Landscape

This is a 3 chapter short story, and here is the first part. Began writing this in December 2005.

Landscape

I. The Visitor of the Night

          The air about me was solemnly still, for it was almost devoid of substance, and its motionless stature persuaded my soul to become part of its frozen temperament. Utter and profound silence waded about the air, while a perfect aura of stillness hung tacitly, not to be disturbed. Only the sound of my tentative feet broke the renowned quiet, which I inwardly felt had not been broken throughout the lineage of time by mankind. But there must be a first for everything, and the soft clad of my boots seemed to only enhance the drama of the scene.

          The ground expanded across all view, and in the distance, it tapered upward into mountainous proportions, whereupon it became lost in the surreal darkness of night. The ground consisted of smooth and continuous rock that occasionally jarred from the earth as pointed sheets of stone. Aside from the claws that extended from the rock, the arena appeared to be a flowing sea. Its surface echoed the moonlit night as pale, shimmering light, which strode forth from its dark and gentle curves.

          The very essence of my surroundings was centered upon the moon that lay motionless in the clear sky. There were no clouds. There were no stars. Only the sphere of night claimed sovereignty over the stretching heavens. The full disk stared down upon me as an unblinking eye that pierced my spirit. Beneath it, I knew I was being watched by this arbiter, for the Eye held stoic dignity, and I knew I could traverse its realm if I followed its rules. They were not difficult to abide by; all were of an intuitive nature that I easily comprehended. Reason and peace governed them, and I could tell that the milieu as a whole was at passive equilibrium with the laws.

          This perfect temperament of nature guided me to become one with it, and I was compelled to explore its recesses. My path was directed toward the limitless hills and mountains beyond. Currently, I was traversing the endless field of gray stone. I did not know how far I had been journeying across this earthen tundra, but it must have been days, perhaps even weeks in the unyielding darkness. My body was cold, yet I did not believe I had once shivered. Instead, I thrived on the conditions of the environment. The cold strengthened my resolve to reach the highlands, and now I was close to them. Soon, I would be able to reach their bases and begin to ascend their altitudes.

          The rhythmic function of my respiration brought the scentless, cool air inside me. Its crystalline substance brought to me a source of profound energy. It was almost unreal how I paced myself, but something obliged me to keep going. I would not pause to gain rest quite yet. The slopes leered dominantly in sight, and there, I would rest.

          As I traversed the unchanging land of unbroken stone, my skyward guide followed me. Soon, I lost track of time due to the mundane disposition of my walk despite my fanciful surroundings. The sole impression upon my mind was the sensation of release. Along my trek, my mind delved into the grandeurs of the boundless. When consciousness became reeled back into my body, I lost the sense of being absent and discovered that I had reached the base of the eternal mountains.

          A soft thud brought me to alertness. Judging from the heavy darkness, I surmised the night was well advanced. Because of the forlorn hour, I wondered if such a sound was merely a phantasm of a discreet source. But as I lay still, I yet again heard a dull thrum. Curiosity took hold of me, and I got up to light the lamp that sat on a wooden desk next to my bed.

          The rays of the light brought to me a sense of comfort in the night. There was one window in my room, and I glanced at it, but its glass surface only mirrored blackness in the artificial light. A slight shiver overcame me in the coolness of the night, and whenever I exhaled, I saw my breath curl about the air. I huddled my body to overcome its icy bite and advanced with care toward the entrance of my house. As I did so, the knocks waxed slightly louder, albeit infrequently, and I became certain that the origin of the noises came directly beyond my doorway. When I arrived at the door, I threw back a latch and opened the portal and thrust my lantern about. At first, a shock mastered me as my light broke the darkness.

          Collapsed on my porch lay a slim figure in meager clothing. The night’s air was fiercely colder on the outside, and I feared the visitor had little vitality remaining. For when I opened the door, the person made no attempt to enter the haven of my abode. Setting down the lantern, I approached the body and saw it was an aged man. When I looked into his pale face, I observed that his eyes were shut, and I also noticed that his breathing was dreadfully shallow.

