all those people so many years ago. The monster that ruined his life. He broke out into a cold sweat, gooseflesh crawling over his skin, and the howls crept closer, screaming out into the sea like liquid fire without heat. It was a sound which had no feeling to it, had no substance, only a desolate hunger. A yearning which would not be denied.
The old man raced for the tree by the cliff’s ledge and climbed up with some difficulty. He didn’t want to let go of the sword or the torches, and managed to get up with mostly his feet and elbows, tearing his battered clothes even more, and snapping branches along the way. Once up on the ledge, he went for the sight of the dying fire. It murmured in the distance like the single eye of a withered demon, dark, red, and gruelling. The cold mud made his feet ache, and he felt his hands wanting to tremble. He managed to keep them steady, but still they had a timid nature to them now. He felt like he was on a high ledge, and on the verge of falling into blackness. His hands were the first and only part of him to realize it. They wanted to shake not out of fear, but out of knowing that time was up. Time was the enemy, and had prevailed. The last hunter from Bahnn had lost.
He raced up to the fire, breathing heavily, and trying not to let the doubt set in too deeply. Trying to think positive, but not doing very well. As he neared his destination, he caught glimpses of its surroundings under the dark dancing light of a fire in the midst of its final hour.
The boy was still there, hadn’t left. Still true. Still alive, and untouched. Howls filled the air like a choir of butchers before a yearend feast. A symphony of madmen about to devour human flesh.
“What did you do?” the old man spat out in a shaky voice, his big round eyes full of uncertainty and confusion.
Vincent didn’t answer.
“You did something,” he shrieked, “wolves of this kind don’t act this way, don’t proceed blindly!”
Vincent glanced up at him briefly, and then back out into the darkness.
What did he do?
The old man stuck the katana in the ground and set the torches nearby. The expression of deep thought was etched across his face in haggard lines. There was more rope behind the tree. He would use it, would have to. They had to get away.
“You're–”
“Quiet boy,” the old man hissed, “we’re getting out of here.”
He strung more rope around Vincent’s neck.
“Too late,” Vincent finished.
Images of wolves watched from the outskirts of the fire’s dying light, their eyes raw and fierce. Eyes which reminded you that monsters did exist, and that they could get close enough to hurt you. Reminded you that in the real world you were weak and helpless, and the things which swayed and swelled in the shadows were the true lords. Reminded you that the world’s creator could very well have been deaf, mute, and powerless. Unable to help.
The old man screamed, grabbed the torches with both hands, and swung them wildly at the wolves, flames smearing through the darkness in long flashing steaks. The old man’s breath was visible on that cold night, and filled his surroundings. His long white beard and hair streamed out behind him.
“Back devils!” he screamed.
“Cut me loose,” Vincent shouted. “Let me free or we both die!”
The old man didn’t hear him, was lost within his rampage towards the beasts. The wolves watched from the shadows with a confidence, with a profound patience.
The patience shattered.
At first, the wolf leaping over the fire towards the old man didn’t seem real, moved too quickly to be anything but an illusion. The hermit made no sound as the wolf knocked him over, but yelled out victoriously as his torch smeared across the wolf’s face, sending it towards the dying campfire. Enough time for the old man to crawl franticly towards where he had left the katana. He climbed to his knees, pulled the blade from the ground with a grunt, and turned around. Before he could react, the half burnt wolf lunged at him again, snatching hold of his leg with long teeth and pulling him towards the other wolves. Vincent kicked the beast as it came near, and it fell over top of the campfire, sending a foul, burning stench into the air, coals tossed across the cold mud like red stones.
The fire was no more.
Only the three torches tied together lit their surroundings now.
The old man went for the rope around Vincent’s neck, tightened it, and limped behind the tree, his long shadow melting into the surrounding darkness. He tugged on the noose around Vincent’s neck again–even tighter this time, making him choke–and then cut Vincent's hands free from the tree. The hermit moved quickly, quicker than he thought possible with shaking hands and a mangled leg.
