, basking in the glory of another ‘miraculous’ saving; enjoying yet more acclaim for what, to me, is but the simplest of tasks. I know—even if my friends are still in ignorance—that I must leave. My work here, whilst bringing some obvious relief, is secondary to the overall needs of the entire world; to the salvation of mankind.
I must leave in order that the torture, oppression, and subjugation of the many is brought to an end through enlightenment and love. My staying may save me, but would kill many others. I fear not, for I shall live on in the hearts and minds of the righteous.
The soldiers will come, and my friends must denounce me, that they may save themselves; living to spread my message. They must build love; they must build faith.
I hear them coming, but I am ready. I am ready to return to my father.
Hidden Treasure
I will never forget my many meetings with Mr Hounslow Willemby, one of which led to what would prove to be the start of the biggest adventure of my life.
He was a strange fellow, there is no doubt. A tall man, with a hairline so receded, it seemed to start at the very top of his head, with the long white hair then tumbling in a thick mass down below his shoulders. His thick woollen suits, too—perfectly tailored to his thin frame—only served to exaggerate his already imposing height.
There was an intensity in how he would look at you; in how he would address you, making even the most mundane of subjects seem like the most important thing in the world. A learned man, with anecdotes and opinions on any topic, he was a perfect proprietor for the second hand book shop he owned, and lived above. Yes, he was a giant of a man in both stature and intellect.
It was on one of my regular visits to his shop—as I was idly leafing my way through a rather wordy manuscript concerning the fabled Maggazatti tribe of Central Africa—that we struck up a wonderful conversation about the disappearance of ancient civilisations. Neither of us, as I recall, was anything of an accredited expert—in truth we were nothing more than hobbyists—but Mr Willemby certainly had an amazing plethora of tomes, magazines, journals, encyclopaedias and the likes regarding the Ancient Egyptians, Incas, Aztecs, and even some lesser-known African peoples.
“I have an old diary somewhere,” he said, scratching his rather exposed crown as he climbed the shelf-ladder to the top shelf. He continued mumbling away to himself as he rummaged among some scrolls, papers, and who knows what else was up there, going by the thick dust clouds being thrown out. “Aha!” he declared, almost falling off the ladder. “Here it is.”
He stepped back down, dusting off the dark red cover, further fuelling the pollution circling the small shop. “I have no idea how this book got here,” he regaled, “nor who donated it. But it has been here for many, many years, just gathering dust as you can clearly see.”
As he walked back toward me he explained that the book had been in the shop for as long as he could remember. He was clueless as to its origins; the structure of the book, and the writings inside, nothing like anything he had ever seen.
He laid it on the table, wiping it with a cloth, revealing the most intricate gold leaf lettering. It was impossible to tell how old the book was, but it had certainly been in existence for hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years. The lettering was a mystery; not because of what it said, but more in the way it looked so fresh and recent, as opposed to the cracked and veined covers and bindings of the book itself.
“The Testimony of Supay!” I read out.
Mr Willemby just stared at me, his sagging jowls and jaw testament to his complete and utter disbelief. “You can understand this?” he asked, his eyes wide in amazement.
“Why, yes,” I replied, a little confused. “Can’t you?” The writing was a little ornate, certainly, but perfectly legible, particularly with my good reading glasses.
He turned the book around, affording me a much better look. “You can understand the symbols?” he queried.
I laughed a little. “Symbols? They look like normal letters to me. Of course, I don’t…”
“To you they look like letters, but, to all who previously saw this book they are symbols. Much like the hieroglyphics of Ancient Egypt.”
He snapped the cover open to reveal an aged, sepia, papyrus-like fabric, covered from top to bottom in the most beautiful, but tiny, scrawlings. I say ‘scrawlings’, but that in no way reflects the horizontal and vertical precision of these extraordinary characters, written in many coloured—and I presume, natural—inks.
“Read the first line… please,” he beseeched me.
My curiosity was more than aroused now. The writing was clear, albeit small, and I could not fathom Mr Willemby’s difficulty. I leaned forward, raising my spectacles to my eyes once more.
“Herein lies a warning for the foolhardy,” I began. I looked up to my friend. “Well, that’s not the friendliest of beginnings, is it?”
“Please continue,” he said, overlooking my causality at what was of more than just passing interest to the man.
I cleared my throat, leaning in once again. “The doorway to El Dorado is shut. The pathway lost. Seek ye the fortunes of the damned, then forsake the protections of your gods.”
Mr Willemby clapped his hands together, placing his fingertips to his lips. “It can’t be,” he mumbled. “Please read on,” he asserted.