          I took matters into my own hands by picking up the wanderer and bringing him inside my house. Carefully, I relaxed him into the rocker nearby the stone hearth in the main quarters of my home and covered him with blankets. I then went back to the doorway to shut it and to retrieve my lantern, which I hung in the dim room. Gathering some logs, I set them into the fireplace and ignited the wood to provide warmth for the numb man.

          I pulled up a chair to keep watch on my guest in spite of my weariness; I knew I would not be able to give way to sleep again this night. For quite some time, I stared at the wooden walls, where I kept myself enthralled by observing the firelight dance along their lengths. On occasion, I shifted my sight toward the sick figure to comfort myself that he would be all right. An hour or so into my vigil—I was not exactly sure, for the clock on my wall lay inert—I got up to douse the lamp and sat back down. The room was much darker afterwards, but I enjoyed the fire’s display more due to the newfound shadows in the augmented darkness.

          The crackling of the wood also enraptured my attention. Once in a while, a loud pop emanated from the source of fire, and the room would flash momentarily with heightened intensity. I found myself drawn inwardly to ponder why my guest was wandering sick in the secluded recesses where I settled. It had been years since I came in contact with another person in these rural lands, for at the high hills where I had moved, isolation claimed its hold. I only encountered people when I traveled to town to reimburse my supplies. Stealing glances at the inert man, I could not help but receive the feeling that something incredibly undesirable had fallen upon him before he fell to malady. What had happened to him, I did not know, but a queer sentiment bestowed itself around the situation—one I was not quite ready to grasp.

          Eventually when I tired of speculating such matters, I recalled the dream I had. Vividly, I remembered it, and I was still able to discern the stable sense of calm that had enveloped my mind despite the ill man’s presence.

          Getting up, I put on heavier clothing to blot the frigidness of the hour, and I recovered the hanging lantern to guide my way as I left the house. The night greeted my senses with a windy howl that blasted alongside the chilled melody of the atmosphere. It was rather dark, for there was a new moon and clouds cast out much of the light shown by the stars.

          Trees of all kinds entangled the hermetic region, and they helped fill the wilderness with their nonchalant demeanor. The time of year was approaching autumn, and the forest floors were succumbing to the leaves and twigs that started to fall.

          Upon my departure, I maintained my focus upon the dream I had envisioned. The tranquil dream brought to me a feeling I yearned, and that must have been the reason why I had the urge to go outside. It was so imaginary and chimerical I had to explore my woken hours to contrast it.

          I chose to accompany the stream that ran alongside my house. The smooth rustle of the waters reached my ears as they trickled along their path, and so did the fair swaying of foliage that followed the partial drafts which swept by. My light flickered upon the river’s shifting surface, and the light also revealed many shadows in the wilds that bent in fluctuating patterns as I moved.

          Before long, I reached a small lake that sat in the middle of a clearing. Granite boulders littered the recesses, and I passed them by as I strode to the lake’s shoreline. I stayed there and simply dwelt over the occurrences that happened this night—of my dream and of the ailed pilgrim lying in my abode. After what seemed to be a few hours, I withdrew from the lake and returned home.

          I turned to the library I had collected as a source of occupying myself during the remainder of that drab night. My library contained a large array of books, many of which I had read several times, but there were others I had not yet touched in all the years I had lived here. I elected to read a story that had always interested me, for one of my ancestors had written it, my paternal grandfather, William Cole Welche. Now the untitled story pertained to a level of grotesque interest because it was about an afflicted visitor. I had never been able to finish the copy because many of its latter pages were missing, rendering the tale incomplete. Being his descendant, I found myself mentally inclined to fabricate my own endings every time I read the loose papers. Though, never having had a visitor step forth into my home before, I felt as if none I had created were very appropriate for the story.

