The Dark Rider (Fading Light)

by Andrew Critchell

  He was standing in a natural clearing on a slight rise. In front of him stood a roundhouse, wooden framed with sides made from mud and dung, its circular roof thatched with straw. Relief and an urgent gnawing mingled in his stomach. He entered, ducking down through the low doorway. Inside the glow from a dying fire gave the room a faint hazy half light, and warmth still pervaded the air. On the floor on the far side, half in shadow, a young woman lay asleep beneath animal skins. He ran and knelt beside her, his heart filled with infatuated love, his eyes remembering her face, her golden brown hair curled around her shoulders, her bare slender arms resting above the skins, and he reached out, touching her shoulder.

  Her skin was smooth and cool to his touch and he allowed his hand to run down her arm feeling the gentle curve of muscle and tissue. He leaned forward to kiss her, gently resting his lips on hers, his heart racing. He pulled away, and as he did so her eyes opened, intense, deep blue eyes that looked up at him and pulled him into her. He put his fingers to his lips for her to be quiet, although she knew why he had come.

  He beckoned for her to get up and she rose quickly, pulling on warm clothing. He turned and stepped outside, ducking down under the doorway. As before, he was dressed in armour and in front of him stood a war-horse, a great dark coloured beast with his shield and broadsword strapped to its back, the golden dragons that decorated them glowing in the last gasps of the dusk.

  In his mind he could sense them coming, a mass of dark power intent on violence and revenge. They were already close and Paul knew he was running out of time. Soon a great thundering of hoofs trembled across the land and then, softly at first, as if masking the purpose behind them, he heard their cries, the shouts of men and beasts. Quickly he helped her onto the horse and then jumped up to sit behind her, acknowledging the fear in her eyes and burying his own. He grabbed the reins and urged the horse on, the beast threading them quickly through the thick mass of trees.

  Soon they broke out of the forest and into open farmland and he urged the horse on. In moments they were away, galloping hard across the land, faster and faster until they were no longer on the land but in the sky. They galloped through the last light of the heavens, great swathes of crimson cloud boiling up behind them to drain the land into darkness.

  Nicola knew she did not love Stefan.

  She had hidden it under excuses and pretended to be busy. Too busy to think. Too busy to see. Buried under everyday life. Everyone had a boyfriend or a girlfriend and her boyfriend was Stefan. They would wake in the morning, both rushing around and out of the house in forty five minutes. A busy day spent at work, phone ringing, emails flashing, things always to do, never finished. Five o’clock came. Many times six or seven before she left the office. Forty five minutes on the tube. Straight in and to the kitchen to start dinner. By nine o’clock they would sit in front of the TV both half asleep and then go to bed to start all over again the next day.

  At the weekend they would rush around doing jobs, getting the shopping, cleaning the house, washing and ironing, DIY. Out Saturday night with their friends. Sleep the hangover off Sunday morning while Stefan went off to play football. Sunday afternoon they would visit her parents. Sunday night fall asleep in front of the TV again and then bed.

  Nicola realised she had just described the last year of her life in two paragraphs. Was this how every year would now pass, just rushing around without fulfilment? Was this all she had to look forward to? Work, marriage, kids, old age and death? Was there nothing for her? Nothing of her? Suddenly Nicola felt a sick knotted feeling in the pit of her stomach, a rising panic about life where her life was going.

  They were lying on the beach at the bottom of the cliffs under the hotel. Apart from a family of four they were the only ones there. It was nice to lie back with the sun strong and warm on her face and the sea murmuring in the background while listening to the children shouting with delight as they played in the waves. Stefan was asleep. Nicola could hear his heavy, rhythmic breathing. She had been dropping off when her mind started to race and thoughts had begun to cascade through her brain, one after another until they fell over themselves in the crush to get into her consciousness. She had felt the panic then, rising up from her stomach as her thoughts whirled until she was wide awake. She sat up and looked out across the beach to the sea, its wide open horizon desolate and empty and beautiful. Empty of people and of human society, wild and unbounded.

