I lie there in bed, listening to the soft, rhythmic, plinking of rain against the ceramic shingles on my roof. The pattering blankets the world in a velvet chorus. I sit upright, swinging my feet over the edge of my bedside and emit a deep and satisfying yawn. Sunlight wafts through my bedroom window and gently onto my back.
A deeply ingrained routine compels me into my clothes for the day and carries me into the house’s main room, where I’m promptly greeted with the smell of roasting bacon and cinnamon. It was a favorite meal of mother’s that she cooked on special occasions. I nestle onto a seat at our dining table where two cups of tea are prepared and pick up my cup
It is a quaint thing of poor but clearly impassioned workmanship.
I inhale the comforting aroma of jasmine and oolong, wondering what prompted her to cook this morning. Her back is to me, hands working to dice potatoes on the counter top while the bacon sizzles within our sole piece of cookware, a tall-walled pot with a heavy bottom. The motions she makes are calculated, without worry, entirely confident in her blade handling.
She begins to recount a story, one which I’d heard many times before in my childhood and had since dismissed as a fable used to give me a good fright. Something was different about it this time. Her tone and posture ebbed and flowed with each utterance.
“Y’know, our family has only recently taken up residence on the mountain. When I was around your age, I fled from another settlement with your father and Harold,” The quality of her knifework became uncertain, sloppy.
“From a place much like this one… but different in ways that wouldn’t be possible to articulate,” Sun begins to beam intensely through the kitchen window against her back and contours my mother’s now looming shape with an eerie glow. She continues the story with her volume steadily lowering into mere murmurs,
“On a day like any other, the clouds consumed the sky as far as the eye could see. We thought them to be harmless, if not beautiful. Soon after their appearance they lost their luster and took on an insidiously harsh darkness. That’s when the “Mirk” began to fall” she said, the sky beyond the kitchen window was now a seemingly unending plane of dark rolling clouds, forcibly hushing the light of the sun” she said.
“We had to leave everything behind, it drove us to the top of the world—” her voice was filled with more melancholy than I’d ever heard in it before.
“Mom…where are you going with this?” I interrupted her with genuine concern.
Mother’s mouth distorted with a frown far too large for her face to support, eyes sunken and replaced with gleaming stars.
“Run, Anna. Run to the top.” and just then the window behind her fractured into sprawling spiderweb,
“Never look back.” the glass shatters full and her body is buffeted by an onslaught of black shards, producing the discordant sounds of shattering ceramic as her essence was recolored with that of the night—
My eyelids abruptly peel open to the sound of shattering tiles and the dull thud of impacts against the dirt path outside. Neither my loving mother nor the soothing rain of my dreams would return to these lands. I lay there, watching the burnt underside of my helm, hoping with bated breath that the sound of shattering didn’t transform into that of cracking wood. That would surely signal the end of me. The interval between impacts grows wider and wider until I haven’t heard anything of alarm in the past 10 minutes.
I scurried out from under the dining table, lifting my helm, already dressed for what may lie ahead of me. It had become necessary to be ready at a moment’s notice.
My mind wandered to Harold. By anyone’s measure, he was an odd fellow. Roughly my mother’s age, he spoke few words and stared at the sky each day in grim anticipation, occasionally muttering unintelligible phrases or numbers. He grew only what he needed to sustain himself, living complacently alone out here in the few viable farmlands outside of the village. He had no one else besides our family to keep him company. But my father was lost to disease a couple of years ago and my mother to the storm just recently.
Now it was just Harold and I.
A lull between storms was here and I knew just as much as anyone else about how long it’d last. I unwedged the boards covering my front door and swung it open with little concern to maintaining its integrity since I wouldn’t be returning here. My legs fully mobilize, sending me swiftly across the fields to Harold’s home. The door was wide open and there wasn’t any sign of life within the modest dwelling.
That left me with a feeling of dread. Sending an undulating shiver down my arms and into my fingertips.
Had he made it through the storm? Did he get out and already begin his ascent to the top? There wasn’t any time to consider the possibilities further.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and trained myself on the task ahead of me—traversing to the highest point in the village, the chapel. My destination wasn’t very far off, so distance wasn’t what made traveling there difficult. But it was the sharp ascent paired with the time constraint I was forced to work within that didn’t allow for any rest stops along the way. The mental pressure of knowing that my efforts could be reduced to nothing if the sky should start to pour again also added immense weight upon me.
