Wherein there is the Dark.
It was nighttime when we began. The fire was burning, offering a wavering heat against the cold and windy night. The old man sat cross-legged on the ground near the fire. He had just finished grinding something with his mortar and pestle when he beckoned me over.
“Sit. I need to paint your face so that the hound cannot see you.”
I reluctantly sat. I hoped that he was painting my face with something cool, like the face paint from KISS. Only not the Cat or the Star Child. Those would be lame. I’d want the Demon or Space Ace. I wonder if he had one of those frilly rocker wigs.
It tickled for a while as he painted with his brush, but finally he said “Done.” I looked around for a mirror but found none. I reached up to touch my face but he grabbed my hand.
“Even a single touch could ruin it. Do not touch your face.”
“Sure,” I said, and sat there with a stupid half-smile. If you’ve ever had your face painted before, you know there’s an implicit trust to it. You never see your face until afterwards when they show you the mirror. You could find their painting was terrible. Worse, they could have painted something other than what you expected. I didn’t know how to feel, as the old man could have painted “I’M A GIANT DOUCHE” on my face and I had no way to know.
The old man moved some odds and ends around him. Various pouches, jars and bags were arrayed around him. He stared up at the sky for a long moment. I looked but all I saw were fast moving clouds on a dark sky. No real moon, no real stars. I’m not sure what he was looking for, but he must have seen it.
He began to sing. It was similar to his other songs. It did sound very Native American. Something about the cadence I had heard when Discovery channel had a piece. I wasn’t sure if I bought his story about these songs pre-dating them; but I really had no way of verifying them until I had more own Native American tracker to ask about it. I wondered if Tonto always thought the Lone Ranger was deeply racist. It was a stupid thought, but there really wasn’t much else to do; the old man’s song went on and on, and all I could do was sit there stupidly. I might as well have thought about Western fiction prejudice.
The song was repetitive and incomprehensible, but I could feel its vibration. The man was very passionate in his singing. Certain parts of it were punctuated with him grabbing something from a pouch or shaking something. At one point he grabbed some powder from a bag and threw it in the fire. There was an immediate puff of smoke and then fire turned bright blue for a second. It returned to its original color, but the fire that previously was fighting the wind now it roared as if the wind were not there.
At one point, he opened up a pouch and spilled it along the ground. I saw a line of glittering gems. Maybe they were just crystal or broken glass, but I remember them flickering blue in the flame-light. Sapphire, I guessed, but the old man was tricky. Hell, even if they were sapphire, I’m sure he would claim it was something special instead. Either some heretofore unknown substance, or some type of exotic sapphire, like sapphire blessed with the turds of the north wind. I was getting a good for feel his cryptic way of speaking.
Finally his singing ceased, and there was a tangible silence. I heard the wind vaguely, but it did not howl like before. I could hear the crackling of the fire. I could see the reflection of the flames in the old man’s eyes.
“We are ready,” he said simply.
“Okay,” I said stupidly.
“There is one last thing you should know,” he said, before stopping for the longest pause in the history of mankind. “My paint will make you invisible, but it will still be able to smell you.”
“Oh goddammit, is there anything else I should know?” I said incredulously. “Do you plan to set me on fire at the last minute too?”
He grunted. “I say smell, but it is not truly smell. It senses your life. It is this sense that will bring it here. It is how it tracked you. My paint will still make you invisible. However, if it is very close it will be able to sense your life when you breathe.”
“How close are we talking?”
“Five, maybe ten feet. Are you a big breather?”
My jaw opened in the biggest are-you-fucking-kidding-me-are-you-serious-how-the-fuck-should-I-know expression, complete with half-shrugged shoulders and hands turned upwards in a sign of having nothing.
“If it gets that close,” he said. “You will need to hold your breath. If it senses your breathing, it will find you even with the paint.”
“This just keeps getting worse and worse.”
“Follow the rules,” said the old man, “And no harm will come to you. You are still of use, I would rather you survived.”
“Your ‘glowing’ concern is noted,” I said glumly.