  Nicola recalled her time at university where she had studied environmental politics. How easy it had been then to rebel from mainstream society. To go to anti-roads protests, to feel anger against the destruction of nature in the name of greed and power, to see the futility of modern life and to believe there would be an escape. And yet all the time the stability of her little world was maintained by her parent’s financial support, a product of the very world she argued against. And suddenly, after three short years, her degree ended. The philosophy ended. The long pro-environmental, anti-mainstream arguments ended. The belief that she was different, that she would change things and live differently had ended. It was as if she was too scared of the life she could lead if she only stood up for what she believed in.

  Instead she had run back to her parents and their home near London, and once there could not maintain the force of her beliefs away from the influences of the other students and teachers. In the world she returned too, it soon lost meaning and because of this she felt a fake. She did look for an environmental job but in her heart of hearts she did not believe she would succeed. Vacancies were few and far between, competition was fierce and the pay unrealistic. She never received a response to the applications she did put in and had to begin temping in a bank to bring in some money. Weeks became months with no success with the kind of job she wanted.

  And then it had happened. She was offered a permanent position in a bank, the nearest she had come to a permanent job in ten months and so, with reality rearing its head, she took it with a heavy heart. This sat in her subconscious, the constant daily reminder that all her visions and dreams from university, of working and saving the environment, were slowly being buried. In reality she was working for a large corporate bank on a computer, shuffling paper and counting numbers while her life began to slip quietly through her fingers, a life that, by consent, supported the very economic model that was destroying the world. Deep down Nicola knew she hated herself. Hated herself for not standing up to life and taking what she wanted. So she sat on the tube trying not to stare at the people her parent’s age. The ones who looked tired and defeated, their eyes empty and deadened because they had given up. They had not taken their chances and now were burying their dreams and waiting to die and she could see it. She could see the desperation and fear a hairs-breadth below the surface. She found she could never look at these people for she knew she was looking at herself in twenty years time, and it scared her and this feeling never left her and gave her a deep unhappiness that she hid from the world under a thin veneer of happiness.

  And then she had met Stefan. He had started working for the bank over a year ago. He was from Germany and had come to London to experience the bright lights and big city in another country. They had got on very well together and started seeing each other. He was different and had an air of mystery around him that attracted her. He lived in a flat in West London and within two months she had moved in, surprising herself at the speed at which things had happened, and for a year the pain was gone. She accepted the mainstream way of life and all the time convinced herself that this life would make up for the lonely emptiness she felt inside. For the spiritual deadening that was slowly happening to her, and suddenly she knew it had all been a lie. Stefan did not hold her answers. They could only come from within her. Despite everything Stefan was still part of the mainstream, part of an empty, bitter and futile existence. She wanted to break free from the shackles of working in a job she hated. She wanted to really experience life, to see nature and wildness, to share the raw pulse of life with the animals
that lived it every second of their existence, for her soul craved only beauty such as this. But what would happen to her? When their holiday ended in nine days’ time what would she do? What choices did she really have?

  She would have to end her relationship with Stefan. Nicola was momentarily surprised at the coldness of her feelings towards someone with whom she had shared a year of her life but she did not care for she could not change the truth. She looked down at him, sleeping peacefully on the beach unknowing of what was to come. Or perhaps he did know. Perhaps they both knew underneath that they had been living a lie but had not had the courage to face up to it.

  Nicola shivered despite the warmth of the sun. Why did her thoughts always take her to places she did not want to go? She lay back down again trying to think of what she would say, of what she would do, while a part of her listened to the children playing in the waves wishing that they were hers.

