Immortal Memories

by Hibbard, Michael

  “My father believed that the mountain itself is alive, and I have told my children the same as I am telling you now. Of all the things in this world, the mountains are the most ancient of things, having seen our kind come and go in what seems to be an instant, compared to their lifetime. All things require respect, because either it is right, or because of the danger, it poses. This mountain is benevolent, good, and malevolent, bad. Like a mirror, it reflects what is cast upon it. We cannot know what the mountain holds, but we should always respect it. The sisters had been taught the same. Ceridwyn remembered this as she pushed further into the darkness of a crevice, to find a cave hidden at its heart. Something beckoned her, whispering to her from the darkness. When her legs couldn't bear the weight of hunger and her sister any longer, she fell to her knees, cuddling her sister close, praying silently for reprieve, or relief, from the horrible ordeal as she slipped uncontrollably into sleep.

  “She did not know how long she was unconscious, but she was awakened by Fiona, shaking her violently. ‘Ceri! Ceri! It’s Deirdre! I swear it! She’s here!’ Groggy, stomach rumbling, she focused in the darkness on her sister’s face, lit by some unseen source within the bowels of their shelter. Sitting up, she tried to grasp what her sister was saying. Deirdre was dead; they both knew this, despite her vision. Ceridwyn feared her sister was going mad with hunger, ‘Fiona, Deirdre is dead, we bur --’ she tried to remind her sister.

  "Fiona protested. ‘No! She is here. I heard her calling from that direction!’ Fiona was frantic, pointing violently, deeper still into the throat of the cave.

  “Ceridwyn mustered the rest of her strength, aided by Fiona now, and began to press carefully along the rocky path of the cave. Though she couldn’t quite see the ceiling, she did spy a dull iridescent glow of moss growing in patches high above, the source of the pale light. Fiona urged her sister forward, insisting that she’d heard the voice of their fallen sister when she awoke, but was afraid to venture too far without the elder.”

  “The cave sloped down, the ground slick, threatening to send them tumbling if they moved too quickly. Soon they came to a narrow opening; bones of some animal were strewn about. Fear leapt into Ceridwyn’s chest, while Fiona pressed forward. She halted her younger sibling, ‘We can’t go further. Look at these bones. This is a bear or wolves den!’ However, Fiona wouldn’t listen and began to protest, but stopped when the distinct voice of their middle sibling called from the darkness beyond. ‘Ceri…’ the whisper called from the total darkness of the cave. Ceridwyn could feel the blood in her veins pump as her heart beat rapidly, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She instinctively grabbed Fiona away from the opening, suspicious of the sound but not doubting the clarity of the word spoken. Her mind reeled with explanations and rising fear. She snatched a bone from the pile, licked clean by some predator. She attempted to fashion a torch from their clothing and dried moss on the ground, lighting it with the flint she’d grabbed as they fled the cabin. Her hands shaking with hunger, fear, trepidation and the cold, she managed to light the torch bringing light to the sun starved hole in the earth.”

  “Torch in hand, the sisters pressed close to one another and entered the mouth of the cave where they heard their sister calling to them from within the depths of the mountain."

  Grandfather Maxwell paused dramatically, taking a few thoughtful puffs on his pipe. His audience captivated at this point, staring slack-jawed and on the edge of their seats for the dramatic conclusion.

  "They were never found," Grandfather Maxwell continued. "In the spring, when the mountain shed its winter blanket, the trees awakening from a long slumber, their uncle, concerned for his brother and family, found the abandoned cabin along the brook, three graves marked in Ogham script, ancient Druidic symbols. He found the story Ceridwyn had left on the table in the cabin. Stranger still, at the bottom of the note, in a different handwriting, unknown to their uncle, someone had written, ‘Into the precipice, from whose borne we return’.”

  The old man surveyed his captive audience, “You are probably wondering how this story came to be known to our town, if the sisters did indeed vanish into the mouth of the mountain.”

  Jonathan had always wondered this, but never accepted the answer.