“Once inside the Dark, all you have to do is wait. The hound will show. It will not find you and it will leave. Once it is gone, you can come back.”
“That’s it? Just wait?”
“Yes,” he said simply. He paused. “Don’t wander off. If you get lost there is no guarantee I can find you.”
I didn’t think it was that easy. I knew there was probably something he wasn’t telling me. Still I moved on. “So how do I get to the Dark? Do you sprinkle me with pixie dust?”
His eyes narrowed but he did not answer that concern. He spread arm towards the line of gems. “Step over this line.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” His voice flat, his eyes dark.
I shrugged and rolled my eyes, awkwardly standing up and wiping sand and dirt from my pants. I looked at the line of gems. They still flickered in the fire light, but other than that they looked normal. Surely the old man was insane. He definitely knew some herbal remedies, he knew a few songs, and he talked a good game. But some other world called the Dark? Preposterous.
I smiled sardonically. If I were going to prove to him it was silly, I’d have to show him. He thought this was real. I sighed and stepped over the line of sapphires.
And I was standing on the other side of the line. There was no sensation of vertigo, no rush and a push, no swirling maelstrom, not even any cool Dr. Who intro effects. I was on the other side of the line looking at sandy wasteland. As I expected, nothing happened. His Dark was bullshit.
I turned around with a knowing and condescending smile, prepared to tell the old man he was simply crazy. But when I looked, the old man was gone. I could see the spot in which he sat, as well as his paraphernalia, but he was gone. There was no way he could have gotten up and walked away so quickly. I looked in the immediate area, but did not find him.
However, my quick look around showed me what I did not see at first. While I was still where the old man and I had sat, things were different. The fire, for example. It burned a clean white. Gone were the yellow and red flames. It burned with a stark white flame. When I looked at the line of sapphires, they glittered differently in the white fire light. Above them I could now see a faint shimmering. At least now I had my swirly scifi effects.
When I looked at the house, I had a rude awakening. While I could tell that it was the house, it had changed. Before it was a simple wooden cabin, creepy only by its solitary place in the desolate wasteland and all the associations that Hollywood slasher flicks had given it. Now it was horrible in its own right. It was as if someone had taken that wooden structure and mutated it. Where before its shape and structure was functional, now it had extraneous additions. Slanting surfaces, additional windows, an expansion of multiple floors. The roof now bent at strange angles. Where before the cabin simply sat, now it hunched over, peering down at me and the fire. It was now a strange monstrosity almost ready to scuttle away on a multitude of insectoid legs at any moment. I was positive I wasn’t going in there; not while it was like this.
There was no sky. That’s not to say there was now ceiling or something else. No, where there was sky there was just black. No clouds, no moon, no vague illumination of any sort. Just a flat blackness. This same blackness surrounded me. The fire was the only illumination I could see. Where the fire ended there was this same blackness. Unlike regular darkness where there was a gradation, this was a sudden contrast. I could see the ground was revealed by fire light, then at some point there’s a hard line where there was just blackness.
Don’t wander off? Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I just want to wander into oppressive blackness. It’s my idea of a good time. Let me just put on a red shirt, suggest we split up, say “I’ll be right back,” have teenage sex, take a shower, and wander into the dark place where I can’t see anything. Even the creepy cabin monstrosity was a better option. By the weirdly white fire was a fine place for me.
So I waited.
Admittedly I looked at the shimmering line of gems a few times, wondering if I should just go back. This place was creepy to a factor of ten. Just waiting here was unnerving. All I could do was stare at the black, stare at the fire, or stare at the cabin. The having nothing to do or look at was probably the worst part. Next time I enter the Dark (if I am unfortunate enough to have a next time), I bring a magazine.
