whispers in the stranger autumn snow pt.1

from a world only in the imagination

(South of Gholldorn in the Woodlands, at Wellington Village near the Woods of Larsgrave)

 

That late chilly afternoon, on the edge of the woods; Wesley Garigan listened. But all he heard was the most dreaded sound of all, one that awakens within a person when they are alone, staring at the face of a bilious and inscrutable place. It was the silence of nothing but a cold breeze; an occasional hollow of wind; blowing through spaces of lifeless trees, hidden in grey smoke of fallen clouds of vapor. A strange fog haunting the White River and the Sea of Sailors Despair, for over a century, had taken harbor in the woods near the shore. During the same period, an even stranger autumn had held spring at bay, wickedly basking in her sun. Smothering her with clouds in a manner of a cruel sibling, killing the last born with a pillow. Autumn kept appearing on the seasons of summer and spring. It had left these parts of the realm frigid. Only winter bravely revealed itself from time to time on some days, holding onto the air with a jealous cry, dropping snow from the grey ocean of clouds like cotton floating the air at feather's pace. Unlike the other kingdoms in the north the east and the west of Gholldorn.

 

 

Today felt and seemed like one of those days to Wesley; it was in the year unknown to many people in the Woodlands, knowledge of time had no value in this parts of the realm. To them; it was the dying of winter, the reign of the seventh lord of Wellington, the fall of the glorious old, the age of tales never told, the century of great minds, the time of journeys and treasures, the finding of the breathless and mysterious. Then came the reminisce of the dead prophets and fallen lords, the lies of the greedy men to the silly dreamers, the tides in the hollow winds and mellow whispers, the curse of midnight spirits and lost sailors, the cast out into no where’s gaze, the pursuit of sunny days. It was all these things and so many more in so many ways. But the death of the glorious old went wrong in so many ways, and the god of seasons cursed the land. Taking away the harvest of stolen gold; and sweet nothing the realm of the Wood Lands ripped. But they cared not, for these undesired blessings were still blessings none the less. And this misty afternoon felt like a blessed day. When Wesley Garigan stood there; shocked and terrified in confusion as the woods had turned into a haunted graveyard.

 

Then a light caught his eye. It was the sun; sinking; reaching out with rays from halfway beneath the salty waters, and half hidden, behind the black rock mountains covered in what seemed to be orange snow in the distance. The last cloudy fog cleared the waters, pulled to the shore, and resting in the woods- hiding them in the smoke of vapor, whilst revealing across the salty waters known as the White River. He was left amazed, staring at the quaint mixture of the dark green river and even darker sea color, the way the waters serenaded before stretching beyond the mountains, the way they touched the orange sky at the horizon. Clouds turned into an emerald of fire in smoke as they flew past him from above- Almost as if they were running away from the warmth of the light. The very first sight of clear sunlight in over a century. He marveled at it, casting out so brightly at the far distance, sinking slower than a wrecked ship in the sea. Never in his life had he imagined he would be so mystified and burned at staring straight into a ball of fire. The fog had always swallowed up the river, all the way to the last view of light that dawned across the sea up to the skies, making everything vague, dull and dead. He began to walk towards the shore sensing he needed to capture his first glance of a sunset a bit closer.  He was having one of his rather dull days, and needed to get away for a while, to feel some peace of mind, far from the crowded Wellington streets. He never thought this was what he would find.

 

Patches of snow lay bare on the ground, as his leather boots left prints in the frozen grass near the muddy and frozen shores. Just as he closed his eyes, trying to embrace the air with a deep breath, he felt an irritating itch in his left nostril, causing him to sneeze out loud with both his hands covering his mouth. There on his thumb in some snort-yellowish and gooey as snort can be; lied the filthy culprit. It was a small fly; buzzing and giving its last kicks as it drowned in his snort. He watched it with disgust on his face and flicked it to the ground, before putting it out of its misery with his boot. Suddenly; he caught a glimpse of something just as he was removing his foot. The grass was concealing it! But barely given its color. It was pale and shined a bit with frozen drops of water on it. He kneeled slowly with a serious and focused look on his face. He reached for it inquisitively and picked it up. It was a human's index finger; he got to his feet a bit bug eyed. Then he noticed something suspicious across the ground, something he had not seen before. There were footprints moving from out the river; there were footprints in the snow; and they lead straight into the Woods of Larsgrave-A place now filled with a fog. He had heard the stories of some ships vanishing within the fog never to be seen, other ships appearing on the other side of the eight worlds in Galli, Theagon or Thrybah, without a single crew or even livestock in sight. Not even a bloody mess; just empty woods sailing in hollow winds and the mellow whispers from the sails.

