A Story Begins

writerofage (57)in #steemitfiction • 6 years ago (edited)

Original Fiction and Art by @writerofage
8000 words

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A crash from above shook the floorboards. It thundered through the room, rankled his ears, raised the hairs on his arm and neck and produced a look of irritation on his face. It was just plain rude, a miscreant of appreciation, and the bane of peace. It disturbed mostly the silence he was hoping to enjoy. The quietness fled before the scraping, crashing and pounding, screeching and grating of the first morning’s train.

Jeremy groaned. His clock read six a.m.

He pushed himself from bed. The brisk air of the morning met him with a shiver, and a wave of goose-bumps followed suit. Spring was almost here. It was the middle of February, and that was getting truer with each day he said it. Today was a new day—one he would never forget. It was the day that changed the course of his entire life, and shaped his character into the legend to grow and rock a world.

Of course, he had no clue that it was about to happen the same way some things lay in the future and aren’t meant to be known.

Right now, the resounding effects of the dawn train bounded and crashed upon the small corner of his city. The apartment building was so close it might as well have held the tracks up. He had joked with Harold, a plumber by trade and close friend of years, that if he wanted he could reach out and high five people passing by. They had tried. It didn’t go well, not even close. It was good fun, and the memory of it felt good. Those had been the days! For some time now, he had been entirely wrapped up in his work—up at 6; out the door by 6:30 to catch the train; thank the proximity of the coffee maker, and off to manage the advisory firm he ran. The twelve-hour shifts passed in a flash. Before he knew it, he was back on his way to the train wrecked apartment.

He didn’t mind it. His apartment was cozy, and he enjoyed its comforts when he found some time. Some days, though, he’d dream of chasing down legends and rumors of the unknown. Something nagged his mind, persistently nestled deep within him. Sometimes it would awake to reach out to him, calling for attention, presenting him chances to grow. He would find himself dreaming of another life, one full of racing hearts and adventure.

He ran through the ropes. Got dressed, made coffee by rote and there he was out the door, dress coat in hand, hat settling on his crop of short dark hair. Later on, he enjoyed his breakfast burrito, a savory mixture of scrambled egg, cheese, bacon, and chopped onion with green chili sauce, a local delicacy. He was lithe, and walked quickly, confidently, sure of his direction and purpose. He had been preparing for the day for the past few weeks. Sands Bank had called on his firm for consulting — it was to meet the largest client he had attracted.

Jeremy ran through everything in his head. He liked to go by the feel, which was why it took him so much time ahead of the meeting—he needed to memorize the things he would eventually need to use. He sipped his coffee. It was still hot and let out a sigh of enjoyment. There was nothing to be compared to a good sip of coffee in the fresh morning air. The day was clean and pressing itself upon the world through a crisp, sweet breeze.

Deep in thought, he boarded the train as it pulled up, just like every other day. Once he found his seat, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through random bits of news. Most of those were droll and summed up to fill the gaps of the insatiable desire for information. He focused on the headlines about investment and shocking news. Curious by nature, he could not get enough. Many of the titles read something like, “Biggest opportunity of all time,” “Dreadful Driving,” “Startling truth…” All wanted to snag attention but rarely provided the content or portrayed a sense of understanding or real nuggets of purpose.

Maybe that was just the way Jeremy looked at it.

After a bit, he grew quite bored of it and looked around the train. There were very few people aboard that day. In fact, the two others that were on it seemed to be staring at him. They were definitely staring at him, and he figured it out when he looked behind him and saw no one else.

It was an awkward moment, full of cold sweat that builds upon worry. The air grew stifling; even the motion of the train felt sickening when all of a sudden the two men burst into laughter—loud, hard, and unfettered, the gut-deep kind. He couldn’t resist it and began laughing with them; they doubled over laughing even harder.

“This guy…” sputtered one of them and the rest of his message got lost through gruff laughter.

They were both displeasing. One, with his cragged teeth and goblin nose, he was the uglier of the two. The other one, with his rounded teeth and crinkled face, kept trying to say something, but couldn’t get it out between great guffaws. Jeremy simply watched them in an odd sort of wonder. He had missed something, and it became apparent the moment one of them brandished a behemoth of a rifle like it was a trifling of a thing. The two men stilled their laughter, and the train seemed to be speeding faster than the usual.

“I, uh, think I got on the wrong train,” Jeremy said through ever increasing in a panic breath.

“Tim, look he’s getting those wild eyes.” The uglier said pointing at Jeremy with the heavy barreled weapon.

