A story,

This is the first bit of a story ive been working on. so here goes eh.

Working title is "the world moves"

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His greying hair fell about his neck like a waterfall, flowing over his shoulders and down his back. A short trimmed beard waved in the wind as he ran up the hill. The old man’s face was reddened with exertion, his breath came in short painful gasps, forcing air into his suffering lungs. Sweat beaded his forehead and blinded him as it ran down his furrowed brow and into his eyes. He blinked furiously clearing his vision, the steep slope was taking its toll on him, every step brought pain to his withered limbs and his back ached with fatigue. In his left hand he gripped a long, thin staff of brilliant white, the sun reflected off its polished surface sending rays of light dancing in all directions.

Suddenly from behind, the thudding of many feet echoed up the slope. Glancing fearfully backwards, his eyes glistening, he saw the first wave of angry townsfolk wash into view. He spurred himself onwards lungs burning, chest heaving and feet pounding the earth. From below him a cloud of dust rose about the advancing hoard, shrouding its members in its choking embrace. To Manitora the wall of dust swirled and danced with many demons, his neck prickled and he drove forwards. Rabbits and other wildlife scurried for cover as the tousled apparition ploughed past, poking heads out of burrows as he receded only to duck back again as the mob advanced upon the figure. At last he reached the summit of Moutanil hill, he shivered at the thought of the name. He came to a halt and checked the position of the crowd.

“There should be enough time.” he thought. He raised his shining staff high and closed his eyes, the world grew dark about him and he began to chant. Low at first, the syllables tumbling from his lips, slowly his voice began to rise, growing louder and louder. The air seemed to grow thick. Time slowed. The crowd did not notice. Still he continued, faster and faster he intoned the verses, his voice took on a deep echo of ancient wisdom and the air began to tremble. The noise began to reach its penultimate notes, when the crowd crested the hill and raised spears, swords, falchions and other weapons all equally cruel and ugly. The final syllable died on Manit’s throat as his gorge filled with blood. His eyes snapped wide open, staring in horror at the rapier protruding from his chest. He tried to force the word out, but could not, he clutched his staff and toppled backwards onto the grass. Silence fell on the crowd as if a madness had been lifted from their clouded eyes. As Manitora’s final breath sighed from between his broken lips, a white glow enveloped his body, hiding him from view.

There was a flash.

Blinding white light enveloped the villagers.

The world moved.

Dayir awoke with a groan, his head pounding and his throat dry. The brightness hurt his eyes and the song of a thousand of birds brought pangs of discomfort to his head. It was quite strange he thought, how he remembered silently creeping thought the shadows of night, stalking an elusive doe, spotting it, pulling taught the string and getting ready to shoot. When suddenly, here he was. All there was to explain the mystery was a shifting, fading memory of a flash, a loud sound, perhaps even the whisperings of a forgotten cry for help. Feeling confused Dayir slowly rose from his position among the leaves and stood looking around him. A green gold haze pouring was down from overhead and the trees glimmered in the morning sun standing tall and majestic. Their bark was encased in a living blanket of vines and moss. Their very presence enhanced by the glory of the dawn.

Off to his left a glint of metal caught his eye, walking unsteadily towards it he saw that it was his bow and his arrow pouch both of which he must have dropped after whatever had befallen him. A discarded arrow lay next to the bow, forlorn and unused. Well at least this ruled out robbery thought Dayir, it was a fine bow any would-be thieves would have seen it as the most valuable possession on his person. Indeed coupled with his intact money bag and even more unusually his continued life, it ruled robbery out almost without question. Dayir had heard stories about men who’d been found dead after the attack of some thief or other unsavoury character, the manner of their gruesome deaths had been touched only lightly by his uncle, but it was still enough to put him on his guard while out hunting. As any other explanation failed to become apparent Dayir hoisted his pouch across his back and carefully unstrung his bow, wrapping the cord in a tight loop before pushing it into a small leather pocket on his belt to keep dry from any eventual rain. Finally ready Dayir turned and, still slightly light headed, headed back in the direction of Srenson.