I’m not sure how long it was that I waited. I had no frame of reference for the passing of time save my heartbeat and the flickering of the white flames. Even those flames seemed to not flicker as I was used to, as steeped in strangeness as they were. Worse, the flames made no noise. This place was silent, but occasionally I heard vague far off sounds. A laugh, a bark, an undecipherable whisper on the wind. The problem is, I’m not sure if I heard them. They were so brief, so infrequent, and so low in volume, I was unsure if they were actually in my head – frantic impressions from my subconscious just trying to fill the silence. After I heard one, I’d listen a moment more for repetition, but nothing. Some deep part of my brain stopped me from trying more than that. Pure instinct told me I didn’t want to listen that far down, to open myself to what things might be whispering and laughing in the blackness.
My waiting was finally ended by a howl, loud enough that I knew it was real. I swiveled my head and looked into the blackness. My muscles were tensed. After the howl, there was nothing for a full minute. I wondered if it was a false alarm, but then I saw the creature.
I saw it shamble out of the blackness, scuttling across the floor on legs and feet, a gray thing spit out of the black wall. It was humanoid, but it walked bent-over, using its hands to walk as much as its feet. It was not fluid like a four-legged creature would be, or even a man mocking a four-legged animal. No, the movements were disjointed, depending far more on its left arm than its right, causing its shoulder to always be angled with the right side up. It sometimes shambled diagonally instead of forward, a vast inefficiency in its movements.
As it grew closer, I could see it better. It was a man, in a way. It had long emaciated limbs, sharp bony joints sticking out. Its skin was a sallow gray, as I imagine decayed flesh looks like, if zombie movies carried any truth. Its belly was distended, so it appeared this bony ragdoll somehow had a flopping beer gut. It had a face of jowly features: the eyes sunken, the mouth carved into a perpetual frown, the skin threatening to flop off the skull at any moment. The head was mostly bald, but white hair sporadically stuck out from its head. It spent most of the time sniffing the ground as it shambled, but every so often it would stick its head up and sniff the air.
When it was close, I could hear its incessant sniffing, just like a dog. It clearly had tracked something here. The old man was probably right. It came here for me. Now I had to hope that the old man’s mojo did what it should.
As it approached the fire, it stopped and lifted its head. Its sunken eyes stared around. I was struck by the sadness and despair deep in those eyes. I had expected some diabolical hatred, but those eyes were human. Whatever was deep inside that thing despaired. Yet, as I looked at its hands, I noticed long fingers that held even longer claws. Those claws had dried brown splotches. Even if sad, that made it no less dangerous.
Even though it looked around, it made no reaction it saw me. In fact, I watched as its vision panned straight over me if I were not there. It was confused by this, taking another moment to sniff the ground, then another to look around. I could almost read its actions as it wondered why I wasn’t here, even though the trail led to this place.
It moved closer to me, and I knew to follow the old man’s advice and hold my breath. I watched as it shambled close to me, sniffing and looking. The presence of it was disgusting, so as it came closer to me, I took a few steps backwards, still holding my breath as I felt my pulse race. It moved closer to me again, and I stepped back. Unfortunately, my footing wasn’t what I thought, and my foot came down on softer ground than I expected.
I reeled backwards, falling to the ground on my back. The impact of my back on the ground caused me to let out my breath. The creature immediately jerked its head in my direction. I quickly inhaled another breath and held it, wishing that the creature had not sensed me. I dared not move; I had forgotten to ask the old man if it could hear me.
The creature trotted around, smelling the ground near me. At first I could see it, but then it left my field of vision. I dared not move. I still held my breath. I could hear it sniffing. Then I came upon an ugly realization. It was at my feet sniffing my shoe.
I tried to keep myself calm. Sniffing my shoe was fine, it would soon move away. The old man’s paint would keep me safe. Right?
That sense of security was broken when I felt it began to sniff up my leg. In another moment, I realized it was climbing on top of me, sniffing. For a moment I thought all was lost, but then I realized it was sniffing me as if I were the ground. While technically a win for me and the old man’s paint, it meant the creature was climbing on top of me, sniffing up the entire length of my body as I desperately held my breath.
I’ll admit the crotch sniffing was more uncomfortable than fearful, but as it neared my face I began to sweat. This added to my troubles. First, I wasn’t sure how much longer I would be able to hold my breath. Second, the sweat itself. Could it smell my sweat? Would the sweat begin to mar the paint on my face?