          When I located the manuscript, I went back to the fire-lit room and rested upon my wooden chair, which I huddled toward the fire with its back cocked toward the incandescence in order to optimize my lighting conditions. Delving into its pages, I began to vaguely recall its substance, and I soon found myself drawn completely into the story and into its mystifying wonders. Here, I reveled in the nature of the literature and of its congruency to the withstanding night:

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          It is not often that the barriers between worlds collapse, for they have been placed to guard the infinite gateways between them. When such barriers begin to diminish, alien and portentous signs gradually manifest into conscious reality. At first, the esoteric signs of beyond appear marvelous and magnificent in the face of the unfamiliar. However, when such signs deepen and sink through the fabrics of space, one begins to recognize that these substances of alien heritage should not belong in the secular world.

          These words hold true, and I can personally testify to them, for such an occurrence has transpired in my existence. I would have much preferred to be confined to my limited view of the world instead of losing my sound scope of the universe. In lieu of this I was not so ignorant as to disavow truths, no matter their nature: hideous or benign. Throughout my life I have been captivated by an unremitting quest in search of knowledge and have accepted any of the consequences presented by it. But I am not sure that what I bore witness was even a truth, for I can surely guarantee it was something that no person ought to have ever borne witness. It happened only several days ago, and I am not certain if it was only a dream which caused the unsettling of my sanity.

          I recall that it began on a stormy evening, upon which a herald arrived at my home. At the time, I did not know the man was a herald, for I did not know of the ominous factors that would later express themselves. That night, he was only a sick man to my eyes. Due to his frail condition, I endeavored to tend to the man. He did not do much, nor did he do anything later on, even . . .

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          I detected a low wail, interrupting my brief overlook of the manuscript. At first I could not tell whether I had heard the moaning of the wind or of some other source, yet I still raised my gaze. It came again, and I discerned that the noise came from the wrapped figure ahead of me. Timidly, I set the papers onto the floor beneath my chair and rose. With slight steps, I came over to the man so not to create any noise to drown the muffled and faint breaths he might yet issue. I stood patiently before the man for a long time, waiting for him to create a groan again in hopes of articulate words.

          Although I was not even able to make out delirious speech, I was rewarded with slight murmurs. His eyelids twitched now and then as I held myself during those still hours, and he also had fits that lasted for disturbingly long periods. Once, I attempted to instill a response from him by firmly touching his arm, but none came. The fire dimmed with the gradual passage of time, and I made no move to revive its warmth. I only waited.

          I knew the hours of the night crawled on without result. I could also feel the hours toil restlessly, and I almost abandoned my resolve. The story I had begun to read formed an almost prophetic desire within me. Should my guest provide any foreboding cues, I would have been horrifically thrilled. It must have been near dawn when my guest formed distinguishable words. At first, they came infrequently, but as time passed on, he began to mumble short, meaningless phrases of nonsensical words.

          I was rather disappointed with the outcome, but in reality, I could not have hoped for anything else. Sitting back down, I simply did nothing—save continuously watch the man. It appeared even to my limited knowledge on disease and malady that he was stricken with something terribly astringent and confounding. I felt sorry for the man as I watched him; how he stayed motionless, corpselike; how he stirred sporadically; how I sensed he had already fallen beyond my reach.

          The rays of dawn crawled into my house, sweeping away the heavy darkness that ladened the night. Exhaustion overcame me, and hunger welled from within. Relighting the fire, I hung a pot of water to heat over it and put in various ingredients for soup. When the soup became lukewarm, I withdrew it from the fire, and I poured much of it into a bowl to sate my own hunger. Afterwards, I fed the remainder if the soup to the unconscious man.

          Throughout the following day, I commenced my daily routine. Most of my time was spent reading books along the shelves that lined my walls while accompanying the still visitor. I did not continue to read my grandfather’s piece, for I did not want to give myself false pretensions about the man in the room after my disappointment from the previous night. Often, my thought drifted back to the dream—to its intriguing beauty. That night, when slumber claimed me, I dreamt of it.

