Chapter 1 Beneath the Hills

Chapter I

Beneath the Hills

Northern Britain, circa 1915

Meical stood at the window of the boarding house, watching the rain falling over the grounds.  When?  When would the war be over?  When would his father finally come home?  The water ran in thick rivulets down the windowpane.  A draft was working its way in�"the room was never warm.  Doubts and questions continued to plague him,  thoughts he could not shake.  What if his father died?  What then?  A dark fear seized his heart: that his father was already dead.  There had been no letters for so many months.  No news, no word of any kind.  An image of a lonely battlefield, littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, filled his mind.  He forced it away, but its shadow had been cast and would not leave.  If only there was a letter.  If only he could hear his father’s voice again. 

            He looked down at his hands, where an old, yellowed letter was held.  It was fading and cracked from much use and many tears.  The date read 4 September, 1914.  It was now October of 1915.  Meical ran his fingers through his dark-blond hair, letting the letter fall to the desk beside him.  It had been so long since he had any word of hope.  The newspapers said the war was going well, but what did they know of a lonely father and a lonely son?  Pushing these thoughts away, he again turned to the window.  He had things to do.

            The afternoon was growing late, but he still had time.  The rain did not discourage him; instead, it added to his curiosity.  Why should it rain on this day?  There was something strange about that place.  Turning away from the window, he cast about his small room for his jacket �" he would wear his great coat, thin and worn though it was.  He was glad his roommate was not there, for there would be too many questions.  Best to slip away unnoticed.  He would not be missed, he knew: he naturally preferred to be alone, and spoke little to those around him. 

            He glanced quickly at the clock; he was right, he had ample time.  Slipping out into the hall, he clattered down the stairs, making for the back door.  It was an old building, with many places to hide, and many passageways. 

            He stopped short when he reached the bottom, looking carefully around the corner, his heart pounding in excitement.  Somewhere he heard the echoing of footsteps, the laughter of a group of boys, but these sounds were far away.  The sound reminded him that he did not belong here. 

            Passing down a narrow hall, he came to the kitchen.  Pots and pans cluttered the counters, and a small fire sputtered in the hearth, a coal bursting in a shower of sparks.  It was deserted, save for a small grey cat, which lay preening itself by the hearth.  Meical made his way through the mess, coming to the door that led outside.  The cat looked at him with gleaming yellow eyes.  Meical turned and grasped the handle firmly in his hands �" it was like ice in his grip �"and swung open the paneled door, stepping into the rain.  He quickly shut the door behind him, blocking out the sound of the fire, and stepped forward.  Hesitation gripped at his stomach, but he forced it away and walked across the narrow yard, towards a gate set in an iron fence.  Carefully side stepping a puddle, he gripped the iron firmly and wrenched it open.  It screeched noisily, and he stepped through, shutting it behind him. 

            The grimy town of Claisoch was sprawled out in front of him, with its narrow streets and rickety buildings.  He gave one final glance over his shoulder, where lights flickered warmly in the windows of the old brick building.  Too late to go back now, he thought, and did not look back again.  Picking up his feet, he began to run swiftly down the street, dodging puddles, the rain falling thick around him. 

            No one was about.  The sky was grey and ominous overhead, threatening a long storm �" there were no breaks in the clouds.  Some of the homes were brightly lit, some were dim, some dark as tombs.  One of these, the dark ones, had been his home.  Ever since his father had left for the war, it had been dark.  His mother he had never known, but his father was close.  All their lives they had been together �" then the war began.

            Another of these houses�"but this time one of warmth and light�"was one he wished he knew well.  Alys, the one person he wished he knew better, lived there with her family.  She was a year his younger, and they had always known each other.  He called her a friend, but they rarely spoke.  She too, he felt, wished to speak with him, but something was in the way.  Something held them both back.    

            But Meical pushed these memories away, and ran on.  Passing at last through the city, he came suddenly upon the open fields, the rolling hills.  It was making for was not far now.

           

            He stood at the foot of a large hill, swathed with springy heather.  Great boulders could be seen here and there, pushing through the thin layer of dirt and thrusting up their rough, grey heads.  The top of the hill was wide and flat, whether from the hands of man or the hands of God, he did not know.  No living thing grew on the top of the hill; it was bare and blackened from thousands of fires, long ago.  A ring of mist had now begun to form around the hill, like the crown of a long dead king, whisping and writhing about.  Yet it was not for all this that Meical had come.  On the top of the hill, standing in a ring, their cold, proud faces hardly changed over time, were thirteen stones.  They gave off a deadly chill, which seemed to creep about and inhabit the entire valley around it.

            Almost did these stones seem to draw him on, whispering earnestly, so that he could not hold back.  Thus, with fear and excitement welded into one overpowering emotion, he stepped forward and began to climb. 

            The sides of the hill were steep, and the surface of the rocks was cold and clammy.  A knot was tightening in his gut, and he shivered, wiping the rain from his eyes.  He could not go back now.  He had to finish what he had come to do, whatever fears took hold of him. 

            He jerked up his head, sweeping the crest of the hill with his eyes.  Someone had been watching him, or something.  He forced this thought away.  Who would be here?  It had been abandoned since the days of the Roman invasion, so many years ago.  And so he pressed on up the hill, towards the great pillars of stone. 

            At last he came to the top, and rose to his feet.  There was no wind here, not even the slightest breath.  He himself dared not breathe, lest he break the deadly stillness.  It was so quiet; he imagined he could hear his own heartbeat, throbbing in his ears.  The mist, too, did not enter the ring of stones, but instead formed a great curtain about the hill.  Meical’s teeth began to chatter as he stepped closer.  The ground all around him was bare and lifeless, the stone blackened. 

