The clash of metal on metal all but drowned out the sickening thud of metal on flesh. With each thud the terrible screams of men and horses rang out eerily over the plains. Cassie stood, seemingly invisible, as the battle raged around her. She knew, for some reason, that she had to get through. If she didn’t something terrible would happen.
Suddenly she broke past two fighting bodies and saw him. Time seemed to slow almost to the point of stopping. She felt as if she were enclosed in a bubble, everything outside it muted and dimmed. Cassie began to walk forwards, but she barely took these things in. Nothing else seemed to matter except reaching him.
He lay on the ground, blood flowing freely from a deep gash in his leg. Above him stood a figure, cloaked in cruel intent. Cassie knew she had to do something. She had to save the young man’s life. As she hesitated, the young man’s eyes met hers, and a shock as powerful as a lightning bolt ran through her. Astonishment showed on his face, too, quickly melting into fear as the Immortal tensed to bring the terrible weapon down. It flashed blood red in the setting sun.
Lurching forwards, Cassie screamed and woke. She was back in her bed, sweating with fear but relieved it had only been a dream. She got out of bed and tiptoed silently to sit on the edge of the open window. Breathing deeply she let the cool night air calm her nerves. Looking down on the street below her, she frowned. It had seemed so real. Cassie tried to recall the face of the man she had so desperately needed to help but even as she struggled to remember, the image faded. Every other detail except that remained terrifyingly clear. Frustrated, she beat her small hand against the windowsill, then stopped. It seemed strange to be so distressed over a dream, but a lingering memory rose in her mind.
Her grandmother had once told her about something called a True Dream. A dream that showed a small window in time. A short sight of what would or could happen in the future. No one was ever able to tell how far ahead in time their vision was, but sometimes people were able to alter what they saw. This could result in the outcomes being changed. Sometimes it was a good change, sometimes it just made things worse. Cassie shook her head. Perhaps she would ask her grandmother tomorrow. This thought having entered her young mind, Cassie returned to bed smiling. Tomorrow, her family was celebrating her tenth birthday.
As Cassie fell back into an untroubled sleep, with the ease only a child can possess, another young girl lay awake in a place far distant. She too had woken in the night, forced out of sleep by the oppressive heat which blanketed the city she called home. Slipping silently through the passages she crept outside and was welcomed by the tantalising whisper of the garden.
Stillness and silence reigned. Even the crickets which normally chirruped on summer nights were quiet. Her red hair shone silver and muted gold in the moonlight and her green eyes widened as they fell upon an unexpected sight. A single rose blossomed in the corner of the garden. It was coloured rich as blood and flame and yet was cool as water when she touched it. She looked at the rose and in its crimson petals she saw fire and blood and pain, but she also saw beauty. She saw life.
A noise came from within the stone walls of her home and the enchantment that had seemed to embrace the garden, in that moment, was gone. The girl crept back inside. Behind her, the rose began to wilt and, by morning, was gone. As if it had never existed.
Later, on the outskirts of that same city a boy sat on the edge of the river. His feet dangled in the water which flowed past him, all the way to the Northern harbour and the open sea. Other boys further downstream swam in the water, revelling in the escape from the summer heat. Sweat made his shirt cling to his body like a second skin but he did not enter the water.
Though years had passed he remembered, with vivid clarity, the first time he had immersed himself in the river. As the water had closed over his head an overwhelming terror had gripped him. His feet had pushed instinctively off the bottom of the shallow riverbed and he had exploded out of the water. Dragging himself with panicked strokes towards the bank he gasped wildly for air, though he had only been under for a moment.
He had never been in danger of drowning, and this was not what frightened him. It was that split second, when the water met above him and formed a barrier, however thin, between him and the open air that he feared.
Simply remembering the feeling of being cut off made his heart thud within his chest, but he breathed deeply to calm himself. It seemed to him that, despite the balmy atmosphere, the air still had a purity and sweetness to it. The back of his neck tingled as if touched by an intangibly soft breeze and he sensed the end of summer was finally nearing.