  “The uncle found the precipice and knew it to be that which had swallowed up his kin, because at the site on the eastern face of the mountain, he found a silver locket which he’d given to his niece, Ceridwyn, when she turned ten. It was hanging from the branch of a lonely birch tree, the branch itself stretched like a skeletal finger, pointing at the precipice, but there was no crevice or opening in the mountain face. Not even a crack. As the sunset, he decided to stay the night before trekking back to the cabin. In the dead of the warm summer night, he dreamt of the fair-haired, fair-skinned sisters, their tale imprinted on the mountain itself, and replayed itself in his dreams. He awoke at first light the following day, only to find that he’d slept for several days, the story imprinting itself on his mind, as told through Ceridwyn’s eyes.

  “In his dreams, she never revealed what had happened once they passed beyond the bone littered opening of the deep cave, but he knew that they believed their sister was waiting for them within the belly of Grey Mountain. He marked the precipice with the same Ogham script of his ancestors as a memorial to the three sisters, their names carved deeply in the grey stone. Many have tried to find the opening for themselves, some returning with stories of strange dreams, others having seen three ghostly figures wandering along the rock face, as if trying to get in.

  “Their uncle returned to Elswyre, relaying his story, yet was met with ridicule over the story. Some in the town remembered the cursed sisters and said it was the will of god that their evil had been wiped from the face of the earth. Their uncle, enraged by this, not knowing that he too had the same magic that seemed to pulse through Ceridwyn, placed a curse on the town and left to live in their cabin, hoping to find them one day. That night, the town of Elswyre burned to the ground, by reasons never determined. Some escaped the flames that struck while the town slumbered, but most of the inhabitants burned alive in their beds, with ash their only memorial.”

  “The uncle lived in the cabin for years, meticulously searching the mountain, and chronicling the story of the sisters and his search in a small black journal. A wanderer who passed through the area, seeking shelter from the cold, found the note written by Ceridwyn and the uncle’s journal. He too disappeared into the mountains, trying to find the precipice, to find his kind but, but he too vanished, captured by the mystery of this lonely mountain and the Weird sisters.”

  “What happened to the journal?” Jonathan interrupted, reluctantly.

  “No one knows,” Grandfather Maxwell replied, with a hint of a smile. “But I do know those who had seen it years ago, and the seemingly mad ravings their uncle scribbled in its pages. Wring about unspeakable beasts lurking in the caves at the heart of the mountain.”

  The children around gasped at this, murmuring amongst themselves. Grandfather Maxwell soothed them, “But we are protected here, are we not my children? Have we not always been protected?”

  The children nodded in agreement, still marveling at the fantastic tale.

  “We will always protect you,” Grandfather Maxwell offered with a smile. “Now it is time for me to rest and you should be heading to bed to dream sweet thoughts, and not about monsters and sisters. The festival is over.”

  Jonathan waited for the others to leave the old man in peace. Parents had begun gathering up their children as it was approaching midnight. He also caught sight of Moiré and Roderick, walking towards the orchard; her melodic laugh carried on the cool autumn wind, extinguishing Jonathan's childish hopes like a candle.

  In distraction, he approached Grandfather Maxwell, who sat silently puffing his pipe, releasing the sweet smell of cherry from this tobacco.

  “Grandfather?” he asked timidly. “What do you think happened to the sisters?”

  �
�Hmm,” the old man perked up, raising a hairy brow at the young man. “Why do you want to know, Jon?” The old man regarded Jonathan carefully, having been approached with this same question many times before by other inquisitive young men, such as his own son, Jonathan's father.

  “It’s interesting. I mean, in this town, there isn’t much excitement.” Jonathan offered, trying to be as mature as possible.

  “Excitement?” the old man chuckled wetly, then into a short coughing fit. “Young man, three young ladies freezing to death centuries ago is not what I would call, ‘Excitement’.”

  “Of course not, but--” Jonathan stammered.

  “But nothing, Jon. It’s a tale, to pass the time and teach a lesson. Do you think there is something more to it?” The old man betrayed a gleam of interest in what the younger man had to say.