It looked as though he could fall into the barrel. It felt as if he was drawn into the depths of the dark hole of steel. The train sped faster. He thought he heard the two men saying something, maybe even yelling it when his vision dulled out, fading on the edges. He probably heard the bang, just before he felt thrown. Everything else stopped and went black.

Jeremy woke up. The floorboards rattled, the train passing by wracked his ears. It was time to get up. He could hear the rushing of the train, almost as if he could feel it. His apartment was that close. When he opened his eyes, his notions came crashing in, and he nearly went tumbling out. Half of the train was missing, the half with the two gun-wielding toads. He laid wedged between two seats with one foot hanging out over the crumpled edge of warped metal and wire.

He swore, and cried, and gave thanks for life, then declared he’d never swear again, and all sorts of things, the kind of things people swear when they could have nearly died. The train kept speeding on. Eventually, he gathered his wits. They had been flung throughout his mind, and it took some coercing, especially the get-into-action bit.

With a quick look, he found that the train was reduced to the shattered car he was in and the engine room. That was not a whole lot of a train left. He looked outside and stopped worrying about it. Magnificent trees dotted the landscape, giant as he’d never seen before. White-crested mountains loomed high above, casting a shadow over the green valley his limping train moved through. He looked down the train tracks—they were straight and true, crowded on both sides by more trees and a sea of grass. The tracks disappeared far off into the mountains.

He ran to the front car and pulled the red lever, assuming it was the brake. It was, and it was one engineered to stop a far more massive entourage of carriage cars. The braking of the train was short, abrupt, and painful; he peeled himself from another awkward position. Looking back, he probably could have stopped a bit easier, and he made a note of that. His aching arm and head was a good reminder.

He walked from the motionless and broken train. The last belches of the engine hung and drifted through the warm, humid air. It felt thick, as though he drank each breath. The smoke smelled and tasted offensively rank. With a jump, he landed on the tracks below; they cut a clean path through a green and forested valley. Ferns grew in great-leaved patches amid a sea of tall, thick grass, like a carpet full of life, bursting with a deep urge to grow, to reach as far and as close they could to the warmth of the treasured sunlight. Envied by the grass and the ferns, towering trees grew in patches here and there, and others grew lonesome in their stead, rebellious to the group.

Jeremy didn’t exactly know the great and varying types of trees, but he had never seen anything like these before. Their kind didn’t matter to him right now. It was something to distract him from the fact that he was suddenly in a place he didn’t know, on a train that seemed to have been blown, ripped, and severed in halves.

It was as if Reality found itself confused and tore a piece of his world to place it into another one.

When the question came crashing in, it wreaked havoc in his thoughts. Panic led to a twisted ankle. Cursing, he finally began accepting that he was where he was, wherever it was.

After a while, he got up and went scrounging what he could from the train. His coffee mug survived with some coffee in it, so it was all he had for he had no water and food. His phone was gone or must have fallen at some point. Sitting on the edge of the broken train, slowly drinking the last bits of his coffee, he wondered whether this was the last one he’d ever have.

The night came. It went from bouts and fits of tears to throws of anger. Self-pity and fear took over him. All his wits fled. The night passed. When he woke up in the morning, he felt sticky from sweat, tossing and turning. He was dreadfully ashamed of himself and quite happy that none had been there to witness the depths of his loss of hope.

With a fresh day’s thoughts, he had to decide on what he should do—go back down the tracks and leave the train to venture back. Something told him the tracks didn’t lead back to his home. Doing nothing made no sense either, so he decided to leave the train. At least he had his coffee mug for water if he found some; when he finds some for if he didn’t, the death of thirst would quickly come. His stomach was already churning on the coffee; he took a few quick steps back the way he had come.

He wasn’t willing to guess how far it was. It was far. Where the distance becomes a bit hazy, wavy and blends together, where the train tracks lose his focus, it already seemed far enough not to put a number on it. He put his head down and walked on. Until his legs burned, he kept on walking. At some point, he heard a babbling of water and found a river that ran shallow beneath the tall grass, through the grass. Then he realized that the whole of the valley was bursting with plant-life; a symphony of insect and bird calls and songs filled the air; he could almost feel the noise vibrant on his skin, it replenished the entire place.

Jeremy was used to the loud and raucous sounds of the city life. At first, he found this as a quiet place. Soon, new noises appeared, approaching overwhelmingly, deafening him. How could there be so much noise?! The quietness pressed in the other noises upon each other as if every chirp and call became nestled into this immense and nearly unheard song. He couldn’t help but listen to it. It drove him a little crazy, though it’s a bit understandable considering the situation and the state in which he was.

