Opening Scene of The Nightmare Hunters, by AP Matt [Suggested Listening: Dream On, by Aerosmith] 1376 A.D. A man named Rene, A small farming community outside Carcassonne, France Run. Rene did not run for his life. He knew his life would be over soon. He ran, instead, for his book first and for his family second. If they found the one and only copy of his book, nothing else would matter. If Rene could somehow preserve his manuscript, if he could keep the truth alive, then his family might just have a chance to set things right. He left his workshop and didn’t bother latching the door behind him. The last conversation he had with his wife danced through his mind as he ran. “I cannot explain.” Rene sobbed to his wife. “Take the children. Take this wagon to Paris.” “Will you meet us there?” She asked, her hands shaking and her lips quivering. “I…” Rene’s voice caught in his throat. He knew he wouldn’t meet her there; he wouldn’t even see the dawn of the next day. Instead, he just nodded and forced a smile. That was nearly two hours ago. The village was close on his heels now. Don’t stop. Run. Cries of hatred and fear echoed behind him. The mob was drawing closer. The fact that he escaped from them once was a miracle and it allowed him enough time to try and hide his work. He could hear them – Oh, God above – he could hear them roaring and chanting their protests. Friends, neighbors, family… How quickly they had turned on him. He had tried to speak to them and they listened – they did. They listened to every forsaken word of it and grew more and more terrified by the second. It was true, Rene had sobbed to them. It was the truth, God’s honest truth. As if it were a swaddled, crying child, he cradled the book as he ran – nothing more than a bundle of ragged-edged papers of irregular sizes. It was not protected in thick leather or ornately decorated as it deserved to be. He had wrapped it all in a dirty cloth, cloaking his parchment baby as he fled from his workshop. Run, run… faster… Where could he hide it? Where could he ensure its safety? He paused and drew the bundle of pages close to his heaving, damp chest. Rene knew of only one place that could possibly save his work from this frenzied, God-fearing mob. The church. If they weren’t going to kill him for writing this blasphemy in the first place, they certainly would for bringing it inside the holiest of places. Rene had worked with the other laborers to help rebuild the Church and strengthen its exterior against further disrepair. It had sustained war damage and the community refused to let it become so abused in the future. Rene had been laying brick and stone down in the grand, fortified church for over a decade now. He knew all the hidden cubbies and alcoves in that place. The mob would tear apart his house, his workshop and probably torture his wife and children and any loyal friends to find the book, but they would never desecrate the cathedral looking for it. God, please… do not let them find this… Rene churned his failing legs as he lurched uphill. The mud from the rain the night before made the path slippery and dangerous. His boots were slick in the soft earth and he careened to the left and right trying to keep his balance. There was a small log house with a thatch roof along this path to the cathedral. He knew the family there but dared not stop to rest. A young boy, nearly a man, was outside at the rear of the house, closing the door of the hen-house. Rene tried not to call out at the sight of a familiar face. Rene’s foot sank deep into the mud. At the speed he was running he could not pull it out in time. He fell forward and felt his ankle pop, his whole foot flooding with pain. Rene cried out at the pain – and at the sight of his book flying forward, the dirty cloth unfurling in the wind. The pages scattered forward, gliding and fanning out across the damp ground. No. No, not now. Pull yourself up. He clutched his leg at the knee and pulled with all his might. The pain was unbearable as his foot slid free of the mud with a sucking sound. His boot was gone, lost beneath the ground. Rene ground his teeth, his eyes growing wide and round with intensity. He hopped up onto his good leg, trying to bear weight on his swollen ankle. With a frenzied, whirling motion, Rene scooped up his papers. Some were soaked and brown with old rainwater but most of them were safe. He didn’t bother trying to snatch up the cloth. “Monsieur?” The boy called out to Rene. He paid the child no mind; he had to hide the book. “Boy!” Rene called out as he stumbled through the mud up to the castle. “Get inside, do not look upon my face.” “Monsieur!” the boy shouted after him, holding up the muddy cloth. “You forgot this! Monsieur!” The boy let his arm fall beside him, the cloth flapping like a wing. A single, small page of parchment slid out of the soggy cloth. The young boy cocked his head to the side when he noticed it. He reached down and clasped his tiny fingers around the tattered, dripping edges. Rene churned forward through the mud. He did not know that a piece of his book had been lost. The page had a sketch on it, one that the boy did not understand. The image showed a cruel-looking man with two horns on his head kneeling beside the corpse of a woman. A winged angel with a fiery halo was about to drive a spear into the back of the horned man. The boy’s hands began to