  Paul watched from the top of the steps to Aunt Gwen’s house as the car parked at the far end of the alleyway. After what seemed an age the driver’s door swung open and his father stepped out rubbing his neck and stretching tired muscles. Paul could see his sister’s silhouette in the passenger seat. She was sitting motionless, her face staring straight ahead. His dad walked around the car and opened her door. After a long pause she swung her legs round and stepped out, her eyes masked by sunglasses. Paul’s dad turned and saw him standing there and half raised his arm in an awkward wave. Paul returned the gesture.

  The two walked along the alleyway towards him, his father over six feet tall but somehow shorter, rounded shoulders slumping forward, his head always looking down from the top of his slowly shortening frame. Beside him his sister was almost as tall for she held herself rigidly upright. She was thin, blue jeans tight against her legs like rulers. She wore a high sleeved t-shirt that showed thin, bony arms with muscle that was lessoned from lack of any substantial use. Paul always thought she looked like she would break at the slightest touch.

  The pair reached the bottom of the steps and climbed up to meet him, his dad coming up first. He hugged Paul tightly and then broke away. Alex followed, taking her sunglasses off as she came level with Paul, her red rimmed eyes meeting his. They stood apart for a moment, like two statues, and then she took his hand in hers and squeezed it hard.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered and then was past him. Taking a deep breath he turned and followed them into the house. They congregated in the living room, Paul’s dad standing by the window with his hands in the pockets of his jeans looking out at the garden. Alex sat on the sofa staring at the grandfather clock.

  ‘How was the drive?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Crap,’ his dad replied. ‘The M25 was hell and we crawled along half the 303.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Paul.

  His dad grimaced.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Paul said and then turned and went out into the kitchen. Standing quickly, Alex followed him in and they stood alone. Paul took the kettle from the sideboard and began filling it up at the sink.

  ‘So you’re still convinced then?’ said Alex watching him as she leaned against the kitchen door.

  ‘Look, just what is your problem?’ asked Paul thumping the kettle back onto its base and turning round to face her.

  She held his gaze for a moment and then looked away. Next to him the kettle hummed into life.

  ‘Dads my problem,’ Alex replied. She opened the top half of the back door letting in the evening air. The strong scent of honeysuckle fell lightly into the room. She looked out at the flowers, their colours hazy and subdued in the half-light.

  ‘He worries about you, then feels guilty that sometimes he wishes mum was still here and you weren’t.’

  ‘God, you can be a hateful cow sometimes,’ said Paul.

  ‘And you can be a selfish little idiot,’ Alex snapped back. ‘When are you going to stop believing in this ridiculous fantasy and get a life?

  ‘It is not a fantasy,’ replied Paul vehemently. ‘Everything she said would happen so far has happened.’

  ‘Then how come were down here having a funeral. I thought you said there was no body?’

  ‘She arranged it all Alex.’

  ‘Oh Paul, don’t you see? You’re living as if you’re ten years old and believe in fairies. It’s getting us all down and I have to pick up the pieces. It’s got to stop now.’

  ‘Why do you always blame me? I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Can’t you two be together for more than two minutes without arguing,’ their dad called from the living room.

  Alex glared at him and then turned and stomped out of the kitchen. Paul stared at her retreating back, a tight knot in his stomach.

  ‘I can’t do it alone,’ he whispered to the empty room.

  Chapter Four

  The day of the funeral dawned grey and windswept. Showers of rain moved across the land and sea while the gulls cried mournfully from their circling in the sky. The procession left Gwen’s house mid morning, a long line of people winding slowly along the road and up the hill towards the parish church up on the headland. By the time the procession reached the church the showers had lifted, and in the freshness that follows summer rain, the coffin was hoisted up onto the shoulders of the four bearers and taken inside the church. As the sun began to break through the heavy cloud the congregation then filed in and took their places, the thick wooden door shutting out the brightening light behind them. After hymns and words from the vicar and friends the congregation moved outside and the coffin was buried at the top of the churchyard overlooking Penwryn bay and the sea beyond.