He at last seemed to have some inkling as to what we had before us, but I was still none the wiser. “The bountiful wastes, to the west of the great forest, by the division of Peruvia and Brasilia, shall play eternal home to the filched treasures and paraphernalia, the grasped loot of Conquistadore.”
I jumped as Mr Willemby clapped his hands once more. “I don’t believe it,” he gushed. “I don’t believe it. Do you realise what this is, Mr Morecombe?”
I admit, I was rather amused by his newfound enthusiasm and childlike manner, but I was still none the wiser. “I…”
“Supay was the mythical Incan god of the dead,” he said. “It was long rumoured that he was, in fact, a once-powerful Incan chief, who fled the invasion of the Conquistadors.” He turned the book back around, flipping the pages over, then looked up to me with the widest smile. “This, I believe, may be the key to discovering the location of El Dorado… and, with it, untold fortune and fame.”
“Mr Morecombe,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “I think we should take a little journey.”
Out Of The Frying Pan
“What happened to you?”
The young man seemed genuinely concerned, reaching his hand out to Hansel. The boy clasped it tightly and pulled himself out the water and into the boat. “My sister!” he cried, pointing out to the river. “She’s still out there.”
The young man smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “We’ll find her.” He steered the boat around, making another sweep.
“There!” declared Hansel. “There!”
The young man guided the boat over toward where the boy had directed. A young girl was splashing in panic, screaming in her fear. Once again, he offered his hand in rescue, effortlessly plucking the girl from the growing current. Her brother embraced her as her saviour lowered her into the rear of the boat. They quickly turned to look upon the young man who had saved their lives, scrambling back to the corner of the boat in fear.
He smiled again, holding his hands up, palms facing toward them. “Have no fear, little ones,” he said, his face radiating kindness. “You’re safe now. What happened to you? How did you come to fall into the river?”
The children relaxed a little as his kind voice eased their concerns. Hansel told him the story of how their stepmother had forced them into the forest, where an old, evil witch had imprisoned them in her gingerbread house. She had locked Hansel in a cage, he said, intending to fatten him up, and to eat him when plump and ready. The witch had also enslaved Gretel, forcing her to do whatever she wanted. “But,” smiled Gretel, “we were too clever for her.”
“Really?” asked the young man. “What did you do?”
“I locked her in her own oven,” laughed Gretel. “The one she was going to lock me in.”
“And you escaped while she burned?”
“Yes, we escaped.”
“How very resourceful,” agreed the young man. “But how did you come to be in the water?”
“Ah!” interjected Hansel. “We were being carried across the river by a large white duck, but he dived below the water when he saw your boat.”
The young man passed a blanket to the children. “Well, you are safe now, children,” he smiled. “My cabin is just around that bend. We can get you dried off. I’ll bet you’re hungry, too, aren’t you?”
The children nodded their heads enthusiastically.
————————————
They sat in the living room, by the roaring fire, gulping down the chicken soup their host had generously made for them.
“Hansel?” he called from the other room. “Please bring me my jacket from the back of the chair?” The boy jumped up, grabbing the jacket in his eagerness to repay the young man’s kindness, and ran through the doorway, the door closing behind him.
After a few minutes, the young man entered the living room and carefully closed the door once more behind him. He stood by the door, staring down at Gretel. The girl felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck, the goosebumps on her arms. “Where’s Hansel?” she asked, fear trembling her words.
The man smiled widely. “Oh, he’s safe, little one,” he whispered. “As long as you do as I ask.” He walked over to her, crouching by her chair, stroking her hair. The girl sat terrified as he gently lifted her skirt, eyeing her soft white legs. “You do realise you have admitted murdering an old woman, don’t you, Gretel?” Tears squeezed from her eyes as she nodded. “And you know what happens to people who murder others, don’t you?” The girl nodded again.
He patted her hand reassuringly. “Well, you beautiful little girl. I will keep your secret, and I will keep Hansel safe, providing you do something for me.” He lowered his head, his eyes looking up at her, then down to her legs once more.
“I have some friends,” he continued, his words menacingly quiet. “They have a… liking… for little girls like you. I want you to make my friends happy. If you make them happy, they will pay you, and you will earn both yours and Hansel’s keep. And you will make me very happy. What do you think of that?”
Gretel sobbed loudly, almost choking in her fear. “I thought you were a kind man that had saved us,” she cried.
“Oh, Gretel,” he smiled, squeezing her thigh. “Those things only happen in fairy tales.” He slowly slid his hand further up her leg.
“And what men do in this world is no fairy tale.”
A Silent Night
“You’ll be back all the earlier the next day,” he says, squeezing my hand tightly, his dirty fingernails, and the few meagre coins that represent the ‘reward’ for my labours, cutting into my skin.