  “Well, maybe. It is very tragic, of course. But… well that is to say…” Jonathan struggled to find a cohesive thought.

  “It’s like I said, ‘The Mountain is like a mirror, it reflects what is cast upon it’,” the old man offered cryptically once more.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Jonathan quipped growing annoyed. He’d heard this comment a thousand times from the others in the town, like an epitaph on an ancient grave, sounding very adult, yet meaning nothing.

  The old man, not wishing to destroy his imagination, simply replied, “I can tell you that the sky is blue, Jon, but I would expect you to check for yourself. That is the way of things, the way life works. I have seen many things in my life, living under the shadow of this mountain. If you hate it here, it will never make you happy. If you love it here, you will never want to leave.” He scrutinized his young inquisitor carefully, “I am not one to tell anyone what they should or should not do with their life.”

  Jonathan remained silent, trying to understand what the old man was telling him.

  “Don’t worry about the sisters for now, Jon. I can see that you will find a path to the precipice,” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You should be heading inside, and I want to rest my mind and smoke my pipe before the night is over. It is a special night after all. A night when anything is possible and things are revealed to us that we should ponder thoughtfully.”

  Frowning, Jonathan nodded to the old man. “Okay, g’night, Grandfather.” He walked into the house and climbed the stairs to his room to ponder the story and study his notes. The story seemed too real to be fiction, and something within him told him that his grandfather knew it was true. He knew that one day it would be important to the town to remember the story, and understand its meaning, but for now he would have to wait until he could find more information, perhaps find the uncle’s journal.

  He climbed to the third floor, to the room he and his younger brother Edgar shared, and laid in his bed pondering the story until his eyes grew as heavy as did the thoughts in his mind.

  Grandfather Maxwell Weir waited for the young man to leave before he tapped the ash from his pipe and stood from the ancient rocking chair.

  The adults and council gathered at the town square, welcoming the new elder council. His son Cornelius had replaced Grandfather Maxwell as head elder, and he knew that his son would lead the town to a better time, just as Jonathan would when his time came. It was time for him to leave Devlin, and become a part of the tale he knew so well.

  Before leaving, he slipped into the study, pulled a worn black journal from his coat, and placed it on the desk for his son to find. He would know what to do with it when the time came, and he left instructions that he was to show it to no one outside the Weir family. It was their burden to bear, and had been since Edwin Weir, Maxwell’s father, who found the cabin in the woods while searching for a suitable site for the Autumn House.

  The mystery of the sisters had become a part of their history, and it was their responsibility to discover what had happened, and how to use the information to possibly save the town, as Maxwell had seen in his visions, as his father had before him. Dark times were ahead for their secluded town, but for now, they could enjoy the gifts of Grey Mountain.

  In the dark of the night, while the others were distracted, Grandfather Maxwell disappeared into the woods, to the find the precipice of the Weird Sisters. Despite the efforts of the townsfolk searching for weeks and he was never seen again.

  What Rough Beast

  Richmond, Virginia 1989

  Her light was so brilliant it burnt my guilty shadow onto the floor, but I was not blinded. So many nights I have watched her, seeing her in ways no other had seen her, clad diaphanously against the pale, bluish glow of the full moon, a chill perking her skin. I should not have taken her in -- I know that now. She was different, but I did not realize exactly how different she was. I was unwilling to admit the hunger she stirred inside me, her flesh calling to me since the first time we met. I should have known better, but we all make mistakes.

  There is a darkened corridor, forgotten by the sun, shrouded in shadow and transgression. Others were there, but uninterested, absorbed in their dismal deeds, ferreting in an out of decrepit rooms with the glistening of glass and metal and the scent of despair in their wakes. We skulked silently into a room at the far end of the hall, the hardwood warped and eaten by pests and the past. Willingly she followed me as I urged her to shed her fears and apprehension, succumbing to my will. It is difficult to impress these things on those who are unenlightened, unawakened to the true nature of our existence. But the emptiness within her called to me, beckoning me to fill it with whatever I desired. Innocence filled her bosom, marred by the dark desires she had only read about but yearned to explore. The first time was not nearly enough, at least for me. The smell of her hair as my fingers gripped the back of her head, holding her still as my hands meandered wantonly from the warmth between her legs to the firmness of her chest. I whispered in her ear, reassuring her, purring lies. She wanted me to take her, use her, but refused to accept her own desire, fearful of losing herself.