When the noise dimmed, or he became used to it, he was able to think again clearly, and he continued walking trying not to think of anything. Yet, the hunger grew slowly in the pit of his stomach, the throbbing ache—in his twisted ankle; he was slowly losing ground to the thirst…

A noise, unlike anything he’d ever heard before, struck the valley. It was piercing and cruel, and primal. It came crashing through the lowlands and echoed off the mountainsides. It carried with it fear, and a pang of hunger. It scourged and left the valley free of other noises. Where the song of a living field and forest had been, a heart-wrenching quietness settled in.

Fear froze his feet. Then, it grabbed and leeched the will to move from him. When it broke him from its grasp, he fell backward and began crawling into the tall grasses. The river paralleled the train tracks, and he found himself submerged quickly into it. Every move he made seemed like a crashing pot in a sleeping house, but he stopped only when he felt buried in a blanket of green grass and water.

No more than a few breaths after he had settled, a shadow fell upon his hiding place. He felt everything. The water was pressing in on his skin; the blades of grass— weaving themselves around and against him; the air upon his hairs seemed unwelcoming. He didn’t breathe, or blink, or move. A mass of crashing discharged onto what sounded like the tracks. He could almost see and feel the metal beams being crushed, warped, and broken.

A splash to his right erupted, crashing and roaring like a waterfall. It sent river water raining all around. A horrid noise broke the air. Jeremy didn’t know how to describe the noise, but it was painful, a noise that felt so terribly it was impossible to be described in the first place. Another wave of water followed. He watched as a large-scale creature was pulled from the shallows of the grass-filled river. The thing struggled and cried out in an eerie piercing wail. It cut short but echoed through the silence of the terrified valley.

His hiding place suddenly seemed far less of a safe haven, though that fear was dimmed by the behemoth of a creature, one he had yet to see. Crushing, and crunching, all the slathering, grotesque and consuming noises that accompany the act of an unknown thing eating another unknown thing filled the air. There was a sort of growl and great rush. The grass trembled and waved as if seeking to break free and flee. Jeremy waited.

He found himself done waiting only after the silence had returned, then faded, filled back in by the welcomed chatter of birds and buzzing of smaller critters. Then, he remembered more vividly the thing that had been pulled from the river, he rushed from the water. Dripping and full of a terrible assortment of fearful questions, he walked cautiously from the tall grass.

Where once the track had run, raised on a mound of grass and dirt, a furrowed and torn stretch of earth was laying instead. The metal was turned rust, all around it grew grass and small sprouts of varying plants. Where it was torn and upheaved, there was a layer of fresh green growth. As if whatever had landed here had spread alive flora. In the destruction of the railway, the thing had seeded the life of wood and forest.

An excellent swathing path led straight out in front of him. Only a few broken and missing patches of grass were left as evidence, and even the slow-moving river erased the path from sight.

What world was he in? Was he dreaming? Surely.

Oh, yes! The greatest terror struck Jeremy. The kind that breaks a man. It hit his heart, his will; it pounded, it raged; it left him blind for a moment; it was fear. He collapsed exhausted, convinced of his impending death at the jaws, or hands, or… he had already imagined a fantastic assortment of things!...

When he woke up, apparently not yet consumed by a beast or other horrors, his strength returned, both in body and will. What was he going to do? Lie down and die? “Nah,” he thought, he still had some fight left in him. It didn’t take long to gather himself and stand. The sun rose brightly from over the mountains in the direction he had been walking, where the broken tracks had been.

“Well…,” he said aloud.

It’s funny how fear affects a man. At first, it strikes and shocks as a reactionary; then, it fades slowly, until it becomes nearly forgotten. Nearly? Never really forgotten! So, here stood Jeremy, lamenting the decision on which way to go. Both directions felt fantastically full of peril and death. The railway was left as a child leaves a sandbox—tossed about, pushed around, and reworked like it was but a plaything.

He had come this far. He prided himself on that he never gives up. No matter what was before him, he would preserver until, until he finished or failed in such a way that none could say which was a failure—his effort or the task. Then, he would try again. He took a few steps over the new grass and shoots of growth. At the end of this track, where mountain met rail, he would find out where he’d be and go.