I wince, trying to pull my hand away, but he grips me still. “You hear?” he confirms, looking down his long, thin nose, like an eagle staring down its prey. “Early!” he snaps.
I nod, submissively. “Yes, Mr Marley,” I squeak, as my hand eventually escapes his clutches. In my desperation I drop a coin—I’m not sure which one—and it rolls under his desk. He grunts, a not-so-hidden snigger, mocking my subservience. I need this position—how else am I to feed my family—and he knows it. He knows it, and takes great pleasure from it.
I crouch, my hand grasping into the blackness, searching for my money. “Leave it,” hisses Marley. “If you are parted from your coin so easily, Sir, then perhaps you should not have it in the first place.” I look up at his sneering smile, and his hand dismissing me from his presence. “Take your day with your family, you have paid for it.”
“Do not mistake our kindness for weakness, Cratchit,” his partner chips in from the desk in the corner. I turn, his pasty face seems to pierce through the dimness of the subdued lighting. “For you will most definitely find we are not weak, despite our benevolence.”
I look down at the floor once more. I need that money. It’s Christmas Eve, and there is still much to be purchased if we are to have any celebration worth the name. “But my wages…”
“Go home,” Marley says. “Your carelessness is the cost of our benevolence.”
There is nothing to be done. I cannot complain further, else they sever my employment, and where then shall I be? They are monsters. Heartless, unfeeling monsters who value nought but the columns of profit that relentlessly accumulate in their ledgers.
I linger in the coldness of the snow-covered street, rubbing and blowing into my hands in a futile effort at heating them. How can I go home? With half my wage stolen back through no fault of my own? We will barely manage to feed ourselves for the next week, let alone have any little extras for the children. How can I go home to Emily knowing I’ve let them down yet again?
Were I to report it to the constables they would most certainly laugh it off. And, even if they did take my side, I would be out of my employment anyway. What is there to do?
The creaking of the business door pulls me from my self pity. I watch as Marley carefully makes his way down the five ice-covered steps, heading home to his no-doubt warm lodgings. I hate myself for wishing he’d slip and crack his head on the steps. That would be nothing less than adequate reward for his piracy.
I find myself following him, stealthily, at a discreet distance. There is silence. I do not even hear the crunching of my feet as they trudge their way through the snow. The thought never leaving me that, in these treacherous conditions, a man could easily fall, knocking his head. Many are the precarious little steps that punctuate Marley’s route home. The thought never leaves me.
The thought, too, that if we can’t have a Christmas, then why should he?
Sniper
My heartbeat and my breaths are not in sync; one seems to want to explode from my chest, while the other is barely deep enough to fill my lungs. The hairs stand tall on the back of my neck and arms, and the goosebumps running up my forearms could easily be mistaken for mountain ranges.
Beads of sweat form on my forehead; just one or two to begin with, but quickly they come more regularly until they resemble a light rainfall before my face.
My fists clench, my teeth grind together, and my body tenses; tighter… tighter. My time is coming.
I scan from left to right; in front and behind. I spin on my feet, searching for the eyes I know are watching me.
The world carries on as normal. The passers-by continue to pass by, unaware of my discomfort, ignorant to my private hell.
I look up, to the rooftops, where the skyline blurs into sunlight. I shield my eyes, until, there, above the billboard, a glint of light. The sun reflecting in a small window. No, not a window… smaller. The telescopic sights of a gun.
A crack… then…
Cabin Fever
She sips the coffee, huddled over, almost tipping into the log fire. Not a word has passed her lips since she wrapped her fingers around the warmth of the mug. Her eyes stare into the depths of the logs, watching the dancing, flickering and crackling sparks as the wood succumbs. The horrors she is reliving are anyone’s guess.
Her shaking has barely subsided, despite the blanket I placed around her shoulders, and I can literally feel the cold emanating from her.
“You ok?” I ask. She nods, without taking her eyes from the flames.
The clock strikes three, the sudden chiming catching me unawares, my heart almost bursting from my chest. She’s been here for twenty minutes now, and I’m no wiser than I was after our first brief conversation.
I’d awoken to the sound of thumping at the lodge door, and I’m not too proud to say it terrified me. Here, in the seclusion of Gilmer’s Climb, high up Apelol Mountain, the last thing I expected was a visitor. That was the whole point in coming here. I’d rented the lodge for peace and quiet, and the chance to finish my manuscript without the constant interruptions of neighbours screaming and thumping the enjoyment of their sex life through my wall.