  His eyes followed them. Then he dragged his feet along. The footprints lead him not too far from where he stood earlier-by the edge of the smoky woods.  He had been ignoring the fearful place while staring at the sunset, ensuring he kept a safe distance. The pattern of footprints vanished into the fog. He tried to tighten his eyes with the wind wetting them. But the fog waved more ghosts wearing white and grey smoke, it kept getting elusively thicker and thicker the deeper he curiously stared. Till the cold almost froze the tears in his eyes, forcing him to blink. He looked back; but the village was too far to hear his scream for help. People where content with being behind the high walls and comfortable in the warmth of their houses. Mostly the men, sworn into oath to protect the shores, yet they were already in the inn, drinking ale. Unaware of what many in these parts of the land would see as a phenomenon. Reluctantly, Wesley looked forward at the woods, pushing his long fur cloak to the side. He pulled out his long sword; its metal sound ringing out a warning of its sharpness as it left the scabbard. His brave face got swept by the wind. Slowly, he entered into the fog. All else behind him vanished. He took twenty steps before coming to a pause. Everything looked shadowy, especially the trees as they came to life with their branches dancing to the tunes of the wind. His vision was a bit blurry but he could still see the footprints with every step he took looking closely at the ground. He kept glancing behind him cautiously, making sure he wasn't losing his way. The trail had begun to hide under the snow with the deceit of a frozen lake under ice, unseen and dangerous. Anyone could get lost now that the woods had turned this mischievous. But Wesley however, knew them well enough. He had grown in these parts and walked these woods for more than twenty springs. For all that period they were never this way. They had never felt cursed and haunted. As he tightened his eyes, struggling to resist inflicting more fear inside himself, he noticed a red color ahead in the snow. Suspiciously he stopped; then looked around first before approaching slowly. The air turning to smoke as it left his mouth with every exhale. He got down on one knee, touching the reddish liquid with his finger. It was blood. It was fresh blood, barely spilled minutes ago, he may have just missed whatever or whoever did this. Wesley has been a hunter and soldier for six years, during that time he had spilled many men's blood; so he knew the color all too well- Even in the strange fog surrounding him. He began to feel a bit uneasy and got up, griping his long sword tighter, this time with both his hands on the brown hilt. A haunting wind whispered in the nearby trees. Startling him; slowly he stepped back. Keeping his eyes roaming vigorously to the surrounding. Beneath his breath he could still feel his heart pounding. His left leg sank in the snow, causing him to fall foolishly on the cold ground. A sack of thirty gold pieces fell from his waist. They hit the frozen ground, making a sound of breaking glass. Some coins slipped out of the sack, barely able to glow. Quickly he got up with a greedy panic, kneeling to pick them up in a hurry using his left hand, while holding the sword in his right, stronger hand. Without the touch of the sun, the thoughts of what may have caused the blood was still lingering in his mind, the woods now deeply felt like a cemetery of unhappy spirits with vengeance still to fulfill. There were shades and shadows already sewed together on the ground. A sign night would soon come. And with it; the horrors that dwell within the fog of the strange autumn season, frightening the sun, the Barbarian, the Judus and Pyarers away. A vile bitter smell filled the air, then crows’ cawed and flapped their wings loudly, causing unrest in the silent woods, the fog disguising them up in the frozen trees behind him. His heart almost pulled away from his chest. Like a wind had passed the birds became silent as a calm breeze. Then a voice hissed out, freezing him more than the chilly air. It was in a tongue he had never heard in these parts of the realm, nor the other five regions of Gholldorn. Not too far ahead from him, behind one of the trees stood a dark figure of someone peeking at him silently. Concealing itself; though its black cloak was visible, it's face unclear in the darkness of the hood covering over its head. The fog had mildly dispersed, making it barely easy to see friend from foe. The stranger hid as though he believed he could not be seen.

But Wesley could see him, he also realized the stranger might not be alone. He was just not sure what he saw. It was only for a mere two or three seconds. Maybe it was other people with torches, maybe it was not. His thoughts wrestled with his sanity. He could have sworn he had seen two large yellow eyes with thin vertical pupils, staring at him from behind the stranger. The yellow eyes sank back into the fog till they were out sight. It was not a long, but it was the sort of stare a giant snake gives a cornered rat. From the width of the eyes alone, Wesley could tell it was a large creature. One with a head taller than his average stature and as wide as the fattest man in his village. Fear swallowed Wesley whole. What he saw may have not been there anymore, but the stranger was;

 

Wesley's mouth turned dry, "Who goes there" he tried to yell out with fury, while struggling to clear his throat.

 

There was no answer from the stranger, just the whistle of wind passing through the trees.