“One foot in front of the next,” a thought echoed in my mind. “You can’t get to where you need to be without first taking a step.” It was a mantra passed onto me from my father. It had kept me going during my youth in the fields and would continue to aid me now.
In every direction I looked, an inexplicable material coated the ground, concentrated within the small craters formed by the impacts. It had a strange quality to it. It lay undisturbed by footsteps and wind and every so often I’d spot shimmering flecks within it. It was as if a painter had captured the depthless black of the night sky and transposed it onto the earth, dotting it with stars with no reference to constellations whatsoever.
The ascent is less strenuous than it was before. The impacts made by the storm give me plenty of places to dig the point of my boots into. Within an hour since I began my ascent from the farmlands, the village comes into view.
The mountain that we reside on has several plateaus on which settlements could be raised. Our farm is on the lowest plateau, the village rests above it on the largest, and the chapel at the topmost but smallest plateau.
The village was never a particularly dazzling place, especially not compared to the more modern structures which could be found around the base of the mountain, but I couldn’t help but feel sorrow for its degraded state. It had taken the full brunt of the Mirkfall since its descent upon the mountain. Each passing storm had degraded it more and more. Just as an axe is whittled away by a grindstone, the village’s perimeter shrunk further and further inwards.
The poorer houses at the edges were the first to be chiseled away. Their roofs were little more than fancifully arranged straw and did nothing to protect those who lived within. After the first few nights of Mirkfall the villagers’ sense of morality had shifted, and the remaining walls of those dilapidated houses were broken away and salvaged to bolster the roofs of the surviving villagers. All that was left of those houses were the pulverized remnants of the former residents, their bones shattered into fist sized chunks coated with the same darkness which pervaded the lands.
“Anna, is that you?” a loud voice, filled with an unnatural amount of enthusiasm, given the times, calls out to me. A small figure pushing a cloth covered wheelbarrow shuffles down the main pathway which bisects the village. Her hair had been . Her family had run the village bakery for generations and she and I were incredibly close in our youth, but as we grew older our paths in life diverged so much that we eventually drifted apart. Since then I’d only interacted with her husband to trade for bread. Both of us made a conscious effort not to see the other and only gave a simple nod when we did run into one another.
“Ho there, Dawn,” I said as she approached me. My voice is flat, but the sight of her does warm me. It links to a distant feeling which I once held for her. Around her neck was strung a curious shard. Bound by a twine rig, it resembled obsidian but had a ridgeless darkness to it as if its edges were perfectly smooth, appearing to contain the same shimmering flecks that could be found strewn across the ground.
“Why do you have a pot on your head?” Dawn asked with as much curiosity about my adornments as I had about hers.
“I’m hoping it affords me some level of protection if the storm starts again. I’m glad to see that you’ve made it through. Are Mayhew and Joan…?”
“Yes, praise Stratus they’re alright. It’s truly been a blessing that we’ve been spared the sky’s wrath,” said Dawn with a smile which would suggest that nothing was amiss with the current situation. “Mayhew is tending to Joan while I forage for food and other supplies to bolster our rooftop.”
Stratus: the sky deity which the villagers fawn incessantly over. If I was to point towards a reason why Dawn and I parted ways it’d be her unbearable fanaticism. I’d never developed any strong feelings for the village’s purported deity. My attention returned to the strange shard dangling from her neck.
“Dawn, what is that stone that you’re wearing?” I asked with pointed curiosity.
“A good omen. A gift from the sky maker himself, I believe. Joan had found it while fetching water. She said it laid there suspended motionlessly in the water.” said Dawn.
Could this be what was falling from the skies? The color of the stone matched the material of the grounds and it could be plausible that they’d shatter on impact.
“I’m just returning home, would you care to join me? I’m absolutely positive they’d love to see you. We haven’t held company with another person since the culling began and Mayhew would be overjoyed to see one of his favorite customers.” she said with stern conviction, her eyes intensely locked onto mine.
“Culling? What do you mean by that?” I asked. I had a faint notion of what she might mean but I desperately hoped against it. All thoughts of the mysterious stone receded into my subconscious.