In another moment, I had a bigger issue. It was sniffing my face. Or rather, it was sniffing the air just inches from my face. My heart raced. If it lowered its face just a little lower, it would touch my face. I noticed that it had some dog-like drool on its mouth. I saw that it began to hang from its mouth it an ever-lengthening strand. I willed it to move away. I willed that strand of drool away from my face and the protective paint.
And then I had a realization I will always remember. One that I wished I didn’t have. It nearly made me breathe right then and there, but somehow I held on.
I found myself looking past the drool, into the face of the creature and its sad eyes. I somehow found myself examining that face. And in a moment I realized I recognized that face. I had known him only weeks, but he had been a friend during that time. And when I looked at those eyes, I knew it wasn’t a creature wearing his visage, but it was him.
This thing before me was Kirby, my friend and trainer from the Hobo Boxing Tournament.
Bile began to well in my throat, but I ignored it, pushing it back down. The old man had said that the one who was after me had marked me, but I never really thought about it. He had clearly pointed to the handprint. Whose hand was that? Whose minion was Kirby? Swearing Jim. It was always Swearing Jim.
My mind immediately focused back to the present where one strand of drool was hanging precariously down over my face. The creature had paused and continued its sniffing. My lungs were bursting. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it. Yet that drool continued to lengthen more and more. I was sure it was over.
But somehow it wasn’t. I saw the drool began to fall, I saw that this was it, but the creature then moved forward, so that disgusting piece of drool fell in my hair instead of my face. I’m not sure I have ever been so happy about something vile getting in my hair as that moment. I almost sighed in relief, but kept on holding my breath, my lungs in agony.
After it moved completely off me, the creature stopped, its head held in the air sniffing, listening. I heard something that sounded almost like a whistle. I’m not quite sure, because I could hear little besides my pulse pounding in my ears. Whatever it was, as soon as the creature heard it, it changed its demeanor. It stopped sniffing and ran off, exiting the clearing from the same patch of blackness that it appeared from.
I let out my breath and gasped for air, my lungs rasping and my heart pounding. I had never held out my breath so long. I wondered if this meant I should try out for the college swim team when I got there. Maybe, except I’ve never been one for Speedos. I gasped, filling my lungs with as much air as I could. Then, a moment later I clawed at my hair, trying to get that awful drool out of it.
When I was finally breathing semi-normally and wasn’t a shaking wreck, I pulled myself to my feet. The silence of this place never consoled me so much. With shaking footsteps, I walked into the shimmer above the line of sapphire gems. Once again I felt nothing, but I was greeted by the sounds of a roaring fire and howling wind.
I collapsed on the ground next to the old man, somehow still maintaining a semi-sitting posture. “It’s done,” I said tiredly. “It came and went.”
“I know,” said the old man. He was chewing on something he put in his mouth when he saw me step back into this place. Then a strange expression came over his face. Something I’m not sure I ever saw again. It almost seemed like… pleasure.
“You did good,” he said. “I now know where he is.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Oh yes,” he said. Then he spit whatever he was chewing on my left arm.
“Ewww, that’s disgusting! If you’re going to chew tobacco, you could at least – AHH!”
My arm began to burn. I looked down and saw that he had spit some brown splatter on the hand print bruise I had received from Swearing Jim. It was translucent, so I wasn’t too far off suggesting it was chewing tobacco, but that’s not what this was. I felt a burning sensation. Had he just spit acid on me? I almost turned to attack him, but in a few moments the pain was gone. I looked down at my arm again, and any evidence that I had a bruise was gone. My arm was clean. No handprint. I looked back at the old man in wonder.
“You’re welcome,” he said, not bothering to look at me as he gathered his belongings. In particular, I watched as he threw a handful of white dust in the fire which put it out immediately, leaving us in a strange moonlight. Then he broke the line of sapphires by gathering them up. “You’re no longer marked, so he can’t track you anymore. More importantly, he can’t track me if you’re with me.”
He stood up and walked to the house stairs without waiting for a response.
“Time to move the house,” he said.
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