  With the service finished Paul moved away. He walked, hands in pockets, shoes soaked by the wet grass, before stopping and looking up across the churchyard and out to the sea, its surface broken by showers still moving heavily across the bay. He was in a quiet corner hidden from the church by a row of trees. The gravestones around him were old, very old. Paul looked at one. It commemorated the lives of sailors lost at sea when their ship was wrecked on the shore below. Next to it was a tall stone reaching fifteen feet into the air. A Celtic cross had been crudely worked into the top of the stone and it stood grey and menacing pointing up at the rain soaked sky and facing the restless blue grey sea. For a moment Paul imagined the stone standing alone on the headland with no cross tattooed on its head, a beacon to those travelling the sea.

  ‘Mister.’

  Paul jumped and turned around. A face was peering out at him from the bushes. It was a few seconds before Paul recognised the boy he had seen the morning Gwen died.

  ‘Mister,’ repeated the boy, his accent heavy. ‘Please, come here.’

  A sense of foreboding washed over Paul. Warily he stepped forwards to the hedgerow that lined the edge of the churchyard. Beyond, the land raised gently, arable fields stretching across the headland.

  ‘Mister,’ said the boy, quieter now as Paul stood in front of him. A grimy hand reached out pressing something towards him. Paul felt a soft package brushing against his hand. ‘You have to take it.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Paul. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘My uncle,’ said the boy, faltering for a moment. ‘He said you have to have it. He said your aunt would know.’

  ‘My aunt is dead,’ said Paul.

  ‘He knows’ said the boy, eyes darting around, not resting on one thing for more than a second. He jabbed the package against Paul’s hand and out of reflex Paul took it.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Paul again.

  A fox screeched, not more than a few metres away. The boy jumped.

  ‘I have to go Mister.’

  ‘Wait,’ called Paul reaching forward to grab the boy’s wrist, a tough, skinny limb that squirmed in his grip. ‘The morning she died. How did you know?’

  ‘My name’s Robert,’ said the boy locking eyes with Paul. ‘My uncle. He knew your aunt. Says she wanted you to have it. He said do
n’t open it now, that you would know the time, just keep it with you. That’s what he said.’

  Paul relaxed his grip, his mind wheeling. The boy wriggled free and was gone through the hedge. Paul looked down at his other hand, the hand that held the package. He stood for what seemed an eternity, sure that Gwen would have told him about this if she had known. Uneasiness oozed from his every pore. Quickly he looked around himself. Thick dark clouds were pressing down from the darkening sky as another band of showers moved in from the sea. A sudden gust of wind shook a crow from the line of trees that hid the church. The bird croaked its call across at Paul, swooping above him on caressing wings, and then it sailed the gusts out into the bay. Paul watched as the bird became a speck in the distance. The air seemed charged, swirling energy crackling against his skin. He didn’t like it, for everything felt wrong.

  ‘Paul, you have to come back,’ said his dad. ‘I don’t want you being here on your own anymore.’

  ‘Dad. We’ve been through this a hundred times now. I need some time alone. I have to sort myself out,’ said Paul.

  ‘But why here?’ said his dad. ‘Why do you have to stay here? Why can’t you do it at home?’

  ‘Dad,’ said Paul, trying not to raise his voice.

  They were standing in Gwen’s living room, Paul by the window, his father by the sofa, opposite him. Alex stood aloof in the doorway.

  ‘I can’t explain. I just have to be here.’

  ‘Look, Paul,’ said his dad in a soft voice, trying a different track. ‘I know this has been a strain on you, a strain on everyone. And I can’t make you come home, you’re nineteen for God’s sake, an adult, but not to me, not at the moment. You’re my son and I can’t bear it with you hurting all on your own here. I want you to come home with us.’ He stepped forward placing his hands on Paul’s shoulders. ‘Gwen did so much for us, Christ she was like a mother to you and Alex in the holidays, but it’s over now. The time for grief is over. You have to get away from here. It’s too close to Gwen, you need to move on.’