I’ve had a lot of things going on over the last week. More about them later, but it means that I’ve not had time to write my usual Thursday post.
Instead, here’s a short story from a while ago, originally published on Medium.
This story was written in response to an original prompt posted by Chantelle Atkins
It was free-written in about an hour and tidied up when I’d finished.
“Come in and sit down, Mr Francis.”
I picked up my fishing rod case and followed the man to his office, a comfortable book-lined study with a large desk and two worn leather armchairs.
“What can I do for you?” he asked when I was seated.
My stomach churned; this was going to be difficult.
“I don’t know how to begin,” I said, “What I’m going to tell you is impossible, yet it happened. I’m worried that you won’t believe me. That’s why I haven’t told anyone else. I’m sure that they would all think I was mad.”
“Is that why you’ve come to see a psychiatrist? Because you think other people will think you’re mad?”
“I suppose it is. Also, I didn’t know who else to talk to.”
“You’d better tell me the whole story,” he said. “Then I can make up my mind.”
“I’m a wild camper,” I began. “I love getting out in nature, sleeping under the stars and exploring the countryside. I also like visiting ruined castles. I love the idea of sleeping close to the places where history happened.”
“OK, it sounds normal so far.” He was scribbling notes on a pad as I spoke. He wasn’t looking at what he was writing. Instead, he held my gaze. I found it unnerving.
“I was in Wales, looking at a few ruins. I wanted to see Ewloe, Hopton, Cardochan and Aberlleiniog. They were the main ones on my list; there were a few others. Then I found one I wasn’t expecting, in some woods.”
“And where was that?”
“Never mind where,” I said. “It’s gone now.”
He looked interested. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. I was walking through woodland, near Dolbadarn Castle at Llanberis. I was looking for a place to pitch camp for the night when I found a wall. It was barely visible, just a low line of overgrown stones. But as I followed it, I realised that it was man-made and had been part of a larger structure.”
“I’ve heard there are ruins all over Wales and the borders.”
“There are. The area has a wild history. I’ve found some interesting ones on my travels. Like I said, this one wasn’t on my map. Anyway, I found a small patch of open ground by a place where the direction of the wall changed and settled down for the night. I laid out my camp, made myself a hot drink and watched the sunset through the trees. I must have fallen asleep. I was woken by a noise.”
“Wildlife?” he suggested.
“No, it was horses, several of them. I heard the sound of their hooves, felt the vibration in the ground. There was the clink of metal from their harness. That wasn’t the strangest thing, though.”
“Go on,” his pencil scratched on the paper.
“The wall, it wasn’t ruined anymore. It stretched away on both sides, tall and imposing. It must have been part of a castle. And the trees, they were thinner and in a different pattern.”
I saw his eyebrows raise a fraction. “And what could you see?”
“The horses were big, like shire or farming horses. They were covered in armour. They were ridden by men in armour. It was like something from a movie. I saw a band of armoured men on foot, too. I guess there were about twenty of them. They stopped at the gate and hammered on it. There was a pause, and it opened. I saw them all go into the castle. Like they were expected. Then there was a lot of shouting in a language I couldn’t understand. Followed by the sounds of metal crashing together. It sounded like quite a battle was taking place, on the other side of the wall, not twenty feet from where I was standing.”
“Really,” he muttered. The pencil stopped, poised.
“There were people screaming. I felt like I wasn’t really there. How could I be? Like I was an observer, not actually present, if you know what I mean. Almost like I was watching a memory.”
I realised that I was babbling. His expression never changed, although the pencil was going faster now. “What did you do?” he asked.
“I watched for a while. Suddenly, a few women and children ran through the gates and headed for the trees. They were pursued by the horsemen, slashing at them with swords. People above me were firing arrows at the horsemen. I saw some of them bounce off the plate armour; others got through. Some of the horses and the men fell.”
“It sounds terrifying,” he said. “What did you do?”
“I panicked. I didn’t feel safe where I was, out in the open. I got up and ran back into the trees. I was going to move around and try to find a safer place to watch what was going on. And that was when the archers must have seen me.”
“I thought you said it felt like you weren’t really there?” he said.
“That had changed. I could smell the blood, like rusty iron. I don’t know how, but it gradually felt more real. I can’t explain it. I was hoping that you could.”
“I see,” he said. “Go on.”
“The next thing I knew, an arrow thudded into the tree I was standing beside. It scared me, I turned and ran. There were more arrows, the scariest thing is the sound they make, like a soft whistle. Anyway, they all missed me, then I tripped over a root and knocked myself out.”
“And when you woke up, were things back to normal?”
Yes, at least I guess they were. The castle and all the people had gone. I was alive, the arrows had all missed me. There was a lump on my head, where I had struck something as I fell.”
I pulled back my fringe and showed him the bruise, black and fading.
“Well, there you are,” he said. He’d stopped writing and sat back, still looking straight at me. “I think we can say that it was just a vivid dream. You must have got up in the night and fallen over, maybe you were sleepwalking. I expect the dream happened after the fall, your mind has got the order wrong. It happens.”
His face bore a ‘why are you wasting my time’ expression.
I sighed. “I knew that’s what you’d say, it’s the logical explanation. That’s what I thought, at first, and I wouldn’t have come to see you, except for two things.”
“What things?” he looked mildly irritated. As if I had insulted him by not believing his theory. ‘Let’s see what you say next’, I thought.
“When I woke, I wasn’t at the wall, where all my gear was. Or anywhere near it. I had to search for ages, in the dark. When I found my campsite, there was no trace of a wall. The stones I’d originally seen had gone. When I got to it, my pack was in the same place, everything in the camp was laid out as I had left it.”
“That’s interesting. Have you done any research about the ruins? Can you find a name or any mention of it?”
“I asked around locally, but nobody wanted to talk to me. As soon as I mentioned the subject, they shut up. I have the feeling that it’s a story they don’t want to be told, for some reason. I’ve searched online, there’s nothing.”
“I suppose there might be a local legend,” he said. “What was the other thing?”
I opened my rod case and produced the arrow. I’d picked it up from the ground, near where I’d finally found my camp. Just over two feet long, the ash shaft and goose feathers were clean. I showed it to him. The head was bright and shiny. The edge and barbs were wickedly sharp. It looked as if it had been forged and assembled yesterday.
“This,” I said.
Then I waited for his response.
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