tremble and his breathing quickened. The Devil… When the horsemen returned to town, they had Rene in tow. His head was bloody and lolling to the sides. He was barely conscious. They did not find the book. Rene could barely hear the din of the crowd over the ringing in his ears. His fate was waiting in the town square before him. Through the noise and the chaos and the screaming, he could hear one thing that chilled his blood; he could hear them piling the wood high. Rene was thrust against the tall pillar of wood – a roughly hewn pine log. They threw him against it with such force that the back of his head smashed into the stake. It blurred his vision and ringing filled his ears once again. The people were angry and scared and shouting. Rene knew it could only end one way. There were torches everywhere and he wondered for a moment which one would step forward to light the blaze. Rene searched the faces of his townsfolk. Someone was tugging his arms behind him and fastening his hands around the wooden stake. His shoulders cramped and he felt uncomfortable in that position; Rene then thought of how silly that notion was, given his imminent situation. He looked at the angry mob. He saw no compassion, just contempt. The baker’s wife spat at him and even his fellow stonemasons gripped the handles of their hammers as if they gripped Rene’s throat. Blinking, flickering flames of orange hatred stared at him from the tops of torches. He had done nothing wrong. He just facilitated the truth – a hidden truth that would remain hidden for hundreds of years. Rene was scanning the faces of his friends and neighbors when the heat hit him from behind. It was starting. He hadn’t heard the crackling or seen the orange glow bloom into life… but he could certainly feel the flames inching closer to him. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to scream. She wouldn’t have wanted that. The flames licked at his fingertips. Rene’s eyes snapped open and the breath caught in his throat. This would be much, much slower than he’d want it to be. Already, his resolve was breaking. He looked around the crowd, searched, his eyes pleading and the words stuck on his tongue. Surely someone would offer him mercy at the last moment… Please, Lord, this cannot be the end. I cannot let the truth die with me. Do not let my children forget my sacrifice. Do not let my book be forgotten. He strained to see, but Rene couldn’t see through the smoke. He needed to see them. Suddenly, a panic grew inside him. He needed to know if someone would step forward. He needed to see the face of his rescuer. The hot, dry smoke was too much. He coughed and tears welled up in his eyes. The smoke might do him in before the fire. These poor men and women were not to blame. They could not be held accountable for not knowing that which has been hidden from them. Please, show these men the errors of their ways. Lord above, please let them find my book before it is too late, find it under favorable circumstances. Let them– A rush of cold air hit his face. The wind picked up and blew the smoke from his eyes. It was nice, if only for a moment. He looked out one last time at the angry crowd. They were shouting, but he couldn’t hear. They were all silent to him – and there, standing amongst them was his black-masked phantom. No… not you… anything but you… The phantom regarded him with pity and silent, motionless inaction. Of course it wouldn’t help him… even if it wanted to, how could it? Rene wept now – not from the stinging of the smoke or from the jagged pain at his hands and arms and feet and legs, but from his failure. He was so close to ending it all – all the pain and suffering that would happen now… he couldn’t bear the thought. The phantom stood with a cold, remorseless stare. If the thing had had a face, it would be quivering with incredulous rage… but it didn’t have one. Not anymore. Rene felt that he was to blame for that, too. Pain. His skin was stretching against itself and turning brittle and dry. Every part of his flesh was screaming inside his brain. The phantom stared coldly, as if trying to remind him of something. The flames were becoming unbearable. Still, something deeper nagged at his mind, hotter than the flames and more painful than the ripping flesh. Rene trembled, suddenly remembering what he’d forgotten. Fear overcame him. Oh. No… it is too well hidden… He didn’t get a chance to tell anyone where the book was hidden away. How long would it last in there, before turning to dust? How long would it be before anyone removes that one cobblestone at the altar and sees it underneath? Rene thought of this and hoped that the end would come quickly – not the end to his own life, but the end of the world’s precarious perch above an abyss of ignorance. They had to be warned. They had to be told the truth. “I tried…” he whispered. They were his final words and no one could hear. He meant it with all his heart, but those words alone would never be enough. Orange tongues of pain rose up into his field of vision. The hair that had once hung wet in his face had now dried quickly and curled into white ash. The last thing he saw was the hooded phantom and its strange mask… empty sockets and mouthless… two white diamonds on its cheeks… The flames took their time with him.
Posted on: Sat, 29 Nov 2014 03:11:42 +0000
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