“The gift that lord Stratus sent down to us, of course. It must be a way to cull the weak of faith. We’re fine after all! Since you’re here it must mean that you’ve finally come to see his glory!” said Dawn as the religious zealousness in her voice grew after each completed thought.
Disgust and rage festered in my gut. I wanted to tell her that she was lucky and not chosen. Because if she was chosen, then it meant that my mother wasn’t.
But time was short. I couldn’t lose sight of my goal when I was so close.
“I’ve got to go now,” I said bluntly, “You should get back to your family before the Mirk begins to fall agai—”
A loud screeching rang out across the heavens, interwoven with deafening booms. Bright flashes of light shot across the sky. The sounds reverberated throughout the length of my being, freezing my limbs solid. I know that I need to move but I can’t generate any momentum.
My gaze swings over to Dawn. Her face is contorted with fear, eyes wide and mouth ajar, frozen like me.
My heart begins to beat thunderously within my chest. Boiling blood rushes through my veins, demanding animation from my legs.
“One foot in front of the other.” Father’s mantra bursts forth from somewhere deep within my mind, overriding the terror which has taken hold of my body. Before I know it my right foot has uprooted itself and strode forward, and then my left foot overtakes it in turn, propelling me towards the abbey with a speed which I didn’t know I was capable of achieving. I’d left behind all thoughts of my exchanges with Dawn and all concerns of anyone’s safety but my own.
The land cried out from all directions as its vibrancy was consumed by the merciless black. A loud, metallic, bang is produced near the top of my head and I feel a sharp pain paired with the sensation of heavy pressure on one of my legs. But there’s no time to assess the damage. My heart doubles its efforts and is beating drums loudly within my ears, muffling the sounds of destruction which echoes throughout the mountaintop. The abby comes into view up an incline on the plateau upon which it sits.
My field of vision narrows and sharpens—rejecting the rest of the landscape and becoming singularly focused on the doors to my only chance at salvation. I wring out the last bit of energy from the fibres of my being to sprint up the hillside. Its doors swing inwards and a shadowed figure appears past them.
“Come on!” bellowed the figure beyond the threshold.
I could just barely make out the form of the words and couldn’t manage at all to identify the one who spoke them. I make one final bound upwards and reach my hand out to them, clasping it tightly, entrusting my life to them. I feel a strong jolt as I’m dragged up and out of the air and onto the abbey floor. There’s no longer any feeling left in my legs and I can scarcely keep my eyes open, my lungs smoldering within my chest, my arms and face throbbing intensely from my collision with the dusty maple floorboards.
“Everythings going to be okay now, Anna ” said the figure. My vision darkens, consciousness fading into oblivion.
There’s a plush warmth on my skin and the screeching which rang out from the skies has been replaced by a low hum buzzing through the air. It’s almost pleasant.
“Hey there kid, you had a nasty fall but we’re almost there. Almost to the boundary,” said the figure. The voice sounds more familiar now.
“Harold… is that you?” It’s a gargantuan effort to release the words which are perched on the edge of my lips. My lungs, among the rest of my faculties, are still struggling to be in tandem with the desires of my mind.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m glad you made it. I wanted to stop by your place to bring you with me but I’m ashamed to admit that my fears were stronger than my desire to save you.”
“Harold, what’s going on? How did you know to go to the chapel?” I said with what little energy I could manage to spare, my voice a hoarse whisper.
“Get some rest. We have a bit of time left before we have to move and the transition to the other side can be rough. I’m sure you have a lot of questions about what’s going on. I’ll answer whatever I can when you’re up and about,” said Harold.
I needed answers to make sense of everything that was happening, but I couldn’t protest. My body had been pushed well beyond the bounds of its ordinary capabilities and wouldn’t accept anymore from me.
I awakened on a pew nearest to the hardwood pulpit from which a Stratus devotee would have delivered their sermons. A soft yet slightly scratchy blanket covers my legs. My helm rests on the pulpit, bearing a small divot around where my forehead would be that is accompanied by a black splotch.
I’m glad I brought that.
Behind the pulpit is a free-standing spiral staircase which leads to the belltower up above. A thick fog trickles down its steps.
“How are you feeling?” says Harold. I look over to him at the bottom of the stairwell. He’s hunched over and organizing supplies into bags of various shapes and sizes.
