Mist Mad Part 3

The final installment of Lyas’s story.  Follow the links for parts 2 and 3.

 

“Mist Mad”

Before day break the next morning, I climbed out of bed.  Shivering in the dewy dark, I threw on breeches and a shirt.  Ugly dreams had plagued me through the night, and in the wee hours, I had made a decision.

On tiptoes, I slipped out of the house.

I fed and watered the chickens and goats, milked the nannies and built up the fire in the barn stove.  I took a few swallows of warm milk to settle my stomach.  Freed from chores, and with the memory of the fire crackling, I ran back to the beach.

The Mist Mad lay trapped in a makeshift fence, wooden stakes hammered deep into the pebbled ground.  Its free hand lay by its head.  Face turned to the side, its eyes watched me.  With a shudder, I ran to a nearby cache of trees, and went to work.

I dragged branches to a dry hillock overlooking the ocean.  Half the morning I worked.  Afraid to go in for breakfast, I fed myself on discarded apples from the village orchard.

By midmorning, I’d built a serviceable pyre.  Heart hammering against my ribs, I made my way down to the beach.

With a coil of rope slung over my shoulder, I imagined myself a sailor.  Just going about my everyday chores, no fear or hesitation.

While I worked, the creature moved.  It lay belly down, closer to the edge of its cage, the green gray face pressed into the rocks.  As I drew closer, the head shifted.  It gasped, like a fish pulled from water.

I tied the end of my rope to the creature’s ankles, coiled the other end over my shoulder, and began to pull.

The body fought me.  It twisted and writhed, determined to break free from my rope.  Its free hand clawed at the rocks.  I slipped and stumbled often.  Bruises and scrapes mottled my shins.  Between the clatter of the rocks and my own exertions, it took me a while to notice the singing.

The Mist Mad hummed a quiet song.  Sad, and painfully beautiful.

The familiar melody pressing against my memory.  A sailor’s song, of the rolling sea, storms and ships.  Of loving the ocean, but missing home.  A song my Dad had once sung me.

Sweat poured down my back, and the heat from the sun steamed it away.  I reached my pyre just before noon.  Mama would holler soon, for me to come for lunch.

With a grunt, I hauled the legs up on top of the wood.  Then I lifted the shoulders.  The head flopped to the side, and the flat gray eyes found me.

I stiffened.  Fear and pain.  Life shown from those eyes, for just a moment.  A vague smile bowed lips gone black.

I struck my fire starter.  Once … twice … the third time, the spark caught the kindling.  I fed it, blew on it, willed it to burn.  The bigger branches caught and the flames swallowed them up hungrily.

“Lyas!  Lyas, lunch time.  You’ve chores to do, young man.”

I turned to go, but a sound stopped me.  A thin, cackling laugh.

“Lyas.  Lyas, you’ve chores to do.”  The creature spoke in a reedy voice.  “You’ve done quite a bit already.”

I faced the body again, though rising flames obscured my view.  The wet clothes smoldered in the fire.  Thick, black smoke clogged the air.  Through the wavering orange and yellow tendrils of flame, I spotted the face.  The black smile, and dead eyes.  The lips moved.  “So warm.” 

The stink of burning flesh stung my nose.  Smoke billowed into the sky.  The creature’s skin bubbled, blackened and peeled.

It still smiled.  “I think I will leave this one.  Perhaps I shall see you again, Lyas.”  The body stiffened then went limp.

Then screamed.

I jumped back, then stood frozen in horror.

A wrenching, horrible wail, like no sound I’d ever heard.  The sailor failed on the pyre, sending plumes of ash flying.  His eyes, sightless and wild with pain and fear caught mine.  He did not see me.  But I would forever see him.

In all, it was likely only one minute.  But each agonizing second dragged on like an eternity.

“Lyas.  Lyas, what in the Devil’s Claw are you doing.”  Strong hands grabbed me up, pulled me away from the fire.  Marten took in my raw hands.  He stared for a moment at the pyre, then held me tight against his chest.  He said nothing.  He offered no words of comfort.  None would have comforted me.

When others learned what I did and the result, they grew quiet, and stared at me.  An elder at the village tavern, a long retired sailor, tried to ease my mind.

“Twas a trick, boy.  The Mist is clever and cruel.  It mimicked the sailor’s voice to frighten you.”

I did not believe him.  I had met the sailor’s eyes.  It was him.  But at least I knew I’d saved him from weeks if not months of misery.

It helped, knowing what I had done, when I thought about my Dad.  Wondered if the Mist held him, still alive, deep beneath the sea.

****

Hope you enjoyed this glimpse in the world of Everwood.  Cheers