The day was one of those days. He swore that when he was done if he survived, he’d write the tale of that trip. Of his first steps in this world, where he had broken, his will and pride asunder. He had been left lying to die and walked on a new man. He was willing to learn the secret of the creature, how its touch was so alive while the terrors of its clutches would make the heart freeze. He knew he would at least try it, even when the other thing that had emerged from the river, like a monster from the children’s stories, a great terrible thing, made him look over his shoulder at the thought of it.

Jeremy stood there, clothes tattered, blood running from the gash in his side, leaving a slowly drying streak that ran to his foot; he breathed slowly, undoubtedly. He had lost his coffee cup, and was quite upset about it, mainly because a beautiful fresh spring was bubbling from a nook in the hillside. He had finally made it to the foot of the mountain. The train tracks lay to his left, uplifted by the earthen bed, and careening into the hills. He knelt at the spring and took long, grateful sips; he splashed the cold water on his face, washing away the grit and sweat and blood, some of which wasn’t his.

It was the end of the road. Here, the railway met the mountainside the same way his knowingness met his unknowingness. He imagined himself gesturing while he thought. He did. Arms out, wide and wondering in awe, fury, and scaredness. The tracks ended abruptly. They vanished at the first sign of rising land. Where the mountain grew, and the rail mound met and agreed on height, the tracks ended, and the endlessly high slopes of the hills began. They climbed high, disappearing into the white of the clouds above. Those clouds had hung around the peak of this mountain throughout the day. Perhaps, they were a permanent ornament.

He sat and leaned against a nearby tree, welcoming the chance for a rest. “What a day!” he thought again.

There he was, lying on the side of the mountain, still bleeding out from his side, placed in an unknown world, without a possible reason as to how or why. Not that that mattered now, anyway. Either all this was a weird, impossibly real and twisted dream, or it was real.

It was real. He knew it. The world knew it. His bleeding side knew it.

He lay there, and a crazed laugh took over him. Not realizing it until then, he had placed a lot on the hope that he would find a weird path home here, where an odd twist in track brought him to… Well, he hadn’t thought beyond that point until now, and this was probably the reason for enthusiastic laughter to find its way out of his breath.

“Oooh, gods!” He muttered.

He had his arm crossed over his eyes, and his head rested on the hard tree trunk. It felt nice merely being there, existing. Jeremy knew he had to decide what to do, not that there was much of a decision. It was apparent. He allowed himself a short sleep and rest. It deepened the tightness and soreness in his muscles, in every one of them.

It had taken him nearly half an hour to work the blood and movement back into his muscles and thoughts. The way back did manage to be less adventurous for him. Though, even in the brief time, the valley was surely and slowly erasing the railroad from itself. The river had cut through and eroded some patches of the steel path, forcing him to swim through terrifying waters full of grass and who knew what else. It was as though the valley was seeking the way to recover its natural form.

The train was in sight now. He had emerged from another swath of reworked waterways. A ripple in the water had sent him running, every nerve spiking and pricking his senses; he ran high-steps out of the river. His hunger had been forgotten, thirst left to the corners of his mind, seeing the train ahead… It symbolized a little bit of safety, sanity, a touch or reminder of home.

This place was pushing him to the edges of his nerves, laying it on. It was quickly growing over the railroad tracks, small vines and reaching tendrils grew over the steel beams, grass shoots and sprouts pervaded where dirt had been. He had a distinct feeling that in a few short days the whole place would be washed out into a mass of watered grass and patches of dryland that shifted. It felt nice to walk up to the train.

Along its edges, a hint of rust could be seen; maybe it was the humidity. It looked as though he had stopped on a solid piece of land. It held up to the washing river, as the water broke and moved around. The track beyond was in usable shape too, at least as much as he could see. The sun was nearing the setting boundary of the mountainside. Long shadows started to grow. Stretching and waking from the western edge of the valley, growing and threatening the coming darkness.

“Had it only been a day? Really?” He wondered as he climbed up into the broken train. Every time he wanted to think about what he would do when darkness closed in it slipped by like it was too slick to grasp. He took only a couple of steps and stopped short. Something felt... off. He hadn’t seen anything under or around the train as he walked up. He was sure for he had checked. He wouldn’t have made it very far if he hadn’t been cautious.

Inside the train car, he looked carefully around the torn half, the one where he had woken the last morning, speeding through this hidden valley. Only a few bench seats remained quite empty and harmless. Something tugged at his senses; it had already happened a couple of times. The first time, it saved his life, and the second time—he had encountered the massive creature of the valley, the grower of its life. Wherever it had gone, it left at first destruction, and only then—life. He called it The Keeper. It seemed fitting, it certainly kept something, and he felt like he should name it for some good reason. It also felt right.