 

Suddenly; the stranger walked out from behind the tree. Approaching Wesley; almost as if he was unaware Wesley had asked a question or even held a sword tight in his hands. Still, Wesley could not see through the darkness that shadowed the strangers face in the hood. He felt the faceless stranger’s cold stare as he approached him. Wesley stood firm with whatever ounce of courage he still had left. His pounding heart causing a rush of blood through his body. His tight grip became tighter. The battle for his life was upon him- the subconscious warned. He looked at the stranger’s pale, rough hands, with long black nails. It was there and then Wesley realized the faceless stranger might not be human, or he couldn't be. The stranger reached for its back and pulled out a long dull blade. It had wet blood dripping on it. Its edges looked chewed and cracked. His smell became louder the closer he got to Wesley, like the smell of a corpse left for days. The stranger appeared to be bare foot, his three large toes from his left leg poked out with every step he took, they had long black claws and rough pale skin too.

 

"Put down your weapon!" Wesley warned, positioning himself, steadily for the battle.” I said put down your weapon” he warned once more to no prevail.

 

The stranger kept approaching. He was almost fifteen footsteps away from Wesley. The crows on the trees began to make noise once more, the stranger began to increase pace, preparing to swing his blade. The crows came flying fast and past the stranger, heading Wesley’s way. They swept the air with fury, flying straight towards Wesley face. Instinctively in the confusing of fear and of bravery, Wesley cowardly shielded his face, trying to avoid having his eyes blinded. Quickly his thought remembered the danger coming, he uncovered his face and swung his blade with the hope of striking a blow to the on rushing stranger. His blade sliced through the wings of one of the crows. Blood hit his face. His screams of terror being louder and unable to hide his fear behind his battle face. If he was going to get cut, he would get cut repaying the favor. His sword sliced through the cold air, before hitting the snow. The last winds of crow wings flapped, black feathers were left falling everywhere as the birds vanished deeper into the forest. Their cries left echoing all around. There was nothing there; there was no one there; it was just him, the trees and one dead crow lying in the snow. He looked up and heard their fading caws crying in the direction towards Blackcurse Mountain. His breath was heavy; His heart was still fearfully beating; He looked around endlessly; His eyes almost horrified to have shown his heart such darkness. As he took a step forward, his right foot kicked his sack of gold coins on the floor. Looking down at them, he felt like he was staring at them from the top of mountain. Picking them up seemed like a cost on his life; deep down within himself he knew his trembling hands would let him down. He would drop coin after coin with every dismal attempt; while foolishly failing to put the coins back in the sack. And any man in Wellington Village, with truth still left on their tongue can vouch that Wesley Garigan was a greedy b*****d, and a foolish fellow. But even fools know two hundred gold pieces mean nothing in the pockets of dead men in haunted woods. For two decades the house of Garigan has given him pounds of coins for killing Barbarians and patrolling the Woods of Larsgrave and the shores, south, of The River of Sailors Despair. A place where Pau, the black eyed bear, slept for the winter. But this; was the first time Wesley truly realized lives weighed more than pounds of coins.

 

He heard a whisper once more passing his ears with the wind; in a tongue he did not understand.

 

 

‘F**k this’-He consoled himself, abandoning his loot and running on the path leading out of the woods. Through the mist he burst out with adrenaline taking over. He almost ran face first into a tree, but dodged in time only to hit it with his shoulder and knee. His sword fell and slid across the frozen floor. He rolled across the ground. He got up as quick as he can. Pain stung him on the shoulder and the rib cage. His knee felt brushed; He limped holding his shoulder; willing himself to endure the excruciating pain from his cold body. A warm exhale of smoke, left his mouth as he smoked the cold air with every twist and turn that caused him to breathe harder. The desperation to escape had become greater. Finally, he was out the fog and out the woods. His legs carried him down the trail he came. The last light had set fire to the clouds as they became mystified in emerald. The thick fading mists appearing, vanishing, in intervals of orange and yellow flashes of light, dying-yet still holding on to anything that can reflect its unrecognizable and unappreciated harmony. It was almost as if it knew leaving for sleep was his demise, perhaps it was also afraid as he was; the awakening of those that lurk in the darkness would soon come. The shades would grow till no shadow could be seen without the glitter of small stars, and the light from of the full moon in the soon to come dark blue sky. Deep down Wesley knew sleep would become less this odd season; autumn had brought the fog unto the land, within it, came the horrors that made Wesley leave his bravery in the woods, dropping it bit by bit with every heart beat that pounded. It may still be there alongside his loot of gold-that’s if bravery waits for any man nor does a sack of gold coins. The thoughts of losing his life were still as fresh as the smell of the blood in the snow.

 

 

 

Running down the trail he could see torches still far ahead, they reminded him of the yellow eyes in the fog. They reminded him of the faceless stranger, the winds of crow wings, and the echo of the whispers in the strange autumn snow. 

Author's Note

please tell me what you think of this chapter from a book i am working on ,thank you in advance