            The pillars of grey stone were immense.  Thrice his height and several feet thick, they stood somberly about him, and though their surfaces were worn smooth, he could nearly feel their chilling gaze.  All around him the rain fell, and began to run in his eyes, but he took no notice of that now.  His attention was frozen to what lay before him. 

            There, in the center of the cold, dead ring, stood a low archway, as though once an entrance; now there was nothing on either side save for blackened dirt.  It appeared both proud and forsaken, like the tomb of some ancient king.  On the top of the archway were carved many strange signs and runes, etched deeply in twisted, writhing shapes.  Unlike the other pillars, these stones were black, and cracks ran rampant on them.  

            Suddenly Meical shook himself.  He had already been here too long.  Fears tingled along his spine and he whirled around.  There was nothing there.  He glanced up; twilight was falling, cloaking the world in half-light, and the chill of the rain grew stronger.  The mist swirled ghostlike in the shadows, wreathing about the pillars, strangling the hill.  He wanted to run, but could not.  He wanted to scream and flee towards the town, but something held him back, and drew him forward.  The feeling in his gut grew as he stepped forward towards the center of the ring.  Step by step, feet striking the earth like dull hammer blows, he stepped up to the arch.  He stretched out his hand and touched the stone.  It felt frozen to the touch, and a numbing chill began to spread up his arm.  He tore himself away, his eyes flashing in fear, his heart racing, and, led on, stepped quickly through the archway.  It passed above him like a cold shadow and was gone. 

            Wiping the sweat from his brow, he let out a sigh.  He had done it, and could go home.  The icy fear that had gripped his chest began to lessen, but the feeling of eyes boring into his back did not reside.  It was growing very dark now, and shapes swirled in the mist.  “I should never have come here.” He whispered. 

            But a voice �" whether imagined or not, he never knew �" seemed to whisper back,

            “It is too late now, to go home.”  The voice was like iron on ice.

            Meical shuddered, and took a step back.  Then, suddenly, the earth beneath him gave way, and he was swallowed up without a cry, plunging into darkness.

            For a moment he seemed to hang in the air, and then he slammed down on to stone.  Sparks of pain shot through his head, and for a moment he could not breathe.  After what felt like an eternity he sucked in deeply, feeling the air rush into his lungs.  Then he nearly gagged, as the stench of the place smote him.  It was a sickly sweet smell, rotten and chilling, a smell that could be tasted.  He coughed, and the pain in his head exploded again, throbbing heavily.  His teeth were chattering uncontrollably now, and his blood felt as cold as the North Sea in winter.  He could scarce keep his eyes open, and his mouth was drawn back in pain, baring his teeth.  The dull sound of the rain above him was wearying, each drop wearing him down.

            He had fallen nearly six feet, breaking through the thin covering above and plummeting to land on a raised stone slab.  He was in a narrow, dark cave, which appeared to stretch on forever to his right, down to the heart of the earth.  That was where the smell was coming from, and with it, a nameless dread.  Fear again began to strangle his mind in its icy grip.  There was no way out.  He could not reach the hole he had fallen through, and he could not go down the dark way.  The dread which emanated from the long, downward sloping tunnel was growing stronger; coming on for its prey. 

            Then, as Meical sat up, something caught his eye.  Set on a roughly hewn stone shelf beside the slab which he lay was a knife.  It gleamed wickedly in its own light, a long blade of tarnished silver.  The handle was made of a cut of a stag’s antler, polished over time by many hands.  It called him with a stronger voice than that of the pillars.  It was  their voice.  He watched as his hand stretched out to take it, watched his fingers uncurl.  His mind cried out a warning, but he did not heed it.  Then, suddenly, it was in his hand, and his heart blazed like ice.  Then the fire was gone, replaced by the aching cold.  Stronger than ever it swept over him, his mind reeling, voices whispering in his ears. 

            Images flashed all around him: he saw his father, waving goodbye, stepping aboard the train; he saw his town and people he knew, boys from the school playing in the yard; he saw Alys, heard her laugh, and saw her smile; saw his mother quickly fading.  Then the visions stopped, and the dreams ceased to reel, as the cold swept in, overpowering him.  His eyes fluttered closed, shutting out the grey sky overhead.  His ears were stopped, and he no longer heard the rain.  He no longer smelled the tunnel.  Blackness smothered him, and his memory vanished, leaving him with one thought: so cold.  So cold.

           

            Back at the boarding house a maid mounted a flight of rickety stairs, made her way down a hall, and came to a door.  She knocked.  No answer.  She swung open the door; no one was there.  Walking forward, she carefully set an unopened letter on the desk, and made her way out, shutting the door and casting the room into darkness.  A little light fell from the window on to the address written upon the letter.  It was penned in a strong, manly hand.  A fatherly hand. 

            To:

            Meical Hamilton

            MacCullough’s Boarding

            Claisoch, Scotland

           

 

Reviews

[Alex W]

Again, very good. You set it up well, and while these parts of books aren't the most interesting, they are needed to set up the story. The character itself is a good one, you often see characters like this in books. They are a type of 'blank canvas', as you can build any type of character from the quiet loner. If you have too much of a rich, there's not much room to build them up through the story.

Two things. Firstly, i'm not sure why you use the " key where there is no speech, is that in place of another grammar 'key'? And the only other thing is the knife part. Did he just touch it and get the pain then or did he cut his wrists? I was unsure. Might just be my tired brain unsure of it though lol, but maybe clarify a little more there :-)

Good piece, looking forward to the next chapter!

[Ethan Mariner]

not my favorite work; I've done better. A rough draft of chapter 1.