This was the first piece of work I ever submitted to Splendid Fred Magazine. I wrote it in my third or fourth week of university life, if memory serves. It was initially started as a potential candidate for the final piece I would have to submit for my Fictional Writing module, inspired largely by my love of Edgar Allan Poe, and by the story 'The Rain Horse' by Ted Hughes, which I had recently come across in the course of my studies, and which I had been particularly captivated by: I strongly suggest everybody with a love of the gothic reads it - it can be found as part of The Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories, compiled by Malcolm Bradbury - aside from 'The Rain Horse', the others stories contained within are also well worth the read.
However, I soon decided it would be impossible to rework it to word count of 2000 without damaging it as a story. As such, I elected to submit it to the magazine, and it is the publication of this which set me off upon the road towards literary greatness (yes, that is how I like to think of it). Written when I had very little time (and perhaps should have been doing other things), I feel it stands up rather well to scrutiny, especially considered it was my first serious piece of work. It goes without saying that I am ever indebted to Glenn Fosbraey for accepting this; I have never given up writing since, and I hope you enjoy reading as much as it gave me pleasure to create it.
The young man walked swiftly and surely through the dense black leaves of the forest, his cape billowing behind him in the strong, fearsome wind. His footsteps made a deep crunching sound as he walked over the crisp Autumnal leaves littering his path. After several minutes, or perhaps it was hours, he stopped and, gazing up at the full moon which cast an ominous and eerie glow over his journey, he stood there, framed in the light, a giant, black figure, breathing heavily, but otherwise not moving a muscle. He was listening intently to the world around him, his ears pricked up like those of a fox. Suddenly, he snapped his head round and, with a startled, almost terrified look, surveyed the winding path down which he had just traversed. He pulled a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his sweating brow. He couldn’t hide it any longer. He was terrified. His nerve broke. He turned and ran as fast as he could, forever gaining speed until he was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. Although his legs felt as though they would break, and his diseased heart was beating at his breast as if in an attempt to escape from the confines of his ribcage, he didn’t stop until he had run up to the top of the hill upon which his mansion – old, ruined, and grandiose – stood majestically, a silhouette against the backdrop of the brilliant night sky.
He bolted the large, oak doors behind him as he ran into his haven. He burst into his bed chamber, and flung himself down onto his bed. He opened his eyes, and saw three shadows hovering over him, brandishing swords, laughing shrilly. He turned his head to the side, screaming, and saw blood dripping off the bedside table next to him. Oh, so much blood!
And then, sweating profusely, almost not daring to ever open his eyes again, he woke up.
For Young Sir Charles Winter had been plagued his entire life by the ability to see the future. It had led him to the point he was at now; living alone, in an inherited house he could not afford to maintain, with an inherited title, and no-one to share his great wealth or, indeed, his great loneliness, with.
Because people were afraid of him. Everyone he had once been acquainted with was now under the impression that, if one got too close to Sir Charles, he would soon know far more about your future than you could possibly know yourself.
And nobody seemed to particularly like this.
Charles often thought it quite surprising – in fact positively baffling – that people were constantly clamouring for his attention, demanding to have their fortunes told, their palms read, or whatever the current gypsy trend was nowadays. Maybe human beings didn’t like to think they weren’t in control of their own life. But none of us are. Charles knew this for a fact. Everything is predetermined, and once he saw your future, there was no away of escaping your fate.
But last night, Charles was sure, he had seen something unlike anything he had ever borne witness to before. He had seen it as clear as he now saw the candle he had just lit flickering feebly before him in the darkness of his bedchamber.
He had foreseen his own death.
He had foreseen his own murder.
But who in this green and pleasant land would want to kill him? And why? He had never harmed anybody. It was true that he had no friends, yes, but that did not necessarily mean that he had any enemies, either.
Sir Charles rose from his bed, shaking uncontrollably, and wrapped his dressing gown around his large form. Hell! There was an enormous hole in the side. He had known there were rats and moths in his home. It was with great anger that he reflected he should have endeavoured to get rid of them when he first started having suspicions.
He looked through his entire wardrobe, but it was no good. The beasts had devoured part of every item of clothing he owned. This couldn’t be possible. But his eyes told him that it was.
But soon he found something that seemed to have been untouched. His old, black silk cape! It was a flimsy little thing, but it would have to do until he could procure some more garments.
As Sir Charles marched from his bedroom, he suddenly stopped. He gazed down at what he was wearing in horror. The cape! It was the same one from the dream! Had he been dreaming? No. He knew the difference between a vision and a dream by now. He leaned against the banister for support. He began shaking once again. He felt as though he was about to vomit. He now understood why all his old friends had deserted him. No-one wants to know their future, especially if it’s as unpleasant as this was.
Sir Charles gazed out of the window, and saw another fragment of his vision. The forest, normally shrouded in darkness, was illuminated by the light from the moon. The moon was abnormally large tonight, and brighter than he had ever seen it before. It swathed the entire forest in its glow. The rain beat heavily against the window, and lightning exploded all around as it made contact with the ground.
Sir Charles began to descend the steps once more, slowly, gingerly, carefully. He fancied he could hear voices coming from downstairs, but he shrugged it off as a figment of his imagination. The events of the evening had made him nervous, that was all. There was nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing.