Right now, something felt wrong.

A scrape pulled his attention. He ducked and turned, alert, ready. A whistling, whirring and a quick noise led to a sensation of pain that sprouted across the back of his head. A sharp white line crossed his vision before he fell. Fading and blackness caught him quicker than the nightfall, and while falling, he heard more scraping and shuffling.

He woke slowly; his head hurt fiercely, so he lay there, unmoving. The sounds thrummed through him. He barely managed to hear any. It was too painful even to comprehend. Tiredness washed over, and the noises faded further from understanding.

The next time he opened his eyes, he felt more clear-headed, though just as painful. It was then that he wished he had missed his work train, or tripped, or anything, something to have made him lose it. He wished he had looked up before he walked in. He was running through all the things he could have done differently when he heard some more hushed noises. Soft things played on the edge of his hearing…

A low crackling danced across the quietness that surrounded him. He felt warmth close by, and once he opened his eyes saw that night had fallen in. Nearby a fire glowed, sending shadows dancing around, they played tricks and jokes on his blurred vision. He felt sick and leaned dizzily, emptying his already barren stomach.

He heard voices.

They rose sharply when he moved, and he saw movement from the corner of his eyes. He looked up, leaving a small pile of bile on the ground beside him. A man with a raised staff and wide eyes stood over him. Soft light cast dark lines across his face, hiding some features and illuminating others. He had a cragged, stone-like look. He heard somebody shout a sharp and coarse word, and the man lowered his weapon, seemingly disappointed like he wanted to give Jeremy a good thwack. Jeremy, who had raised a hand over his head in reflex, lowered it slowly.

Jeremy sat up. This produced a sharp move from the man, who stopped himself this time, aware of the pitiful state in which the traveler was. The voice that had shouted earlier sounded like that of a woman. She stood from the fire, lit right on the floor of the train. She walked right over to him and knelt down close to his face, too close. He could taste her breath and feel it on his face; it was earthy and almost fresh. She looked at him in the eye; she was looking him all over—up and down, left and right. He felt so uncomfortable that he wanted to squirm. Maybe he did because she took a sharp inhale and stepped back.

The man stepped forward and jabbed Jeremy in the chest with his staff, sharply. He spoke roughly and quickly, emphasizing it with another pointed jab of his staff. Jeremy was really growing to dislike both the man and his stick.

“He…” Before he finished the word, the man smacked him sharp. The woman said nothing.

Deciding it was far healthier to remain quiet, and incredibly glad just to see another human being in this forsaken valley, he kept his tongue behind his teeth. An intense moment of silence installed itself. The other two walked off to the fire. They started talking in fast hushed voices. Jeremy slumped down. He must have fallen asleep because a frantic shaking awoke him. The man dragged him to his feet. At first, Jeremy struggled but the man’s strength was far beyond his.

It was still dark, but on the horizon, a faint light was growing. A familiar echoing silence dragged out. Then, he understood: he could feel it, the Keeper was near. Sloughing water pushed its sound through the quietness, it was slow, dreadful.

The three of them crept slowly, quietly. Fear was in Jeremy’s throat, it bit at his ankles with every step, and it pricked his ears with each breath. Out of the train and over the side, vines had grown up the side overnight and slowly consuming the man-made vehicle, dragging it from existence, rust spots grew in clouds. The trio moved away, into the grass, into the river. Tied amidst the grass was a thin raft, it floated gently atop the water. The man led. He had a thick black beard and long hair that hung loosely; he had a rough look and way about him. The woman was also dark-haired; her hairs hung long and loose and trailed behind her in the waist-high water.

From behind them, a crushing noise grew, like careful steps of a massive creature. Though he had seen it up close already, he hadn’t had a clear look. Jeremy slowed and turned around. A hasty whisper chased him. He looked and saw the woman intensively gesturing. Reluctantly he followed her. A roar, more of a deep sound, like a crashing boulder quickened his decision. No need to jump into death’s hands!

As he walked away, following the two who had at first attacked him, he heard the destruction of the train. Every sound pounding into his thoughts, how far from home he was. He wasn’t sure if it was a question or an observation. They climbed onto the raft, feet hanging in the river and floated off.