Throughout the city, hemmed in by its tall walls, many people slept troubled by dreams and longing for the cool of autumn. But there were many who did not sleep. Wreathed in shadows, figures passed unseen and unheard amongst the tangled streets. Above them all, tucked away into the darkest darkness upon the walls, a figure stood watching the city. Watching the people below. Yellow eyes glowed brighter than a cat’s and they were filled with knowledge and an intensity that was rivalled by few. Someone standing on the street might look up and glimpse, for a moment, a lean silhouette. But then, as quickly as a heartbeat, it was no more and they found themselves wondering if it had ever really been.
Cassie, Gemma and Kieran lay on the grass, watching the clouds and arguing about Cassie’s dream. Ever since the night before her tenth birthday she’d often had the same dream. The young man and the cruel figure. Recently, it had been more frequent. Cassie was now sixteen years old. Six years of the same dream surely meant something, she reasoned.
Gemma agreed, but Kieran was undecided. He wanted to believe Cassie but at the same time he wanted to hear it wasn’t true. If it was true, it meant war was coming to Tarraneia. Two other problems had also become apparent over the years. Since the first time she had dreamt of him, Cassie had never been able to see the face of the young man clearly enough to identify who he was. The second problem was that she always woke at the same point in time. Cassie had spent many hours trying to figure out what might have happened after she had woken. Somehow, though, she knew that because she hadn’t done anything to help him, he would die.
“How can it be real?” argued Kieran, “We’re not at war with anyone.”
“What if it’s not us, not any of the countries of Tarraneia?” Cassie said.
Gemma spoke up, “What do you mean Cass?”
“I mean what if this enemy, these others, what if they come from somewhere else? Somewhere not from our world. Not from Tarraneia.” Cassie was rewarded with a badly covered up laugh from Kieran. She answered him with a glare.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, “But who else could they be, if not Tarraneians?”
“Cass, what exactly are you thinking?” Gemma interrupted.
“I think that perhaps this other being is one of the Immortals. I’ve told you before that he’s different from any Tarraneians I’ve ever seen. I’m being completely serious about this. What do you think, Gemma?”
“Well, I don’t know. Surely you would have noticed from the start if he was different? I mean, legends say that the Immortals are truly dark and twisted beings. Wouldn’t you see that from the start?”
“It’s not so much that he looks different. He feels different. Cold and dark. Evil, I suppose. They flicker sometimes, the beings in my dreams, but I don’t know if that’s just because I’m dreaming.” Cassie explained. Gemma chewed her lip and frowned.
“But surely they’re just a story.” Kieran exclaimed, “The Immortals. They’re the stuff of children’s nightmares, some scary tale we were told when we were young. They aren’t real, are they?” He looked from one serious face to another.
Gemma tried to reason with him. “Cass might be right, Kieran. My people believe they are real. It might seem unlikely, but so often legends have a base or root somewhere in reality. Perhaps they don’t exist exactly in the way we have been told but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
Kieran began to protest, either not wanting to believe this possibility or simply unable to. Cassie sighed. Now that they had started arguing, the two of them would not stop for some time. Still, they were loyal friends. Despite the fact that what Cassie was suggesting sounded crazy, even to her own ears, they had never faltered in their friendship. They might argue or disagree but she knew that they would help and stand by her without question, should she need it.
Kieran was realistic and stubborn, but always quick to laugh. His soft golden hair framed a warm face and a pair of eyes as deep and dark as the bluest ocean. He was almost the same age as Cassie, only a few months older, and they had known each other since before they were learning to walk.
Then there was Gemma. She had moved to the town three years ago and had quickly become close friends with Cassie and Kieran. She was a year or so older, and they often looked up to her. Her stubborn personality matched Kieran’s but her looks were entirely different. She had long, jet-black hair that wound itself into beautiful ringlets and her skin was a flawless brown. Her eyes were green, but unlike any green Cassie had seen before, until she had met Gemma and her family. They shone deep down as if reflecting an emerald light.
Then there was Cassie. She was fair skinned with dark brown hair, braided loosely to keep the wavy tresses from falling in her face. Her eyes were soft grey, a colour almost as unusual as Gemma’s green.
She turned her gaze away downhill towards where their village, Ar-ken, was nestled. It always calmed her to look at the village. It seemed so quiet and peaceful and yet full of life at the same time. The shops and houses were scattered around the village green, in no particular order or pattern. It seemed even the buildings mimicked the villagers’ relaxed attitude. The village green was the site of occasional festivals and markets, but even when such events were not happening it was never left empty. Young couples often milled in the area, enjoying the warm sun and colourful wildflowers that grew there from seeds drifting in from the vast meadows around Ar-ken. On special days the green became a hive of activity. Some artisans travelling from other towns or lands brought with them exquisite works, such as finely carved brooches, or daggers wrought in fine metals with delicate patterning on the hilt.
