Silver Sky
“Just a little further. Then we can forget this ever happened. I promise.”
Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead inspired this. Semi regularly I organise A Night to Write, an analogue writing session that utilises prompts to ignite short story creativity. This week we experimented with a musical prompt, and Rachmaninoff was pulled from the pile of options. To get the full effect try listening to it while you read. Listen here
P.S If you live in or around Haarlem, Netherlands it would be great to see you come to A Night to Write.
The moon is painting the sky silver. Frost crisps the edges of the leaves still hanging on their branches and turns translucent webs into diamond threads. Each step leaves an imprint in the soil. It's wet but not yet frozen. My fingers are numb, swelling with the pressure of carrying a heavy load.
“I didn’t think he’d be this heavy.” Neither did I.
“We don’t have far to go,” I say, spotting our finish line through the fog building in the valley ahead. I can just about make out the twisted shape of the dead oak tree. It’s an icon of the forest, split in two by lightning fifty years ago. Something snaps behind us.
“What was that?” I say, my eyes locked on the old oak. I don’t want to lose sight of her.
“Not me,” she says, pausing. I pull my numb hand forward.
“Come on, let’s keep going.”
There’s a turn in the path ahead, not that it’s a path at all. As far as I know, I’m the only one who has walked this route before. That’s what we are banking on anyway. We move to the right, avoiding a downed tree and a thick blackberry bush. My shoulders are burning, my fingers are almost certainly purple, and the fog’s coming in quicker than I’d like. The oak is barely in view now. Another snap. We both pause.
“Was that you?” I ask, hoping.
“No.”
“Maybe it was just a rabbit or something,” I say, peering over my shoulder.
“Josh, I really don’t think this is a good idea.” Her eyes look panicked; she’s been crying.
“We don’t really have another choice.”
“But…” Her chin creases, and her eyes wobble.
“Just a little further. Then we can forget this ever happened. I promise.”
The fog is thick now, filling the valley like an avalanche. The oak is fading into its blanket, but I’ve walked this path enough times to know where it is. It’s about twenty paces straight, a sharp left after another blackberry bush, I’ll feel for it with my free hand. Then ten more paces, and there it’ll be. We start moving again, slowly, precisely. I’m counting every step. One, two, three. I’m listening for another snap, tuning into the forest, but all I hear is panicked breaths and leaves crunching under our boots. We’re walking on dry cornflakes. A shadow moves through the fog ahead. It’s swift and calculated, like a shark hunting in shallow water. We’re nearly there, I remind myself. Besides, the shadow could have been anything. A deer, a rabbit, a fox, wild boar.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“I’ve lost count.”
“Of what?”
“I was counting our steps to the turn.”
“Just start again. We couldn’t have gone more than ten,” she says, trying to control her breath.
“One, two, three…” I begin again, holding out my left hand for the blackberry bush. Another snap.
“Just keep going,” I say. There’s no answer, but I can hear her steps crunching behind me.
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…”
Somewhere above our heads, a crow starts squawking. It’s a good sign. The old oak is a favourite resting spot for them.
“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…” I’m waving my left hand, feeling for the bush. It has to be somewhere. The fog’s so thick here I can barely see my boots. I peer over my shoulder, but all I can see is her shadow.
“This fog is wild,” I say.
“I can’t even see you,” she says, catching her breath between sobs.
“Almost there.”
I turn back around, although it makes no difference. Everything is white now. We’re walking through a cloud. There’s another shadow in front of me, this time moving slowly, it’s plodding awkwardly. A wounded deer, perhaps. But it doesn’t matter because I feel the prickly touch of the bush brush against my left palm.
“Turn left,” I say, but again there’s no answer, and now the weight hanging from my right shoulder has doubled. It feels like I’m dragging our load along the frozen floor.
“Beth? You alright?” I say, peering into the white cloud behind me. There’s a faint sound of sobbing and an upright figure casting its shadow. She’s still there, I start counting again.
“Just a few more steps. One, two, three.”
The weight lightens in my shoulder. She’s carrying her end again, but I’m not sure how. I’m three times her size, and I’m reaching the limit of my strength. He can’t be more than ten kilos, but as a dead weight wrapped up in our bed linen, he seems to get heavier with each crunch of the floor.
“Six, seven, eight.”
Ahead, another shadow emerges. This one is twisted and towering.
“We’re here,” I say, dropping the load from my hand. It starts to pulse, replacing the frozen with the warm. My whole right arm is numb.
“Good effort, babe,” I say, but again there’s no answer. I listen for her sobs, but even they have disappeared. I step back a few steps, hunting for her shadow, but there’s nothing, only white and cold. The crow squawks again, turning my skin inside out. Maybe this was a bad idea, besides it was only an accident. I turn to my ears again, relying on the one sense that has some hope of working in a place like this. There’s a breeze picking up, wrapping itself around my neck. The sound of something being dragged along the floor breaks through, and I shiver again. Someone is in here with us. Maybe she got scared and ran home? She’ll be fine. If anyone knows this part of the forest as well as me, it’s her.
“Get this done,” I say under my breath, falling to my haunches. I feel for the linen on the ground, but it’s not there. Now I'm crawling on the frozen leaves, waving my hand like an antenna. Then, without a second to catch myself, the ground gives way. My fall’s broken by something soft. It’s cold, wet and lumpy, like a sack of meat. There’s a piece of fabric tickling the end of my nose. But I can’t move my arm to itch it. I can’t move anything.
“Beth?” I call out, but my voice is muffled and weak. I can taste copper on my tongue. Then I hear another snap, a scream. Something heavy lands on me, punching my last breath from my chest. The wind returns, crawling on the back of my neck, but this time it’s warm. Beth, I think before the fog enters my mind and everything turns white.
Happy Halloween
Love, Luke