Few words were spoken in their quiet ride, none between Jeremy and the locals. He wandered in his thoughts, in his worries. He listened but couldn’t understand the few things they have said. The valley was vast, and they traveled for hours, the man led the raft this way and that, they passed through the endless sea of grass like a floating leaf. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever see true dryland when both the man and the woman slid off the raft, leaving him to fall off as it tilted off-weight.

The man laughed, the first bit of mirth Jeremy had heard from him.

“That was funny, huh? Glad to see you’re not all rock and dull wits.”

As if he could understand what Jeremy said, the man shot him a glaring look. Jeremy returned it. In the last days, he had survived death more times than any man ought to, he had about enough. The other sensed it and disappeared into the waving grass, following the woman who had walked on.

Jeremy was left there. After a moment, he quickly followed to catch up. The ground quickly rose, and he found himself walking up and out of the water. Dryland felt amazing, it felt solid, sure and he was as glad as he’d ever been to feel it beneath his feet. Maybe it was the air the other two had, or the air felt lighter, but either way, he felt easier here. Like, there was a sense of safety here. They climbed a small hill, free of bush and shrub. Short, strong grass held tightly to the ground.

They reached the top of the hill. He heard familiar noises rising and falling. Beyond the other side, settled out in a small bowl, as though the ground rose up to hold and shelter it, there was a village. No more than a dozen buildings made up the whole of it.

Again, he wondered where he was… would he ever find out?

The man and woman motioned for him to follow, they seemed a bit nervous. He would be too, he thought, bringing an unknown person, from god-knows-where, into his home. Suddenly he understood the man’s manner. He was an intruder, looking at their clothes it was all made from things of the valley; some of it was sewn scales from the massive fish of the river. He wore his dress shirt, though bloody and tattered, pleated pants… Now, he understood.

In the center of the town, a great fire pit sat, dozens of makeshift log-seats surrounded it. A couple of children ran about, and a few creatures roamed through town, they reminded him of sheep, though smaller and furry. The woman called out, heralding their approach; the children stopped their play and stared. A few adults were doing their work and put that down, too, to watch the newcomer.

The largest of the small buildings was near the fire pit, and Jeremy found himself being led there. It was quiet and tense. He was worried, who knew what customs these folks had, who knew what they’d do to or with him…

A figure emerged from the building. Wearing cloth, a tall man with white-frosted hair and an ornate staff, walked hauntingly toward him. Jeremy wasn’t short, but this man made him feel small, not that he towered over him, but the way he carried himself spoke, shouted authority. He was this town’s voice, Jeremy could tell.

The new figure walked up to the man and the woman. Jeremy had no clue what they said, but he was sure it had to do with his fate. He did his best to be patient. Eventually, the man broke off from the two that had knocked his senses away, then saved him, and walked to him.

He said something.

“I don’t know…” Jeremy struggled, how he was going to communicate…

“Ah, I see.” The words cut. How did this man know his language? He continued, seeming to understand Jeremy’s thoughts, “You aren’t the first to be brought here, pulled here…”

He walked away, and Jeremy followed.

“Where… are we?” He choked over the words, he could barely speak, overwhelmed with relief, both at finding something that resembled a society, and someone who understood him.

“Now, that is the question. One, I still don’t have an answer for. My name is Francis, and I’ve been here for decades now. Beyond these lands, outside of this valley, another world lives.” He led Jeremy through the town, passed the fire pit, and up the other side of the village.

They walked in silence. The man was letting the words settle in. When they reached the top of the next hill, he pointed out into the distance. The mountains seemed to come to a meet and broke off.

“There, that is the gateway, the pass out of this valley.”

“What is beyond it?” Jeremy asked.

“I don’t know, none of these folks have ever left, they live here, and this place is their home. It’s mine, too. There is only one way to pass through, and none have made it. None that I know. The task is…” He stopped.

“What?”

“Outside of this valley, the lands of Rangforne sit. To get there, you must pass by the will of the creature of this valley.”

“The Keeper…” Jeremy whispered, knowingly.

The man looked at him sharply. “Yes, that is what we call it. The Keeper of the Valley of Shaping.”

“What does that mean? The will of the Keeper?” He asked, sure he didn’t want to know the answer.

“I don’t know.” He said finally, “It is a primal being, almost as if it’s a force of nature.”

Francis went on to describe their way of life, what it would mean to live here among them, how he had found his place there. They talked about returning to their worlds and Francis’ failures in this. They talked through the night until Jeremy ran out of questions. At some point, after they had discussed their way into the evening after the sun had set and bedtimes called, Francis stood and went off to bed, leaving Jeremy to his thoughts. Nearly everyone else was asleep at this point, though, both the man and woman who had brought him here watched as he bid his farewell to Francis.