There had once been a low brick wall around the village but the passing of time and lack of necessity had seen it gradually diminish until only a ghost of its former self remained. Around Ar-ken were wide, sweeping meadows, filled now with the last vibrant colours of fire-flowers blooming at the end of summer. Gentle breezes made the long grass and flowers bend and sway as if pretending the plains were an ocean.
Three roads led out of the town. The main one went south towards the islands’ main harbour, the other two travelled in opposite directions – east and west. The western road headed towards the four small islands, between which boats often travelled. These boats were said to island hop as there was such a small distance between each of the four tiny islands. The eastern road led to very little, apart from a few small towns and villages. To the east was the edge of the lands of Tarraneia. Little was known about what lay beyond, if indeed there was anything, but few people had either the want or the means to venture far. All the roads were empty at the moment, except for a single wagon which drove slowly towards the town from the east, leaving a small trail of rising dust behind it.
Cassie glanced at her friends – they were still talking – sighed, and settled back down on the grass to relax in the warm sun, enjoying the last bit of summer before autumn truly began to take hold. She let the weather temporarily melt away her anxieties, she could worry about it all another time.
Two
Two days had passed since that warm afternoon on the hill and, though it seemed the old season was reluctant to let the new one in, a slight chill was beginning to permeate the air. The three friends sat on the hill again and though it felt so much the same, Cassie felt like things were changing.
Kieran still didn’t believe that the Immortals were coming to Tarraneia. But he knew Cassie did and that Gemma believed Cassie. As such, he was content to listen as they discussed it. If nothing else, Gemma told stories well. Right now, they were talking about what the Immortals truly were.
Gemma’s people, the Weeran, were believed to be one of the oldest peoples of Tarraneia. They had great knowledge about the true history of the land, and a deep understanding of legends and folklore. The Weeran were often considered peculiar by others. Despite being one race of people, the difference between one Weeran and another was often startling. Though Gemma’s family looked much alike, Cassie had heard tell that many Weeran were as different from their brother or sister as night was from day. It was rumoured that perhaps it was something to do with the Weeran strong connection and belief in the gods – the Elementals – but they did not speak of it to outsiders and people didn’t ask.
Now, Gemma was explaining what the legends of her people said about the Immortals. Some of it Cassie and Kieran already knew, but Gemma’s telling was far more detailed and complex than the folklore their own people had told.
The Immortals were once people like any other, but they were people who held within them a great sadness or anger. A dark emotion. When these people died of old age, or illness, or some other manner, they crossed the Void and entered the Afterlands. These vast Afterlands were still only a small portion of the lands ruled over by the Elemental gods. Only those no longer of the living were able to cross the Void. It was the boundary between the living world and the eternal world; the world of immortal beings, including the Elementals, and the dead.
There were four gods, one for each element: Gaien for earth, Pyrius for fire, Arya for air and Hydrienne for water. These four were believed to be responsible for the world and for life. Gaien wrought plants and beings from earth. Arya ruled not only the air people breathed, but shaped the world with the forces of wind. Hydrienne shaped the earth, too, with each wave that crashed upon a shore, and gave new life to people and plants alike with rain and rivers. Pyrius was the fire that lit each day and night, as well as that flame which burned as life inside each human and animal. The loss of any of these could lead to death. Especially the loss of Pyrius’s flame.
The four gods reigned in balance and it was only in this balance that they could rule. Each was governed by the others. It was said that the gods were akin to the elements they ruled, both in appearance and temperament. Pyrius was the most volatile of the gods. He needed air to breathe and earth to feed upon, but water kept him from becoming all-consuming. Without him, though, there would be no spark or flame to start new life.
Each of the four Elementals was wrought of light and life and creation, but there was something sequestered in the Void that was none of these things. It was this darkness, this absence, which infiltrated the souls of those who were marred by black emotion, as they crossed the Void. Like an unseen sickness it festered inside them, gradually growing stronger. It was this darkness that saw the Immortals rise up one by one against the gods. Over the years individuals rebelled, but none can stand against the gods. Not all were touched by this unnamed darkness and those who remained untainted had to be protected. And so the Elementals cast the Immortals from the Afterlands.