          I stood at the foot of the mountains in the twilight, and once again, the placidity of the setting caressed me. I took my first step onto the hills. At that very moment, something in my soul stirred. It was an odd and subtle sensation, but I did not know whether it was due to apprehension or to excitement. Raising my head to the luminous Eye, I sought its answer, however, the moon’s relentless stare met my gaze without an answer.

          Stern determination overcame me, and I initiated to climb the slopes. Right now, the land was none too steep, and I made good progress advancing upward. While I proceeded, the ground began to ease apart and started to resemble rock formations eroded and chipped by a lifelong span of shifting earth. Broken faces of the rock greeted my eyes along with the first signs of loose rubble and free rock. Flowing water caught my sight, winding elegantly through the stone.

          The higher I surmounted the land, the denser the thread of water became, for its fibers began to weave sinuously together. The prevalence of the setting’s stillness nonetheless did not degenerate by the moving body. It established a subtle contrast that enraptured me; it made me appreciate the former qualities of the region with renewed vigor.

          Gradually, more streams manifested, but I elected to pursue the dominant one. Several hours passed as I trudged higher into the unknown depths of the mountain. Eventually, I reached a ditched plateau shadowed by screens of stone mountainsides, while in the background there still shadowed the relentless body of the forever-reaching mountains. Cascades of water descended to the perch, forming a lake which rested there, and bellowing from its heights came tumbling down more falls, one of which created the river I was currently following.

          Carefully, I scaled the plateau. Using blocks that jutted from the bluff, I managed to climb up it. Despite having such ledges, the feat was very taxing, for the stone sides were dampened and moistened by the nearby falls. Here, I stopped to peruse my surroundings.

          Sheets of colossal stone barriers passively surrounded the enclave, letting water flow from their edges, although much of the cliff sections were bare of falling water. From a visible perspective, I noticed some contained various caves and tunnels, which riddled their faces. The lake itself was perhaps several hundred feet in circumference, and most of the caves were adjacent to the lake, filled with its liquids. Blackish waters shone dazzled moonlight back to the skies, and a series of small islets sprouted from its surface. They were of stone make, some conical and pointed, while others were round and flat.

          The smell of wet stone breached the air, and I could not help but revel in the remiss odor. Lying down to calm my muscles, I closed my eyes to absorb the scene. When I did so, the sounds of the crashing and flowing waters became apparent to me, and so did the cool smoothness of the stone on my back. A pure sense of nostalgia rose from the atmosphere. Its subtle beckoning lured me. I longed to remain in its state, and eventually, I drifted into sleep, a different type of sleep—the slumber of the conscious world.

          I awoke refreshed, completely regenerated. Warm light greeted my rested eyes, and as I blinked to further awaken, I realized that the day was well advanced. I strode over to a window to confirm my suspicion, and it was indeed past noon. The sun hung high in the blue sky, casting its autumn rays upon me.

          I decided I should cook another meal for the sick man despite having no sense of hunger myself. It was the same recipe as the day before, though this time I did not spend time heating the soup. I ended up taking my time while feeding the man, letting it roll by.

          This was the first time I truly looked at him. He was a man of older age, perhaps a generation older than I was. His hair was gray with white streaks running through it, and a rugged beard lined his face. Observing the height of the man as he lay in my chair, I judged that he was shy of six feet by several inches. The man’s skin was pallid, and it was beginning to wrinkle with age. Still, short breaths emanated from the figure, and I could hear a low, wheezing rattle well from his throat.

          While I was studying the man, I came to notice that his eyes would occasionally blink in rapid succession. On several of these occasions, one or sometimes both of his eyes would remain open, as if staring futilely into space. I thought it was an odd expression for two reasons. First off because of his state of health, and secondly because he was blind. For when he first held an eye open, I detected a glazed film covering his eye, and when his other eye became opened, I saw that it too was clouded.