He sat there, on the edge of a town. The sun had fallen behind the mountains again, ending his second day in this place. What would he do? He couldn’t go back. What about his parents, his job, and friends? It’s one thing not to know, to go on thinking, “Hey, there’s a chance!” It’s a whole other thing to remember, with certainty, that there was no returning home.

Francis had offered him a bed, which he had declined; he’d rather sleep by the fire. Francis assured him it would be a beautiful night, “The rains come in a few days,” was his way of putting it. He spent the night in thought, if his mind was an instrument he plucked the cords, one always seemed to vibrate right on the edge of fear, a low hum that he couldn’t shake.

When the morning came, and it did slowly, sleep had been a hard thing to barter for that night. The whole town was up early, emerging from their woven river-grass and wooden houses, Jeremy watched as they woke. He had been up before sunrise. The couple who had brought him here walked off toward their raft, the man who had clubbed him offered him a new stare, one with less prick in it.

Francis was the last to rise. Jeremy waited, ready and decided. Oh, he missed home dreadfully, he cried and ached for a coffee, still irritated about the mug, his bed, all the comforts he’d never realized he had, now that he wasn’t at home. This town seemed too small for him, and he knew he’d never be comfortable here. Especially when looking daily at the place that had tied him to his home.

“How do I find the Keeper, when it’s not on the hunt for a meal? Won’t it just eat me, squash me? Do I run around waving and shouting? I imagine there are other things out there that wouldn’t mind me as a meal as well.” He positively vomited this onto Francis, who was not awake enough to be prepared for someone he’d just met, basically, tell him he was ready to run off and get himself killed.

Of course, Jeremy didn’t see it that way.

They talked briefly about coffee; Francis still remembered the delightful stuff, always dreamed of it, in fact. Eventually, though uncomfortable with it, maybe because he’d never mustered up the courage to try, he’d seen first-hand the raw strength of it.

“Alright, alright.” Francis finally caved.

All that Jeremy had to do, and it was simple, was to walk to the gap, the mountain pass. It was as though the nearness of it would draw the Keeper to him as it resonated with anyone that passed close enough. He took the day to rest, to enjoy the company of Francis who had once been a stockbroker. What a stark difference in lifestyle! They talked about women and the things they have lost. He learned the names of the two who had found him, and he saw his likeness of them grew as his head healed. They were town’s mappers. With shifting land, it was essential to know where the world moved to.

When the next day started, as the sun breached the mountain tops and cast its fresh light onto the night-chilled grasses, Jeremy stood with a small pack in hand; the town had made it for him. He walked toward the gap. It took him nearly half the day, but soon the gap loomed overhead, the massive mountains slopped downward, as though they had been cleaved at one point. He didn’t know, but behind him, two sets of eyes watched and followed every single step.

He was drawing closer, and soon he found his thoughts racing with what he would do to commune with the beast, a beast that could swallow him whole if it wanted.

As if his thoughts summoned the creature, the silence of its approach spread like the wind. Then he heard the crashing. Tremendous echoes shook the valley. He could hear each bound it made. It was racing, and he could see its approach from where he stood. Great splashes and thrown earth led its heedless flight. Every piece of him cried to run, to hide, to cower in a whimper and flee. The openness where he stood made him feel fragile and lost.

It was terrifying. The massive creature, The Keeper was huge, and to watch it run, bound across the valley shaking earth and mountain alike, was one of the most remarkable and frightful things he’d ever seen. What had taken him half a day to walk, half a days’ efforts and sweat, took the Keeper moments to cover. What if Francis was wrong, or had lied to him? It took every ounce of will to remain still. White-knuckled he held himself where he stood.

The Keeper bore down, now close enough he could see its features. It ran on all fours, though he knew it was just as comfortable on two legs. It was gigantic and scaled; its massive eyes were crowned with a spiked set of scales. Its color was first dark green, and then brown-green, then a lighter shade of green that hinted at yellow. As it ran, it flowed between colors.

Like a wave of the ocean, it arrived in a crest of momentum and came leaping to a halt, right before him. Its scaled chest heaved with each breath. It looked down on him, regarded him for a moment, as though trying to see him. The ground that was pushed aside sprouted new shoots of grass, or other growth even as the Keeper’s weight moved it.