It was akin to a second betrayal. Feeling unjustly treated in their lives the Immortals were now denied the eternal happiness they could have had in the Afterlands. They half-existed on the edge of the gods’ dominion, constantly teetering upon the twisted nothingness of the Void that bordered it. There was no escape from the barren wasteland. The Elementals were unforgiving and the Immortals could not even seek out the release death offered a living being.
Over time, the Void ate away at their souls, until their bodies could no longer maintain a normal appearance. The decay that had been hidden inside their physical form began to break through.
This was as much as Gemma’s people knew, and it was far more than Cassie and Kieran had ever heard. This knowledge came from tales, passed down through generations and no one could say for sure what was true and what was not. However, the Weeran believed much, if not all, of it and it made Cassie feel a little less irrational.
Still, it told them very little about what to expect or how they could even hope to stop the coming war. Somehow, they needed to find out what to do and uncertain stories were not enough.
“Ellen,” Cassie decided, “Ellen would know.”
Three
The small wooden building sat snugly between two others, which, though they weren’t big themselves, still seemed to tower above it. The dwarfed building was Ellen’s home. Inside the house, hundreds of little glass jars filled with dried herbs covered the walls, arranged with exacting precision along the shelves. Some of the herbs could be found in any garden of the village, others had to be sought out further afield. Others still were very rare and a few were believed, by many, to be mythical plants which had never grown in Tarraneia in the first place. Ellen was the village wise woman and healer, but despite their reliance on her skills the people of Ar-ken knew little of her past.
Ellen was a mystery. One day she was simply there, sitting in a house that had been abandoned for as long as anyone could remember, certainly for as long as Cassie knew. It was not just where she came from but who she was that remained unknown. Despite that, everyone knew Ellen was different. She saw or felt things in people that no one else did. When Cassie was young her mother had visited Ellen about herbs for a medicine. As Cassie wobbled through the door, on legs that were unsteady and new to the trials of walking, Ellen had looked towards her and said,
“She is touched by the Elementals, that one. The gods have marked her.” Then she had gone about gathering the correct herbs as if nothing unusual had happened. Cassie was fond of the old woman and often visited. Now, she smiled.
“Hello Ellen.”
“I see you’ve brought Kieran and Gemma. You want to know of the Immortals?”
Kieran and Gemma sat with amazed looks on their faces. Cassie, on the other hand, just waited for Ellen to start talking. Ellen knew things, somehow, so Cassie just accepted it. Ellen often told her things and she listened, never questioning, just accepting. Now, Cassie watched Ellen while Kieran and Gemma made themselves comfortable on the wooden floor.
Judging from the stories Ellen told and the adventures and memories she had often recounted Cassie reasoned that she was quite old. Ellen’s appearance, however, often made her unsure. Her hair was pure white, but still long and healthy, not thinning or damaged in any way. It looked so perfectly straight and smooth that Cassie sometimes wondered if it was real. Her skin was palest pink, almost white, but not in a sickly way. She had no wrinkles, despite the fact she must have lived longer than most did. Her eyes had just the tiniest hints of blue, and often didn’t quite focus on what she was looking at, a fact that betrayed her blindness. Nonetheless, she often provoked the feeling that she could look into your soul and see what you were thinking. Maybe she could, maybe she couldn’t. Cassie sighed. There were too many maybes.
After Kieran stopped fidgeting, Ellen spoke again.
“I’m afraid I cannot tell you much more than you already know. The Immortals are little more than hate filled beasts in human form. They look and feel monstrous, even evil. Hate is strong but sometimes love can be stronger.”
“Are you saying we should love them?” Kieran burst out, unable to control himself. Ellen looked at him with sightless eyes.
“They are almost hatred itself, inside and outside. Hate is an evil and ugly feeling and it often overpowers love, but there are times when love can win. Just as hate can consume all the good in a person so love can heal and build anew. But, no, you cannot love them as they are. It would do nothing but inspire rage and greater fury. They would see any such attempt as a mockery.” Ellen shook her head, a slight frown creasing her forehead.