I didn’t know how to answer that question. Now that I had the time to assess the state of my body, I looked myself over. I felt around my head to check if my helm had absorbed the full impact of the drop. There aren’t any bumps or sore spots there. Next are my chest and arms. They’re fine besides a lingering, stinging, pain, a result of my collision with the floor earlier. That leaves my legs as the last area to check for any signs of damage.
“I bound the wound on your thigh as best I could given the circumstances. I’d caution you against moving that leg anymore than what’s necessary. It might be broken from the force of the impact.”
Lifting the blanket off of my lower half reveals my tightly bandaged right thigh.Small splotches of blood outline the area where the Mirk made contact. Streaks of black radiate out from under the edges of the bandages and line my thighs down to the knee. The sight horrifies me and I try frantically to scrub away the Mirk but to no avail.
“Herold, I had a dream about mom. She told me that I had to go to the top. What are we doing here? What is Mirk, really?” I asked with mounting frustration.
“It’s our world being ground up by another world at the boundary which they meet. Or so I think. It’s my second time seeing it.” Herold said with great confidence.
His answer obfuscates the situation far more than it illuminates it. I feel that pursuing this line of questioning won’t make what he’s saying any clearer.
“Now that we’ve made it to the top, what do we do?” I asked him pointedly.
“We’re not at the top quite yet. But as soon as we climb the staircase into the belltower we will be,” he says as he slings the supply bags over his shoulder. “It’s time to go”.
I do my best to rise off the pew and feel an agonizing pain run through my damaged leg. At the end of the pew I spot a piece of wood which will have to suffice as a makeshift walking stick. I hobble over to the staircase and we begin our trip upwards. The fog which lines the steps feels soft and moist. For some reason it puts me at ease. As we ascend the tower the fog becomes thicker and fills up the entirety of the passage. I can barely see anything further than a step in front of myself.
“We’re passing through the cloud line now,” said Herold in a tone of reverence.
“Whatever you do,when we cross the boundary keep your eyes closed and hold on tightly to me,” he added.
Clouds. We were within the cloudline as we ascended the steps. I knew our mountain was rather tall but I didn’t know we were that high up.
I replied to him with fear stirring in my mind.“What happens if I fail to do either?”
“Pray that you don’t. What I saw beyond the boundary has stayed with me ever since and may do so for the rest of my days”.
Just up ahead the clouds dissipate and reveal a sight more marvelous and terrifying that anything I’d ever seen within my dreams. It was as if the sky itself was a shattering pane of glass. Cracks running through it here and there and beyond the cracks there seemed to reside another sky. But it felt different somehow. As if it was fundamentally a separate substance than the sky I’d lived under my whole life.
“The Mirk,” Herold said ‘’is the material of our world’s boundary which shatters and falls when it comes into contact with the boundary of another world”.
My body felt lighter than ever. It felt like I had to make a concentrated effort to keep my feet on the ground.
“What does that mean?” I wasn’t a scholar of the night sky and lacked the terminology to decode what it was he was saying.
“It means that sometimes neighboring worlds collide into each other and one of them doesn’t survive.” he said while gazing out at the massive fissures in the sky.
Harold wrapped an arm around my waist and went on, “Remember what I said in the abbey, don’t open your eyes and don’t let go.”
And just then our felt left the floor as we careened into the sky towards the cracks in our world’s boundary.
It felt as though I was swimming through frictionless water. My skin was cold all over and I entered a state of intense shivering. Wherever we were it was freezing. Then intensely radiant light exploded past my closed eyes. If my eyes were open I fear I may have lost my sight. Nevertheless, the urge to open them was intense.
The grip around my waist tightened as the feeling of complete submergence was swapped with that of heavy gales. “We’re almost there! Brace for impact!” said Harold in what was meant to be a yell but was brought to a low roar by the opposing wind. I placed my hands and arms around my head and then felt a cold plunge into a body of water which I thought to be a lake. I’m swinging my arms frantically and I can feel Harold do the same. We make our way to the water’s surface and manage to catch a breath of crisp air.
I look up at the night sky, its cloudless and serene. Across a small portion of it seems to be a tiny crack that’s quickly closing inwards, mending itself closed.
“Where are we?” I asked him.
“We’re in a lake at the base of the mountain.”
“The same mountain we just left?” I replied in utter disbelief.
“The same but somehow different”
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