Jeremy didn’t know what to do, he trembled, frozen. He had made a colossal mistake. He should have stayed in the village. He could have had an acceptable quality of life there. There would have been food and company and he could have learned to like it…

The Keeper lowered its head toward Jeremy. The sharp-pointed teeth were as large as his leg. He could feel its breath on him now; it was hot and wrapped around him like a deathly breeze. He closed his eyes. It was too much to look at.

He felt its breath fade, for a moment he rejoiced, briefly, and opened his eyes. It stood over him, all its attention focused, bearing down on Jeremy. He couldn’t take it. It reached out its enormous clawed hands; they looked like hands now, deadly grasping things. It grabbed him, tightly, as though not sure if it should keep squeezing. He saw the man and woman who had followed him, off in the distance he saw them hiding amidst the grass, wide-eyed and terror-stricken.

The keeper held Jeremy in its clutches. It looked upon him, it felt him, drove its presence, its being, into his. It seemed to exist within him; he felt as though his body was disintegrating, pulling apart, reshaping. He felt his mind tear and cry and tremble at the newfound presence. He felt on the edge of destruction, held together by the grasp of life— if anything slipped it could all unravel.

A voice or what could only be described as one, something that bloomed in his thoughts. It didn’t grow or form in the realm of words. It shaped itself as a growing spring does.

“Zohar Raine.” It was Jeremy that spoke.

It echoed deep, resonating through his being. He didn’t understand, what was “Zohar Raine”? Again, the understanding resounded through him. Like the sound was drawn out of him, as it burst from the feeling, the vision that was pressed on him.

He felt a burning. It was slow, thick, throbbing, it grew and spread and seemed delighted to consume him. Fear loosed itself onto Jeremy, a spiteful black thing. It threw itself into the spreading feeling, Jeremy felt himself torn between a raging fight. It was a battle, one as black as death.

The Keeper was deciding, choosing whether Jeremy would live, or perish and become a piece of the valley, offered to it, erased into its future.

Jeremy felt helpless. At first, the consuming burn had not been terrifying, it had appeared so welcoming, a warm burn, not hot, searing destroying. Would he ever see his home again?

The thought sparked life into the dark cloud of doubt. It blew flames into his sundering. He felt tearing, breaking as if bits of the time were being ripped apart within. He felt the billowing warmth fall before the sharp blackness.

“To live, to shape this world, to herald the thing needed, you must die, Jeremy.”

He felt everything pulsate. His mind filled. His body trembled to the edge of bursting. He hung there, suspended into the eternity. Then, in a sweeping of understanding, he knew, he wasn’t from this world. He didn’t belong to it, and he could not live there. The Keeper’s great clawed hands closed tighter around him, he felt a rushing of sensations, every fiber of his body stretched.

Jeremy let his fear go.

“I am Zohar Raine.”

The words dripped from his mouth. He felt as though the very sound bled life. As though, the saying of it defended his life. He felt himself focus, emerge, solidify. Jeremy was still the one who thought and looked out, and felt. Yet, it was Zohar Raine, a man born of the Valley of Shaping, who stood reshaped before the Keeper.

There, he knew that it was his letting go, he was resolving to never return to his home, to the world he once knew, and that was the black thing of his entire fear. Had he held it, the Keeper would have destroyed him for it couldn’t accept something or someone into this world without belonging to it or deciding to belong to it. Notably, one who would hold such sway. Yes, definitely, he would have only wrought destruction.

Zohar Raine took his first steps toward the gap, toward Rangforne and his destiny. Two locals of The Valley of Shaping watched in awe while the man they once knew as Jeremy walked away, transformed.

The tales of Zohar Raine were born. Not a single man before had walked away from the grasps of the Keeper. Word spread like a storm, a deluge.

The End

Deep Editorial Session
Provided by @MaresPW
[email protected]
@me422us
6 June 2018

Thank you for reading. Each small story I write, is a piece to the world that grows, Rangforne. Your attention, comments, just the act of reading through this, is greatly appreciated. These short stories, are brief glimpses of the world to come. Come along, there are stories afoot, tales to tell and wonder to behold. Terrors and those that would face them, and the journey it takes to get there.

Welcome to my small corner of the world. Pull up a seat, we have boundless room. Here at Catylist Inn there is room for all.

You are helping me in the journey of my story, it is just beginning. These tales will paint the world I write in just a little more. I am indebted to you my audience, I write for myself, to grow. For you, my readers. For purpose, life. Thank you. Follow more stories @writerofage Rangforne awaits…

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