“So what can be done then?” Gemma asked, but Ellen only shrugged.
“I cannot say. If you are meant to know, then one day you will. I cannot see a future that is not already set.” None of them understood, but Ellen would say no more on the subject.
“Cassie, you are needed at home. You should hurry. Your little sister is causing trouble again.” With that Ellen turned away from them and the three took their leave, each going in different directions. As they walked out of the doorway, Ellen could be heard speaking softly to herself, murmuring a verse that Cassie had often sung as a skipping rhyme when she was a child. It had seemed harmless, then, a pretty tune. Cassie didn’t know what the verse meant and tried to dismiss it, but the words continued to echo hauntingly in her mind for some time after.
Fire, fire burning bright,
In the shadows of the night,
Flickering flames and dancing flares
Casting light on dark nightmares.
Air is whisp’ring in my ear,
Speaking secrets I can hear,
Telling of a place away,
Warns of what daylight will slay.
Earth is solid under foot,
Pale as bone to black as soot,
Feet are tramping all day long,
But why tracks where no man has gone?
Water ripples ever slight,
Dancing on the surface – light,
But down below and hidden deep,
What lies and until now does sleep?
In the daytime fears are small,
Heart is strong and courage tall,
Laughs and happiness about,
Not is there a hint of doubt.
Four
By the time Cassie got home the house and family was in chaos. The rhyme was quickly driven from her mind. Chairs and tables had been knocked over, and, in the middle of all the confusion stood Cassie’s little sister, Chrystal. The look on her face was a cross between guilt and laughter. Like someone who knows they’ve done something wrong, but at the same time finds the outcome very funny. Chrystal was eleven years old but a more mischievous eleven year old, Cassie thought, could not be found in all of Tarraneia.
Chrystal may have been a troublemaker but her appearance suggested otherwise. She was slight and daintily built. Her delicate face was framed by soft, brown hair and her dark brown eyes were more endearing than those of any small woodland creature. She portrayed an image of absolute innocence.
Elsewhere in the house something heavy fell. The thudding sound brought Cassie back to reality and to what was going on.
Casting her eyes over the destruction she realised she’d seen this before, only a year ago – the last time her sister had brought a weaver home. Judging by the fact the house looked as if it had been visited by a small but determined hurricane, Cassie was willing to bet the culprit was a Windweaver.
There were four different types of weavers, one for each of the elements: earth, air, fire and water. Ancient legends said that the weavers were the descendants, or children, of the Elementals, born of tiny fragments which had splintered off the gods themselves.
The name “weaver” came directly from the way they created magic. They wove it. Not using thread, or anything most people could see, but instead what could only be described as raw magic. Magic in its original state. Pure and unformed. The very magic that caused everything to exist. It was almost life itself.
To harness this power for their own use, weavers had to shape it, binding it into whatever form they needed. They were small creatures, and seemed unbound by gravity as they danced and flew effortlessly to work their magic. Once they had woven the magic into whatever pattern they wished, the weaver would release the threads of the piece, sending it on its way. Often they would dance amongst the tendrils of the spell as it unravelled. They didn’t just create magic, they were magic. The simple passage of a Windweaver through the air could create a strong breeze on a still day while the touch of a Fireweaver could coax warmth from a long dead fire.
Weavers were often curious, watching people from afar, though sometimes they ventured closer. Now, Chrystal noticed Cassie’s presence and her eyes widened.
“Cassie, thank goodness you’re here. I don’t know what’s happened. I was in my room when I heard a crash and then…” her voice trailed off and stopped altogether under Cassie’s disbelieving stare.
“For goodness’ sake Chrystal, what did you do? Where is the weaver?” Cassie demanded. Chrystal looked at the ground, muttering her answer.
“Well, I was out in the fields and I saw a weaver and well I, er, I kind of caught it, well, it let me catch it, and I brought it home and, well, yes…”
“And now it is…?” Cassie prompted.
There was a crash upstairs, followed by a chorus of yells and running feet as their parents chased the errant weaver. Chrystal grinned.
“And now I guess it’s upstairs.”
Cassie gave her sister an exasperated look before turning quickly and sprinting towards the staircase. Though she didn’t have the same affinity for Windweavers as her sister seemed to, she was nonetheless faster and more agile then the rest of her family. Racing up the stairs she paused as she reached the top and tentatively peeked out over the landing. A moment later she was very glad she hadn’t just rushed straight up. Something flew at her head. Cassie ducked down just fast enough that it missed her.