As time passed, the fog that seemed to have been pressing on his brain lifted and he began to think more clearly. He started to simply enjoy the pleasure of the walk, feeling the muscles in his legs going taught then relaxing as he strode along. The sun no longer blinded him, in fact, the brightness seemed to imprint upon his mind and a broad smile began to stretch his features. The confusing events of the night before lost in the swirl of colours, the smell of sap and flowers, the sound of the branches snapping and the crunching of leaves. Suddenly a slight movement caught his eye, almost out of sight among the trees a shape shifted. Through the haze of the sun Dayir thought he could make out the white on brown markings of a doe. A sudden thought struck him, he still did not have anything to show for the supposed hunting expedition he had been on before his misadventure, if he went home empty handed now, he would not be able to show his face to the other young men of the village for weeks.

Slowly he lowered himself to his knees, quietly as possible he inched the pouch from his shoulder, the leather making almost no sound. Laying the bag on the leaves, he pulled the cord allowing the neck to open and him to reach inside and select an arrow. Laying the arrow next to his bow, he redid the pouch and slung it infinitely slowly across his back once more. Next he pulled the coiled string from its little pocket and with the slightest of creaks from tension in the bow, bent it and pulled the cord from top to bottom, slowly releasing the tension and allowing the bow to relax. With one hand he notched the arrow to the string and with the other held the bow at the ready. Slowly Dayir inched around the trees, avoiding patches of leaves and telltale branches as he crept forwards. The doe continued to graze, blissfully unaware of the approaching hunter. Closer and closer he came to the creature, close enough now to see the fly’s darting too and fro above its back, the doe’s tail flicking irritably. Now partially concealed behind a silver birch Dayir slowly lifted the bow to face the target, drawing back the string and judging the angle of the shot. The animal lifted its head sharply, Dayir froze, no sense in rushing, ears pricked the doe continued to warily glance around. Finally its alarm sated it lowered its head again. With a quiet hum Dayir released, his aim true, the arrow struck the unfortunate animal in the neck, severing the artery. A sudden last cry and the doe dropped to the ground, for several seconds the pitiful thing thrashed on the floor before falling silent and still.

Dayir approached holding his bow, the glassy eyes of the dead doe stared silently back as he gazed upon it. Unstringing his bow and securing it to his back he bent down and tugged the arrow free of the doe. Noting its condition he discarded the arrow and pulling a rope from around his waste, began to secure the animals legs together. Once complete he hoisted it up onto his shoulders. The limp neck bumping against his arm as he began the walk back to the village. By now the sun was starting to leave its midday crest, and was beginning to sink towards the horizon. As Dayir walked the shadows of the trees began to appear, stretching in front of him as if to point the way home. The excitement of the kill began to drain, but the luck of finding prey at such short notice still surprised him. He thought back to when he had been taught to hunt all those years ago by his father, practicing his tracking, accidentally scaring away his fathers prey and being surprised by his fathers laughter instead of anger.

Thoughts of his father still floating through his brain his mind drifted from the path, before he knew it his foot caught. The ground rushed up as he fell down. His arms wrapped round the body of the doe he had no hope of stopping himself. Dayir closed his eyes, he braced himself, he waited. Nothing. He opened his eyes, he was standing upright on the path, facing the same way he had been before. Suddenly disorientated Dayir took a step back, his foot connected with something. He glanced down, the offending root looked up at him with innocence, his mind in turmoil Dayir began to continue towards the village, what could explain such extraordinary happenings, no one would believe him if he did tell them. No matter what he thought the only conclusion he could reach was that he had obviously half dosed off in the afternoon heat and imagined the whole event. Dayir decided the best course of events would be to ignore it and finish his journey emerging the proud hunter moments later into the village of Srenson.

As he emerged from the trees, Dayir blinked in the light. The sun shone with brilliant white fire and danced upon river that snaked along the western edge of the village. The pleasant murmur of voices permeated the air, as well as the aroma of animals, herbs and numerous smoking fires. The dried mud of the road cracked underfoot and the weight of the dead doe seemed to become lighter. He walked past the village mill, its waterwheel creaking and churning, and from inside came the gentle growl of the grindstones. The laughter of children echoed around the open square as he moved into the centre of the village. He past a bunch of elderly men who nodded in approval at the burden on Dayir’s back and he carried on up a twisting, lane towards his uncles farm.