          It was a queer thing to do, watching an unsound man lie in a chair, and it brought to me foreboding sentiments of my own future, for I surely did not want to follow in his pitiable state. I hardly noticed when the soup bowl became empty, and half-mindedly, I set it to the floor and relaxed in my own chair, all the while, continually watching the man. I still asked myself the question of where the man came from, and still, I had no answer. After a time, I got up from my seat to walk over to the invalid, for I had the notion to search the man’s possessions for any hints as to why he was in these recesses of removed wilderness. Uncovering the blankets I had drawn over my guest, I observed that the man’s shirt was ridden with dampness. I unbuttoned the shirt and saw that a cold sweat lined his frail chest. Before going any further in my activity, I claimed a loose rag to wipe the feverish sweat from his chest. As I did so, he shuddered at my steady touch. I also brought with me another cloth, which I moistened with water to place across his forehead.

          I then proceeded to examine any particular belongings the man might have had with him. Emptying his shirt pockets, I only came across bits of rubble and stone, leaving it devoid of personal belongings, but when I did inspect it, I discerned a stain permeating part of the shirt’s length. It did not appear to be a bloodstain however. The blemish appeared to be too dark and black to be such a stain, and besides the fact, I had not yet seen any form of physical injury scarred upon the man.

          As for the fragmented rocks, one stole my utter attention. All the pieces of stone were of a dark, smooth, and gray character, and none were more than a couple inches in length. Though after sorting through the bits, I came across a curious piece. Engraved upon its surface was a quaint character which oddly resembled a fractured set of Roman numerals. I found this most interesting because the piece had been integrated within various and seemingly extraneous stone debris. Rather than replace the scraps of stone, I deposited them on the sill of my fireplace.

          Now that I was finished searching the man, I drew the sheets back over his body. I looked over to a window in the room and was surprised to see that little sunlight remained. It seemed to me that dreariness would soon overcome me during the remaining hours of the waning day. I did not know why, but I continued to sit in the room, watching the slow process of day fade into night. My mood was dulled by the sluggishness of the current day, and I found myself drawn to the simplicity of the fluctuation of the celestial stages. Coldness accompanied the coming of night, mimicking its gradual change by subtly exhibiting itself. I did not, however, respond to the overriding and powerful chill of the cold. I allowed myself to remain in my seated pose, letting icy numbness burrow into my skin. Sitting there like that was strangely relaxing, and I shortly fell into the pull of sleep.

          I was once again within its boundless confines, whereupon I reawakened at the scene of the waterfalls and at their nameless caves. The ground was wet and dampened by a lifetime of watery erosion, and I noticed that its dampness had soaked into my clothes. Above, the nightly realm still reigned eternal, and the luminous Eye shone brilliantly in its abysses. But for some reason, the skies seemed strangely darker despite the moon’s radiance. And as I lay there, I could feel the moon’s piercing gaze stare down upon me from the empty heavens, reaching through my sheltered surroundings.

          I got up from the ground then and stood upon my feet. My muscles became taxed at first by the task, but their strength soon returned with their use. In front of my view lay the spectacular lake with its stagnant waters churning slowly with the current of the falls. I chose to stare at the twinkling waters, and in return, they stared back with black eyes. As I stood there gazing into the waters’ depths, I caught onto a subtle, yet alluring trait gifted to them. They were of a curious character that hid within them a queerly latent past. Mesmerized with their shrouded content, I tried to sift through their meaning by tickling my mind with elusive ideas. I silently told myself that these waters had seen countless aeons, flowing ever since the untold beginning of time. I attributed to them a pristine character based on a sentiment fixed in my mind. It was a difficult feeling to develop, for it was vague in its intangible essence, but nevertheless, I detected serene pureness locked beneath their concealing surfaces.

          Shifting my sight toward the eminent cliffs, I scanned their faces for the caves and black alleys veiled by the looming falls. Of the cavities I clearly detected beyond the falling bands of spectral water, I noticed they were primarily small alcoves which added hints of semidarkness to the falls. There were larger caves too, albeit at a lesser ratio, though some were gaping mouths of eternal darkness. Serrated teeth did not line the extremities of these, for the continuous water flow had given way to relatively smooth openings.