With a sigh and another careful glance, Cassie scampered up the last few steps, eyes scanning to find the mischievous little creature that had swooped towards her, and had already caused so much confusion within the house.
Several hours later the house was somewhat restored to its former self. The Windweaver had been taken outside again, where it happily danced away through the air towards the forest. Chrystal had been confined to her room, told not to leave it until after sunrise the next morning.
Despite her earlier admission to Cassie, Chrystal had been trying to deny she had caused the trouble. Unfortunately for her, however, Cassie had carried the Windweaver through the kitchen just at the very moment Chrystal was pleading not guilty to her mother. The weaver, sitting happily in Cassie’s hands, saw Chrystal. It dropped to the floor and then flew across to Chrystal, landing neatly on her shoulder.
Weavers could speak, should they choose to. Some mysterious artefact of their existence allowed them to communicate with any being, human or animal. Many people believed that even the trees and flowers of the forest listened and did as the weavers bid. It would not be surprising if it were true, as all things are born of the elements and weavers were, in essence, the elements. It was rare for them to speak to people, but unluckily for Chrystal, this one chose to speak now. Its voice whispered throughout the room and brushed each of the listeners’ ears, gently as a summer breeze. It sounded like a child, light and playful, and Cassie realized it must be young.
“Chrys-chrys” it sang, “You said I could play. I was only curious.” It tilted its head upwards to look into her eyes, and Chrystal looked regretful and somewhat chastised. Despite its relative youth amongst its own kind, weavers were ethereal and old in ways humans could not comprehend. “I will leave now.”
With that, the small creature departed, darting out of the window and riding away effortlessly on the soft winds that crept through the air outside.
The weaver had obviously had great fun whilst inside the house. The amount of things knocked off shelves or blown over was amazing. It had woven the air around almost every item on the upper floor of the house. Despite all this, nothing had actually been damaged. Those few precious things the family owned which were made out of delicate glass or china, were untouched, the area around them calm as if in the eye of a storm.
Cassie was now sitting in her room. She could hear quiet mutterings from Chrystal’s room next-door. Completely ignoring the fact that she’d brought the Windweaver in, Chrystal felt unjustly treated, and she was showing this with the vehement curses she was mumbling. Cassie sighed. Her sister never seemed to learn. Still, she was young and Cassie couldn’t help but be envious of her carefree outlook on life; Cassie’s own life was becoming increasingly fraught with worry and complications.
Cassie believed what her dreams had shown her. Gemma believed too, with the same steadfastness that her people believed in the stories of the Immortals and the Elementals. Kieran didn’t, though he supported Cassie anyway. Honestly, Cassie wished she could disbelieve it the same way he did. Though she couldn’t explain why, she knew her dream to be true. Nothing she could do would change that. Something deep in her mind told her it was so, even as she tried to convince herself otherwise. She wished that something would happen to prove her wrong, that something would change, but reality was truly starting to set in. The Immortals were coming and there was going to be a war. A war against beings that couldn’t be killed. Cassie knew she had to warn people, she had to do something. If she didn’t, Tarraneia would be defenceless against an unstoppable force.
Five
The excitement of the afternoon had driven the children’s rhyme from Cassie’s mind, but for Kieran it did not disappear so easily. It whispered in the back of his mind, though he tried to push it away. He felt like it shouldn’t bother him; he often had tunes that caught him and stayed with him for days. But this time it bothered him.
Throughout the day the tune came back again and again, though perhaps it never truly left. Every time he paused he felt it there, felt his heart beating in time with it, found himself murmuring the words under his breath. Finally night came but it brought no relief from the song.
Kieran lay in bed, staring into the darkness, as unseen voices hummed around him. Slowly, and at first he was grateful, sleep overcame him and he welcomed the darkness and silence he thought it would give him. Only it didn’t.
In his dreams Kieran stood on the banks of the river that ran near Ar-ken. The landscape was bathed in the cool silver light cast by the moon, and no breeze disturbed the hint of warmth that lay on his skin, left over from an early autumn day. Stripping off his shoes and socks he stepped into the river, enjoying the chill as the water swept silently by him. For a few minutes he was calm, as he always had been when he played here as a child, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, something changed. He didn’t realise at first, but the warmth that had lingered in the air faded, taking with it memories of sunlight and happiness.