With the katana pressed to Vincent's throat, they left the torches, and fled out into the blackness of night. Not towards the cabin by the water–that place was lost to the hermit forever. Instead, they fled east, into the open fields of Fellokose.
11
Strangely, the wolves didn’t follow. Seemed afraid of what lurked within the fields spread across Fellekose, cautious of what dwelled within the grassy planes which appeared to go on forever. It was a strong memory which had inscribed itself upon Vincent‘s existence, the creatures eyes watching them go, accepting their departure but still possessing a dry hunger. As the two men fled into the night, scampering up and over the eastern hill in a disoriented jog, more howls crept out into the air like soft lyrics with razor edges, stinging the surroundings in a hollowness so deep and so ancient that the men felt it pass through them, stealing their thoughts and holding them far away, as if such things were limp ghosts strung up on distant clothes lines. The sounds also made time unravel at an unusual speed, like tossing a ball of yarn down a high cliff, watching it shrink away, and before they knew it the old man and the soldier were past the hill and already into the mouth of Fellekose. Already plummeting into the belly of that desolate land. Vincent managed to glance back once before the old hermit tugged at the rope around his throat again, managed to steal one quick image of what they were leaving behind: black images of the wolves paced before the torch’s flame–which was now hard to make out–and fluttered against the hill’s edge. The dead tree was no longer visible, except for perhaps a few of the branches which were hidden by the wolves stuttering shadows, and the ocean of course was completely out of sight. The sky was utterly dark, and went on forever. Was like the fields, empty. Another world almost.
Night faded to day, and still they stomped off towards unknown goals, still they trekked further from the sea, moving at a slow speed but taking no breaks. The old man eventually loosened his grip from behind Vincent, dropping the rope entirely, and now led the way with a limp, his mangled leg riddled in half-dried gore. The thought of charging the old man and knocking him down entered Vincent’s thoughts, but he didn’t act upon the notion.
Not yet.
More memories of Vincent's childhood were falling in onto him, making him feel far away again. He remembered rain pouring through the holes in a high, unfinished ceiling, gushing down onto him with unflinching cruelty, making his fingers hurt, making his forehead numb. In the memory, he had been screaming, and his throat felt raw and painful. He had a lump on the side of his head as well. The pain throbbed in slow waves. Silence echoed outside of that massive door, and somehow it felt gruelling and terrible. It made his stomach want to tremble. Made him want to throw up.
Behind him was a worse sound than silence. The sound of breathing.
Vincent turned and faced the blind woman. He wiped tears from his eyes. Blinked several times as if just waking up for the first time in his short life. The katana was protruding from the woman's stomach like some sort of finger pointing at the boy. Pointing and wanting to scream, and scratch, and growl. Wanting to hurt. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving up and down franticly, her eyes wide and filled with fear.
How long had he been in there with her?
How long had he been trapped in that room with the dying woman?
The questions echoed like bells in the backg
round, but were then swallowed by sudden screams coming from outside the door behind him. The screams of something inhuman.
The woman began gasping, holding the wound with both hands. Vincent walked towards her slowly, scared of the shadows the mangled ceiling cast down on her, scared of the decisions on what to do, and he began to cry.
“Don’t be scared,” he said, trying to disguise the tears by talking quietly. “We’re safe now. They can’t get to us.”
Her gasping slowed slightly, seeming as if she were trying to calm herself, but then it started up again, assaulting their surroundings like a hammer against water, splashing the boy's mind in horror.
“Help!” the boy began to call out. His voice felt large in that small room.
The screaming from outside intensified, and something heavy began pounding at the door. With every thud, the tiny ferns on the door seemed as if they would fall off.
Thud.
Thud.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, repeating it with every breath. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
Thud.
The door began cracking. Breaking.
The blind woman's breathing slowed, and then stopped entirely.
As soon as her breathing came to an end, so did the screaming and pounding at the door.
Silence hung in the air again.
Vincent found himself moving away from the dead woman, to the opposite side of the room.