As he rounded the corner his uncles cottage came into view. It was a simple house, small, untidily thatched with a heavy oak door and slatted windows that glowered discontentedly out at him. The chalky exterior reflected the sun and lit up the building giving it a bright pleasant glow, but Dayir knew that inside waited his uncle, whom Dayir knew would be in a less than affable mood. Instead of heading straight inside, Dayir turned left and followed the wall around the side of the building to a squat outhouse. Upon reaching it he heaved the dead deer off his back and hung it from one of the numerous rusted hooks that were scattered over the beams of the shed. With a creak from the wood the limp animal swung slightly as Dayir relaxed his shoulders from the pressure. Next to the shed was a barrel half filled with water, still stretching his weary muscles he approached it. Musing over the events of the past day he dipped his bloody hands into it and began to rinse the filth from himself. When he was finished washing the water was murky with dirt from the journey and blood from the doe, swirls of red spun about in the depths of the liquid as if performing some macabre dance.

Suddenly feeling exhausted Dayir turned and walked back around the house to the door, and with tentative fingers twisted the handle and pushed on the rough hewn wood. The door swung silently inwards, its massive weight supported on well oiled iron hinges and its bulk almost filling the cramped hallway. Stepping in through the opening Dayir squeezed past the door and stood in the dimly lit hallway, the murk inside almost impenetrable after the light of the outside world. Walking further in he came out into a wider area that was the kitchen, there was a small stove in one corner, its single door hanging open and the blaze from the hot coals warming the room. Wearily Dayir unstrung his bow and placed it along with his pouch into a corner of the room. Sighing he turned to face the opening to the sleeping area, his uncle would be in there. Waiting. Building up confidence to confront his uncle Dayir paused for a moment, studying the small ragged tapestry which his Uncle had once salvaged from a manor house fire, that was years ago now.

Taking a deep breath he filled his lungs with air and braced himself for a tirade from his Uncle he walked towards and through the door, before him the back of his uncles head could be seen sitting at a small table at the end of the room. He didn’t move a muscle as Dayir approached, who began to wonder if his uncle was asleep and he might escape unscathed. “And where have you been then?” His uncles voice resonated around the room. Dayir found himself robbed of a voice, his uncles clipped tone suggesting that he was not at all pleased. “I was away hunting Uncle, you know that.” “Yes I do boy, but that does not usually require a three day absence!” Three days. Dayir had no idea he had been gone that long, he must have been unconscious for at least a day then, not as he first thought only a couple of hours. “Well Uncle, I don’t really know what happened, I must have run into a tree In the dark or something.” Dayir continued to explain the events surrounding his misfortune. His Uncle Spen, who by this time had swivelled his chair around to sit glaring at Dayir, listened intently as he described the hunt and the flash and the strange pain in his head. After he finished his uncle was still looking disappointed, so Dayir quickly interjected his kill and that the expedition had not been a waste. Uncle Spen seemed to brighten up at this and slowly lost his knitted brow. “I suppose I could forgive you just this once for worrying me, as to what happened, that’s anyone’s guess.” “Now, get you to bed, we’ve got a long day tomorrow, and I wont have you disappearing off to get knocked out again.”

Dayir felt relieved, his Uncle wasn’t normally this forgiving, and he had been gone three days. The revelation of this still shocked him, but he decided it was best to put the events behind him. He turned and walked out of the room and across the hall. Drawing back a faded curtain Dayir looked into his bedroom. A low roughly hewn wooden bed took up most of the space, next to it a stool and on the wall hung a small horseshoe, now rusted and forlorn, that he had been given by his mother when he was a boy. Suddenly feeling exhausted Dayir undid his boots and lay down upon his bed. As he closed his eyes the days events came to the forefront of his mind but instead of brooding over them Dayir allowed them to fade and float away like smoke on a breeze as he descended into sleep.

Dayir was standing on top of a hill, looking around there was nothing but open fields for mile upon mile. He slowly rose of the ground and floated higher and higher, the colours washed into one, the curves of rivers cutting the green tapestry here and there. It was as if he could see everything, from the eastern mountains to the western sea, and beyond. Then suddenly he was falling, down and down towards a forest it seemed, drawing nearer he saw he was heading for a specific clearing, and in that clearing was the shape of a man. Dayir landed, looked up, there was an old man looking calmly down at him. “Dayir” the man said, holding out a wizened hand. He could see the blue tinge of veins crisscrossing the old wrist and arm. Dayir took the hand, and an electric tingling flowed down his arm and across his body. Slowly as the warmth spread filling his entire being with a warm glow the scene began to fade. Darkness crept in upon the vision blurring the shapes of trees and the sound of the forest until the clearing had faded and Dayir stood alone in the darkness.

	Author	Topic: A story, (Read 1926 times)
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