Phantasmagoria

I awoke with a start from a dreamless sleep, my mouth dry. The sky was dark, the stars obscured by thick clouds, and there was no moon that night. Looking out from my high window I could barely discern the far boundary wall and the thick, wrought iron gate. Sweating and dehydrated, I took a large gulp of the stale water at my bedside. I had to get out.

The cold breeze blew against my face and through my damp, matted hair. Moisture was suspended in the light mist, splashing onto my exposed skin as I walked across the courtyard to the gate. The wind made a gentle swishing sound as it swirled through the trees; the only constant sound that swallowed up all others, swiftly killing them without leaving the ghost of even a single echo. Cricket chirps, resolute footsteps on the cobblestones, the painful creak of the gate, all lived and died in a flash.

A last glance upwards. The candlelight in my room was flickering, gasping, dying; fighting a desperate battle against the cruel November winds entering through the open window; the alternating flashes of light and darkness on the ceiling and walls giving the distant, bitter struggle an almost other-worldly form. I quickly turned and walked into the wilderness.

The narrow trail through the thick forest was all but invisible. Occasionally there was a snap of twigs not in time with my trodding feet. Formless figures moved in my peripheral field of vision. Faint beads of light momentarily glowed from unknown distances. Through the now wailing crescendo of the rustling foliage I strained to hear the sound of moving water.

First there was the smell of dank riverside soil. Then the dense woods opened onto the deep, silent body of water, moving swiftly below the overhanging mist. I hadn't lost my way. The small boat was click-clacking against the short pier nearby. I stepped into it, undid the mooring, and nervously pushed against the bank with the thin, long pole, sliding quietly into the strong current...