It wasn’t just the seclusion of the mountainside that made her appearance such a surprise, but the simple fact it’s the middle of winter, and there’s three feet of snow everywhere you look. How on earth this young woman got here is anyone’s guess. But she is here. Sitting in front of my fire; drinking my coffee, half-naked and freezing.
She’d pleaded with me to let her in. She was alone, she said, having left her husband somewhere on the mountain. They’d argued, apparently, and he’d hit her, threatened to kill her, so she ran. In the middle of the night. On a mountain covered in snow. I couldn’t leave her outside; the snow was falling once more, and the wind was throwing up the loose stuff into some serious drifts.
I watched as she sipped. She was about thirty at most; tall, slim, with shoulder-length brown hair, and the fire caught the shine of her wedding ring every time she raised the mug to her mouth.
“I’d get you something to wear,” I say, awkwardly, “but I’ve barely brought a change of clothes for myself.”
She slowly turns her head, looking toward the bedroom. “There’s some of my clothes in the drawers, back there.” My head snaps around to where she’s looking, and not for the first time I’m struggling for words.
“You have clothes here?”
“Of course, this is where we had our honeymoon.”
I let out an involuntary laugh. “You had your honeymoon here?” I repeat, like a simpleton. She nods. “Here?” I repeat. “In this lodge?”
She gets to her feet; the blanket falling behind her, and she reaches out to place the empty mug on the small table. “Yes,” she confirms. “We were on our honeymoon, when…” The words dry up and, suddenly, she looks confused… lost.
The absurdity of the situation hits me again. I’m here, in the most out-of-the-way place I could find, with a beautiful half-naked woman, who says she’s run away from her abusive husband. It’s three in the morning and nothing makes sense.
“Ok,” I say, mainly to myself, but she’s listening intently. “Let’s start from the beginning. My name’s Marco. Yours is?”
“Janelle.”
“Nice to meet you, Janelle. Can you tell me what happened to you? Now that you’ve warmed up a little. Can you do that?”
She places her hand on her forehead, trying to remember. “My husband…” she began. “We were here…on our honeymoon.” She looked around to the kitchen, then made a sudden, involuntary jerk, as if realising something. She sets off, unexpectedly, and I follow her into the kitchen. “He began beating me, there, against the worktop… then he grabbed…”
My eyes follow hers once more, to the knife block. I hadn’t noticed when I’d arrived, but one knife was missing. Her upset intensified, her tears flowing uncontrollably. “I ran,” she cried. “I ran.”
I grab the blanket once more, draping it around her shoulders, and lead her back to the seat by the fire. “You’re safe now,” I reassure her. “I’ll find you some clothes.” I leave her staring, sobbing, into the fire, and head into the bedroom.
A tallboy I’d never noticed when I’d arrived stands in the corner. I had paid no attention to the furnishings as they weren’t of much use to me; I tend to live out my suitcase, or, in this instance, my small rucksack. I pull each drawer out working from the top down, but all are empty. Except the bottom one.
Lining the base of the drawer is an old newspaper; it’s date jumping out from the aged yellow sheen, catching my eye. Monday February 11 1963. I carefully remove it, opening it out to reveal the front-page headlines.
“Newlywed Millionairess Pronounced Dead”.
I forget about my guest for a moment and sit cross-legged on the floor. My eyes dart along from line to line, taking in each word in amazement.
‘Oil Millionairess, Janelle Grear, formerly McMaster, 31, was today officially pronounced dead; despite the lack of a body. It is the second tragedy to hit the McMaster family in just a few months.
Mrs Grear, who was the principal beneficiary of the McMaster estate following the untimely death of her parents in an air crash just six months ago, went missing just four days into her honeymoon. Local police confirmed they were alerted to Mrs Grear’s disappearance by her distraught husband, Jamie, but, despite extensive searches, no trace of her remains were found. Given the atrocious weather in the area recently, it is likely that the heiress’ body will remain covered by snow for many more months.
It is thought Mrs Grear suffered a mental breakdown brought on by the grief of losing her parents, and the stress of inheriting such a vast fortune and estate.
The couple were married after a whirlwind romance, having met just two months ago. Mr Grear is helping the police with their enquiries, but it is stressed that there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding the disappearance.’
My head snaps back to the living room, and I jump to my feet. This made little sense; a newspaper from sixty years ago; a strange woman showing up in the middle of the night.
I enter the living room, but it’s empty. She’s gone. I tug the cabin door open, but am met immediately by a three-foot wall of snow barring my way, forcing me to slam the door shut again. Nothing is coming in or out of there.
Am I going crazy? Cabin fever? I’ve only been here a few days, surely not…
In front of the fire, the blanket, lying discarded on the floor, and a used coffee mug on the table.