November twenty-first, 1940.
Little time had passed since my father's disappearance. Still, my mother was the kind of woman who got things done, who stuck to it until she was actually sitting on the train, tickets in hand and an empty house awaiting her. Not that she was happy with how things had turned out—moving, in her mind, was simply inevitable, something that had to happen.
Something that would get herself, and her son, away from the house of memories in the city. Living a simple life in the country, away from said memories and far from the worries of war, would do her soul good.
She'd already hired a maid; one who would cook for us, as well. She was given tickets and sent to the house in advance to prepare it for our arrival. Though the house was little more than a stone cottage, Mother needed everything to be as proper as it possibly could, and falling back into this nearly obsessive compulsive need was an easy thing to do after such shock. In any case, with a maid to watch the house and provide for us, Mother and I could sit and grieve until the war was over and it was deemed fit to return to the city.
I could tell that our old house would not be moved back into, though. My mother had the determined look to her eyes that she held when she was hiding fear—fear of something new, fear of the unknown. There was a firmness set in her jaw and her eyes were slightly narrowed. She was doing this for her own good, and for the good of her son. She was starting over.
The train rattled and choked and came to a stop, a high whine filling the car as it glided into the station. The valley that we'd been flying beside was replaced with gray walls and ceiling-high windows, which were much too dirty to allow a view of the landscape.
Mother took her bags in hand and, checking to see that I was following, stood up to leave the car. There was a crowd of us that exited the train; the previously quiet station became loud with conversation. Mother and I were bumped to and forth until we managed to make it out the car doors, set our luggage down, and watch the rest of the passengers file out.
From the crowd of people that had exited, only three or four boarded the train. It whistled, loud and echoing from the ceiling, and started to move forwards, until there was only a blur of metal and glass as our only transportation to the city left the station.
Mother picked her bags up once again. She turned towards the exit and started walking, while I grabbed my luggage and ran to catch up.
There was a car waiting for us outside, she'd said. It would take us to the village. The drive would be long, but we'd be safer now, and I was to behave well and keep quiet, especially on the ride to our new house.
We entered the car.
It was black, and small, and I had to keep my luggage on my lap and not complain or move around repetitively for fear of disappointing my mother. I found that distracting yourself by looking out the window didn't work as well when your legs were asleep. I soon gave up.
...
We arrived at the village around noon.
The first thing I noticed was the wall—it sat in a broken sort of circle, encompassing the entire village. It was made of crumbling rocks, overgrown with vines and the tumbling white lace of flowers, beautiful and imposing and much too high to climb. The rocks at its base had crumbled enough to make the wall seem to grow out of the ground itself. Falling from the base were stone staircases, spiraling downwards, leading nowhere, ancient relics to ancient tunnels. The forest stood guard nearby, a few trees venturing towards the wall as if to guard the entrance.
The black van, gliding as smooth as it could over the cobblestone road, turned to follow the length of the wall, coming to a stop when a large metal gate came into view. A guard stood posted, took note of the vehicle, and opened the gates. We were ushered inside; the gates closed behind us with an ominous echo.
My mother turned to me, twisting in her seat.
"Gilbert," she said, "Grab your bags. We'll be walking to our home."
She said her thanks to the driver as I exited the car. Outside, the village seemed huge, stone cottages clinging to the wall and slowly falling in to the town square. Square gardens, set in layers against the incline, formed a maze of supporting rock that grew from the wall itself. The whole village seemed to be made of stone—ancient, overgrown, an English garden left to withstand time and nature. The town square, which was the lowest point in town, was surrounded with shops and market stalls. Venders called out their wares as we passed by.
"Our home is a ways away," Mother said, almost yelling over the market's roar. "We should make it soon enough if we hurry. You can unpack once we get there—your room has a nice view of the garden, and our house is close to the wall, so there shouldn't be much to disturb us."
We turned a corner, clambering up a well-lit alleyway between shops. A cat, sprawled out on the hot stone ground, stretched its paws out in greeting. The air was drenched in sun.
"Oh," my mother added, "And you mustn't leave the wall. The village is huge as it is, and for some reason the villagers are uneasy with anyone leaving unexplained."
She paused. "I assume it has something to do with the war—British soldiers are known to come here from time to time, just to assure themselves that we have little contact with the city. Places as remote as this are known for hiding military outposts, but this village is hiding nothing."
Now, she set her bags down on the steps, turning to face my direction. She held my cheeks in her hands.
"I assure you, love, there is nothing to fear here. We're safe."
"Mama," I said. Not a question, just a reassurance—we were safe here, and I trusted her, trusted her to keep me from bombs and soldiers and the memories of my father.
We kept walking.
...
Back in the city, Germany rejoiced.