But he could still hear the voices. They were only faint murmurs, but they were there sure enough. They seemed to be coming from Sir Charles’ study. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he reached for the old copper bucket in which he kept his many canes, and proceeded to select one. Sir Charles had had a limp ever since he was a boy, and now had great difficulty walking for any long period of time without the aid of a stick. Today he had chosen a particularly well-crafted – and, more importantly, heavy – mahogany cane with an ornate, golden falcon’s head for a handle. The beak was particularly sharp, also, which made it predominantly useful for seeing off any unsavoury characters he may find lurking about his abode in the small hours uninvited.
Sir Charles held it firmly by the shaft and tiptoed into his office. He eased the door open and crept gingerly in.
Three men were standing by his desk, their backs turned on him, clearly rummaging through the large pot of money he always kept on his desk. He couldn’t afford a safe, so kept his sovereigns where he would always be able to easily find them.
They were chuckling in deep, monotonous tones. The sound of the laughter removed some of Sir Charles’ fear; the very hum of it sounded stupid, as if these people had a lower number of brain cells than they should be expected to have. He straightened his back and, still holding firmly on to the cane, began to speak.
‘Excuse me, good sirs, but I do not believe you are supposed to be in here.’ He was so confident up until now that he had wholly regained his composure, and yet his voice had still emanated from him quaking, filled with terror and timidity.
The three gentlemen stopped conversing, but still did not look round.
Sir Charles attempted to gain their attention once again.
‘You are not allowed in here! This area is off limits!’ he snapped, ferociously.
Slowly, sinisterly, they turned around. When their faces ultimately fixed upon him, Sir Charles let out a long, drawn out exclamation of horror.
They were hideous! They faces were deformed beyond all recognition as members of the human race. They seemed to have no eyes, or if they did they were completely hidden by their heavy brows. The thick, fat lips; the sagging skin; the rotting teeth which showed clearly whenever they grinned – they were, to put it plainly, absolutely monstrous!
Each of them looked daggers at Charles, and then began to chuckle mirthlessly, even murderously.
And he understood immediately.
These were thieves, and the worst kind: ruthless, inhumane thieves.
Each of them pulled a rapier out from under their long, black cloaks, and began to advance towards Charles menacingly, their eyes blazing with something akin to entertainment.
Charles turned and ran, as fast as he could, out of the house and into the woods. He ran until he could run no further, and then slowed to a steady walking pace, although he continued to move swiftly and surely through the dense black leaves of the forest. His cape billowed behind him in the strong, fearsome wind. His footsteps made a deep crunching sound as he walked over the crisp Autumnal leaves littering his path. After what seemed like an age, but was probably only a handful of minutes, a mere pebble dropping into the vast sea of time, he stopped and gazed up at the full moon which cast an ominous and eerie glow over his journey. He stood there, framed in the light, a giant, black figure, breathing heavily, but otherwise not moving a muscle. He was listening intently to the world around him, his ears pricked up like those of a fox. He waited, allowing the rain to fall gently on the rough skin of his battered, weary face, which looked old beyond his years, displaying to the world the hardships he had suffered in his lifetime. So this is what all his years boiled down to: death - dying alone, and in fear. He listened intently to the world around him, trying to hear the screech of an owl – that most majestic of birds – just one last time.
Suddenly, he snapped his head round and, with a startled, almost terrified look, surveyed the winding path down which he had just traversed. He pulled a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his sweating brow. He couldn’t hide it any longer. He was terrified. His nerve broke. He turned and ran as fast as he could, dropping his cane in the process, but forever gaining speed until he was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. Although his legs felt as though they would break, and his diseased heart was beating at his breast as if in an attempt to escape from the confines of his ribcage, he didn’t stop until he had run up to the top of the hill upon which his mansion – old, ruined, and grandiose – stood majestically, a silhouette against the backdrop of the brilliant night sky.
He bolted the large, oak doors behind him as he ran into his haven. ‘Sanctuary!’ he screamed with jollity, and listened with pleasure at the sound of the echo as it reverberated back at him. He burst into his bed chamber, and flung himself down onto his bed.
He had done it.
He was free.
Sir Charles kept his eyes tight shut, hugging the darkness to him. He reached for the bottle of red wine he always kept by his bedside, feeling his survival called for a celebration. He opened his eyes, and saw three shadows hovering over him, brandishing swords, laughing shrilly. He flinched, and knocked the bottle over. It smashed, and the liquid within that was its cargo leaked out all over the table and onto the floor. He turned his head back to where he had seen the shadows, and saw that it was simply the shadow of a raven, which had landed on a tree near his window. He laughed to himself. The events of the evening had made him jumpy. There was no longer anything to fear. He looked over to where the smashed wine bottle lay, and observed it, blood red, dripping off the bedside table next to him.
He laughed heartily. He laughed, and laughed and laughed...
That night, Sir Charles Winter died of a heart attack in his sleep, brought on by the exertion and fear he had subjected it to during the events of that fateful night. He died with an ironic smile on his face, almost as if he had realised, before the darkness swallowed him, that no man could escape their fate.
If a man misses his appointment with Fate, then Fate will always catch up with him at some other point, soon thereafter.
2010
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