A breeze whispered behind him and he turned, half expecting to see something. Nothing.
Another sound behind him. This time, the muted patter of tiny feet. As he whirled on the spot he saw nothing, but a strange laugh drifted through the air towards him. As he peered out through the trees to the far side of the river he felt, rather than heard, them behind him. This time when he turned he saw the children from earlier in the day. Once more, they were skipping in a circle, hands joined. But now they were wreathed in faint shadow.
Fire, fire burning bright,
In the shadows of the night,
Flickering flames and dancing flares
Casting light on dark nightmares.
The same words, but as the children skipped around an inexplicable fear gripped Kieran. He stood, unable to move, as the fear held him captive.
Air is whisp’ring in my ear,
Speaking secrets I can hear,
Telling of a place away,
Warns of what daylight will slay.
On they danced, gradually moving closer. Kieran strained to see them better through the dark pall that night cast on everything.
Earth is solid under foot,
Pale as bone to black as soot,
Feet are tramping all day long,
But why tracks where no man has gone?
As they drew closer Kieran realised he had made a mistake. They were not the same children he’d seen during the day. True, there were still two boys and two girls, but they didn’t look the same.
Water ripples ever slight,
Dancing on the surface – light,
But down below and hidden deep,
What lies and until now does sleep?
One of the girls smiled at him as she danced past, and with a start he recognised Cassie as a child. As the last verse began he saw his younger self standing to Cassie’s right, holding her hand. The other two he did not recognise.
In the daytime fears are small,
Heart is strong and courage tall,
Laughs and happiness about,
Not is there a hint of doubt.
The children dropped each other’s hands as they stopped dancing, but to Kieran’s surprise they did not stop singing. The dread he had felt earlier came back now, hitting him in the gut with sickening force.
Yet night will come and all will change,
Darkness forges visions strange.
What moves out there, though never heard?
What will appear when shadows stirred?
He couldn’t see their faces at first, but slowly they turned and for the first time Kieran felt his fear was justified. Though still the same children they had been moments ago, now they were terrifying. Their eyes held no colour, no white. Just endless black.
A child’s laugh becomes a cry,
As the sunlight fades to die.
Silence is a haunting sound,
As light deserts the hardened ground.
Kieran moved to step away from them, and he realized too late that whilst he had been watching them the river had been changing. The water around his ankles had grown thick and black, and greedy tendrils rose to grip his legs with unexpected strength. He struggled and the empty voices rose in pitch and changed, becoming layered with screams and inhuman tones.
And then one day the power tips,
The tether frays, the balance slips,
Then in the minds of chosen youth,
A dream unveils darkest truth.
The water rose rapidly, its weight dragging him to his knees. Hungrily it covered his chest, reaching upwards. He fought to control his breathing, as he realized that soon this might be lost to him, but the water held his chest in an iron grip and his lungs couldn’t fight it. Panic overwhelmed him as the first icy trickle crept up his bare neck and onto his face.
And so begins a deadly game,
Filled with fear and loss and pain,
But if the players do not play,
The Night will soon consume the Day.
Kieran heard these last chilling words moments before his eyes and ears were filled with the crawling darkness. He held his breath for as long as he could but all too soon instinct rebelled against his mind and he opened his mouth. Burning wetness flooded his lungs with unbelievable pain and he knew if he’d had the air to do it, he would have been screaming.
He woke abruptly from the dream, heaving in broken gasps of the clear night air. As his surroundings came into focus Kieran realized he was actually lying on the ground beside the river from his dream. He must have come here in his sleep. The terror he’d felt moments before didn’t leave him, because as he looked around he saw only desolation. The river bed was dry and cracked. The trees grown twisted and blackened, as if from fire but Kieran knew they had not burned. The grass beneath was grey and as he touched it, it became little more than dust.
Slowly, the remnants of the dream faded around him and reality returned. Everything was as it should be, as he remembered. The last words rang on in his mind …if the players do not play, the Night will soon consume the Day. He had seen what might happen, what would happen. Shivering he drew, his knees to his chest.
“And so, we must play.”