It was a day after our strength was assured; the tripartite act had sealed Hungary and Romania to our forces. Europe shuddered as we gained strength. There was, truly, nothing in our way; our leader himself had assured us of victory, and no lies could come from his perfect mouth. Even the children had sensed great joy, and great relief. And so the nation had woken up, that morning, from dreams of great things; dreams of food and money and victory and revenge, things far beyond the span of a single human.
In the distance, a tired boy walked the cobblestone steps to his new home, but nobody took notice.
...
The morning came, filled with dust and sun and birdsong and entirely unwelcome.
I turned in my bed.
The mattress was harder than I was used to, with three pillows strewn at random near the headboard. The bed frame itself was nice, though—dark wood with ornate designs, leaves and birds and tree branches stylized to match the black forest outside. It was, in style, almost reminiscent of my city home.
The rest of my room was completely different, however, as was the house on whole. It was comfortable, though. The stone walls were framed with wood on the inside, some painted a faded green that matched the too-soft couches and armchairs. The dining table was tiny, and a light wood, which was new to me. I was used to everything being dark and antique; here, with an abundance of sunlight streaming in through the windows, even the dark and ornate furniture was made light and cozy.
Finally, the house was only two floors, not the three that I was used to. And the second floor was merely storage space. Mother claimed that this was common with the houses here, and that we were lucky to get such a nice abode in such short time.
...
That morning, I had sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly stirring my tea as the maid shuffled around me. I found the morning light too harsh to read the paper, and so the radio had been switched on, though I strained to hear any noise through the static.
There was talk about the war, of course. Father used to listen to the radio every day, while he sat with his cigar in the living room and watched the smoke pool around him.
Now, there was only dust, and only me. When my father had left, he'd left me man of the house, whether he'd meant to or not. And so the radio was on; I stared at the dust, caught by the window's light, and pretended it was smoke.
The cat from yesterday sat outside.
I glared at it through the window.
Maybe you like it here, I thought, But I don't. I miss the darkness—you should too, you dumb cat. It's better in the city. There are towering houses, and good food and parties and balls, and the poor look at you with a sick respect, and it's beautiful. Here, my house is a cottage. I might as well be as lowly as you.
A stray.
I scoffed and turned from the window. The maid must have caught my expression, as she shot me a confused look and turned back to her work. I scowled at her. The cat outside turned, slowly, and walked away.
Suddenly, the room was too small, the dust turning to real smoke and suffocating me. I stood up—nearly knocking over my tea—and stumbled from the table.
The door was pushed open, the hinges complaining of abuse. But the air outside was so nice—nicer than the city, perhaps, but that was really about it—and I couldn't care much for the door when all I could feel was the air rushing in and out of my lungs, reminding me that there were still wide, open spaces where claustrophobia didn't exist.
But the dust wasn't there, and either was the smoke from the study or the tea or the heat or the morning. There was just the fresh smell of forest, keeping me from my memories and blocking any fantasies of return as I closed my eyes and welcomed the air.
...
Out in the forest, a man sat, his legs entangled in the roots of wild trees. He'd heard about the war—they all had, really—and he was nervous. Thoughts of chains and guns and foreign men marching through his land had filled his dreams and thoughts for weeks, reminding him of stories from his mother's time, warnings and horrors and everything you didn't need to face as a child.
And so the fires were put out, and make-shift camps destroyed and abandoned; he would return to the trees as his home, the grass and dirt and roots, whatever had lay beneath him before a feeble attempt at being human.
This, of course, is how the war had pushed him back to being an animal; though there were no soldiers—not yet—the bloodlust was already there. And there were scratch marks, too, and territories long forgotten. Distant calls of relatives and wolves filled the air at night, suffocating him with thoughts of why, exactly, these calls had become so much more numerous. The forest had started closing in, but he knew it would open up to the enemy, just as it had to the scattered villages erected long before his time. There was chaos in his thoughts. In his dreams. False memories built of stories and fears and fantasies all rolled into one sick pill, forced down his throat by the war and the village and humanity's stupidness in general.
Not that he was much better; still, the large territories and rare encounters with his kind made it difficult for a war to happen in the forest. The humans didn't know anything about this, of course, so they marched through without abandon. The forest was a giant shield. It hid them from their enemies and muffled their plans and calls with heavy branches.
But night would come—for the soldiers, for the war, for the man entangled in the roots. Night would come, and in the consequential darkness, accidental encounters with the impossible would prove a darker war, one largely unimagined up until this point.
It was coming. He didn't know that, yet—the man in the woods. But he knew he was waiting for something.
So he lay down, pulled the roots over his body like a blanket, and fell asleep to pass the time.
...
Author's Note
Second chapter! Maybe this one will get reviews :P And maybe the cheesy cover with the red writing and all wasn't the best idea, but I really couldn't help myself.
In any case, tell me what you think! Reviews are very much appreciated! As is constructive criticism, just so you know.
~ Awreon