  In that decayed room, I pressed her face against the wall, holding her still as I lifted her skirt, revealing her panty clad bottom, thrust out towards me, wanting, willing, and waiting. The miserable sounds of the abandoned structure faded into the void, leaving me alone with my willing prey. The sound of the fabric echoed as I tore the panties from her, discarding the moist fabric to the rotted wood floor. “Shhh,” I whispered against her ear as she whimpered. “That’s a good girl.”

  She sighed against the faded velvet wallpaper, and nodded her head slightly against the force of my grip. I pulled back her hair, revealing that slender, perfect neck and she shivered as I ran my lips over the skin delicately before biting down, my teeth straddling the taut tendon. I shivered too, wanting to bite harder, but resisting my urges. It was too soon.

  I indulged myself with her, filling her, holding her steady against the wall as I used her. Her whimpers and moans only increasing my excitement, pushing me to the edge of desire, almost causing me to lose control, but I had learned from my past mistakes, she was not to be discarded.

  At the end, when the beast was sated, I released her but instructed her to look away as she cleaned herself. I picked up the discarded undergarments, tucked them neatly into my suit pocket, and adjusted my tie.

  “Never look into my eyes,” I said to her. “You’ll be lost forever.”

  She nodded timidly, straightening her skirt and hair.

  “When I call, you will come to me,” I said flatly, stoically. “I won’t accept no. Do you understand?”

  She nodded silently in the darkness, then managed a timorous, “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good,” I responded. “Now leave me.”

  As she scurried from the room, I took a seat on a rotted chair in the corner, alone in shadow and thought. She was exactly what I had been searching for, and I was scarcely able to accept it after so many fruitless years, and countless other disappointments. She was different; I could smell it on her like perfume, fear, desire and sin overpowering her fema
le scents.

  I lit a cigarette, the flame igniting the room with dancing tendrils of shadow, before fading into a dull, cherry glow. We were both sated, both the beast and myself. As he drew deeply on the cigarette, I considered the next encounter. She would do as I say, with no argument, of this, I was certain. She had responded to each thrust eagerly and openly, pulling me in, wanting more, surrendering to my will.

  “What are we going to do with her,” his voice, not mine, whispered from the dark. I did not readily respond. He would not be allowed to make decisions, as he had in the past. He had a tendency to be overzealous, but I held his leash firm.

  “We will take her into our home, of course,” I said finally and snuffed the cigarette out under my shoe as I looked in the direction of the disembodied voice. “She will complete the collection.”

  He chuckled derisively at me, as he often did, annoyed by my calm and collected manner. He had fought against me the entire time as I used her, wanting to rip every shred of clothing from her body, leaving her naked and trembling in that putrid room. It was never enough for him. He would have used her and left her bruised and bloodied on that worm-eaten floor, barely alive. But I was not going to allow that to happen. Her light burned him and I heard him howl in my mind with each caress of her blessed skin. I was in control, and I knew that there was a way for us to both to be sated, for years to come.

  As I left the building, I felt invigorated, stepping into the oppressive light of that weary November day. A spring returned to my step as I uncharacteristically started to whistle, weaving in and out of the somnambulant masses. He goaded them from the depths of my subconscious, berating every single person we saw, but I was unaffected. He would not ruin my mood.

  I could still smell her, licking my lips deliciously as I entered the foyer of my private abode. Yes, I had assured myself that she was what we sought. I could still hear the beating of her heart, racing as we engaged in our depraved dance. She was not far from me, and I would always know where she was, but I would be careful not to rush the process, a mistake I had made before. She would submit at all levels, levels at which most are not able to submit. She would shed all the things she had wanted and known before, and accept something new and something very old.