          My dream was interrupted by a most abstruse sound, and an eerie feeling abruptly overcame me. When I paused to discern exactly what I had heard, the only thing that met my ears was the mellow tapping of rainwater hitting the arched roof above. Throughout the empty expanse of the ceiling, the smooth rhythm of the rain echoed its clatter. It had been some time since I had last heard the thrumming of the rain, and its gentle demeanor did well to calm my nerves. I got up to light a candle, and its short rays managed to encompass the entire room in the prevailing darkness.

          In plain view was the visitor, lying in his chair. From what little light I had, I saw dense clouds of breath form at his mouth, and only then did I come to realize my own breath and the great chill that beset the atmosphere. Then the noise came again, and I had no doubts as to where it originated. The harsh sound broke the essence of the fierce cold. I gave a shudder then, but now, I could no longer associate it to the clawing bite of the cold.

          It was a cough, one that rose from the still visitor. Though I would hardly have called it a cough, for it was too aberrational and decrepit to claim such a name. Instead, it reminded me of and hinted more towards a hideous shrill or scream which arose from within the bowels of a raspy throat. Why the noise unnerved me so much, I could not exactly say. Perhaps it was because it seemed too unnatural for a man to cause such a noise. As I waited for another to see if more would accompany the night, the loathsome coughs did indeed recur.

          The patter of the rain helped restore a sense of comfortable security, and soon, the noises seemed to me less perverted in nature. After simply sitting there, listening to both the coughs and the rainfall, I pulled my chair over toward the visitor. My candle broke the darkest of the shadows around his face, and I could tell by looking at my guest that his illness had claimed a greater hold over his being.

          I closed my eyes as I sat there over him, leaning far into my chair, candle and its holder resting upon my lap. All the while, I listened to the rain tap the roof. The rainfall increased its tempo, soon descending as a downpour of stout magnitude. Outside, I could hear a vicious wind whir about and whip trees and their branches. Through my closed eyelids, I detected the candlelight’s faint luminescence, and I entertained myself by following its diffuse glow through them. I might have fallen into a trance during those hours, were it not for my guest calling my immediate attention.

          For through the heavy drumming of the rain, I heard my guest utter faint and hushed words. But unlike the last time he voiced any, I heard him form what appeared to be partially meaningful speech.

          “The hills, full of ‘em. All the water’s gone . . . and them woods they were . . .” His whisper died out and was replaced with a fierce spasm, in which his face almost acquired a look of fear. A few fell coughs emerged from the man before he mouthed more words. “Late. The white moon. It kept staring . . . I—I see it! Curse it!” The man spat a revolting gargle of disarrayed sounds, which was followed by a coughing fit. I could not help but shrivel my brows and face in pity and disgust when I witnessed his paroxysmal rage. “Damn the heavens!” screamed the man as he relapsed from his spell. His tone thereupon reverted to a low murmur, “Too much stone. Everything’s all wrong . . . all damned and plagued it is. And in the shadow—Oh! the ever-present shadows, there were things. Yes . . . things! Curse my eyes. Curse it all!” screeched the man. Then his breathing turned slow and shallow, but still sharp and intent, “They were there, in the shadow and the black water and black sky which bred them. The horizons, they vanished. And the peaks and high terraces. They did it! Let their blasphemy curse an’ rape and vex the lands! Let it . . . let it all be damned along . . . along . . .”

          Only the sound of rainfall resounded then in the night, and I knew that he had died, for I could no longer see breath form at his lips.


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If you are interested, I have posted most of the second part of Landscape (it's still incomplete).

Here's a link to it:

Landscape (Part II)  (13+) (Weird fiction) Narrator dreams of a weird landscape that becomes integrated into reality. #1241456 by Thomas Eding