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My friends and I occasionally play a game via email. We send our opponents two characters, a location and an object, all random and unrelated. We have to write a short story based on what we've been given. Word length is usually two pages and the time lim

 

The moon gazed upon the dry grasslands like a crone’s blind-white eye. In the distance the Hyena’s laughed as they took turns taunting their dying prey, the sounds sending a shiver up Winston’s spine as he sat before the old, black witchdoctor.

‘As i’ve already told you, i seek an ancient relic; it is called Leadership and it has been lost for ages. Now i know it is somewhere in the Karoo, but i do not know where,’ Winston explained patiently.
The old witchdoctor studied him with hooded eyes, taking a deep puff on his pipe, which Winston couldn’t help but notice was crafted out of a human thighbone.

‘Your name - Winston Churchill. It is a fitting name for the white man; Winston, Win-ston, has the word ‘win’, what man always wants. And Churchill, the church, the institution to which man clings and hill, the place where man stands to feel superior to all others,’ said the old man with a shrewd smile.
An angry retort sprang to Winston’s lips, but as the gleam of the firelight on the bleached human skulls behind the shaman caught his eye he bit it back.

‘Will you help me?’ Winston asked with tightly controlled anger.

The witchdoctor eyed him a moment longer before he finally nodded.

‘Very well, i will help you Winston Churchill. But know this; i cannot give you what you seek. You must earn it. You must undertake the vision quest and find what you seek’, said the witchdoctor.

Winston swallowed, his throat suddenly cotton dry.  Butterflies frolicked about his stomach but despite this, he found himself nodding.

The witchdoctor grinned, revealing yellowed and blackened teeth. He reached for a large, unassuming sack that sat beside him, delving into it up to his shoulder. He fished around inside for a while before pulling out a pint and setting it before Winston. Winston goggled at it, marvelling at the condensation still fresh on the glass and the perfectly poured froth crowning it.  The witchdoctor then reached into a small jar that sat between them and took out a small cube of red which he tossed into the pint, staining the amber liquid blood red.

‘Drink,’ he commanded. Winston looked at the seething concoction and felt the urge to vomit, but he forced the bile down and reached for the pint, quaffing it down as if it were ambrosia. He drained the glass and set it down, then waited. After several heartbeats nothing seemed to happen and he made to speak to the witchdoctor, but suddenly he felt incredibly drowsy. His world began to spin and he suddenly found himself lying sideways on the floor, staring up helplessly at the cackling witchdoctor. Then, darkness engulfed him.

Winston sat up suddenly, gasping for breath. He looked around and saw that he lay out in the open bush with a red-purple sky above him and a blue midnight sun.  There was no sign of the old man or his shack.
Winston staggered to his feet, feeling the ground pitch and roll beneath him.

‘Hello!’ he shouted desperately.

‘Hello,’ whispered a voice and Winston spun on his heal, seeking its source.

‘Hello! Who is it? Where are you?’ Winston asked and the voice answered him, once more coming from close to his ear and behind him.

‘I am Dory. And should you turn a little slower you will see me.’

Winston turned slowly and to his astonishment he saw a gray moth fluttering by his ear.

‘Dory?’ he whispered in astonishment, somehow knowing without doubt that the moth had spoken to him.

‘That is right, i am Dory. I am your spirit guide and i will lead you on this journey,’ said Dory. Winston could only nod in mute surprise and as the moth fluttered ahead of him he found his feet following it mechanically, having no better destination in mind.

The empty scrublands rolled on in all directions, not a tree, person or animal was anywhere to be seen, only a seemingly endless sea of dry scrubs and bushes.

‘Is this really the Karoo?’ Winston asked as he stared up at the reddish-purple sky.

‘It is what it is, what else could it be?’ Dory asked.

Winston frowned and was about to chastise Dory, when he suddenly realised that a large river had appeared before him. At first the river was calm, serene and silent, but a moment after he had laid eyes on it a torrent water rushed downstream and the roar of it deafened him. At first it sounded like rushing water, but after another heartbeat he began to hear a cacophony of voices snarling within it.

“...you can’t do this...”

“...you are a failure...”

“...loser...weakling...”

“...unworthy...”

‘Winston Churchill, you must brave the torrent; you must pass the river if you are to reach your goal,’ said Dory, its tiny voice somehow cutting through the racket.

Winston nodded and plunged into the icy waters, immediately sinking up to his waist. The current was relentless and ferocious and threatened to wrench him from his feet and hurtle him headlong down the river; but he fought it with all his might, ploughing through it and doing everything he could to block out the multitude of voices that battered him.  As he advanced he sank even further into the waters, until it lapped at his chin, but just when it seemed he was sure to drown his feet found the other side of the riverbed and he began to rise from the waters. With agonizing slowness he forced his way to the other side of the raging river and staggered out onto the dry land beyond, panting for breath.  Suddenly the sounds died away and when he turned Winston saw the once roaring river was now little more than a giggling trickle. He looked down and saw that his clothes were somehow dry. Before he had time to marvel at this Dory fluttered by his head once more.

‘Come Winston Churchill, we are not there yet.’

Winston nodded and followed after the Dory.
As he walked the scrubland caught at his shoes and tried to trip him, but he refused to fall. Though he knew he should keep his eyes on his path he found them drawn upwards to the eerily beautiful sky above him.

‘Winston Churchill,’ Dory said with a note of urgency and Winston tore his eyes away from the sky and leapt backwards in surprise. What had once been the open scrubland of the Karoo was now gone, replace by a steep mountain that rose above him.

‘Winston Churchill, you must conquer Mount Assumption; you must scale the peak that stands in your way. Only then will you achieve your goal,’ said Dory.
Winston gulped in and craned his neck, trying in vain to see the top.

‘Can’t i go around?’ Winston asked. Dory’s silence was all the answer he needed. Winston studied the craggy mountain for a moment then began his climb. He climbed and climbed and climbed some more. His gashed hands became numbed and his weary limbs began to lose feeling, but still he climbed. The slope was steep and though he longed to he refused to look down and see how far he had come, and he refused to look up to see how far away he was; all he did was focus on the next handhold before him.  

Time lost all meaning and when his hand finally touched the summit and there were no more handholds he froze in confusion, blinking uncertainly. A gentle breeze caressed his face and drew him upwards until he at last stood on the summit of Mount Assumption. He looked around, his eyes greedily seeking the famed treasure he thought to be resting there; but there was nothing but bare rock. For a moment disappointment threatened to engulf him, but then he felt something inside, something warm. And suddenly he realised; there was no relic, no shortcut or secret formulae; knew that what he sought and longed for all this time existed within him and always had. Winston reached up and felt the invisible laurel crown of victory that sat upon his brow; had always sat upon his brow and a smile touched his lips.

‘Well, that wasn’t so surprising,’ he said.

Fin