2010 #3: The Escape

When I was 17 I used to write larger stories, too, silly little fantasies.

The Escape 

Foreword: This piece is actually a passage taken from a novel I’ve been attempting to write for many years – an extract that I found particularly beautiful in terms of language, the way it flows, and in terms of the imagery evoked through the use of words throughout.

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At one point in Lucas’ life, he too had thought he had seen Sierra’s radiant visage. But her image, for Lucas, did not fill him with alarm, as it had with Ryan, but instead filled him with curiosity. And as it turned out, this visage – that at once, became less of a thought, and more of an experience - would be one of the last earthly things he would ever see.

He was out on patrol one night, on the edge of a country torn to shreds by a war, in a land forsaken by all other governments. He wore what soldiers would have worn in his time, covered from his head to his toes in a form of dress that was almost invisible to the naked eye. Camouflage, it seemed, although Lucas was sure that in the swamp he found himself him, you could hardly see figures in front of your eyes through the mist floating off the water, let alone spy anyone in camouflage. And as he trekked through the grime of one such swampy region, he saw her, as much as he could have – should have – missed her.

Often Lucas found himself crawling around through the sludge and the wet of the swampy forest regions he monitored, repeating a hopeful mantra in his mind, over and over, that he would not be just another statistic.

Another name crossed off of a list; another number. Another soldiers’ life thrown away due to a blow brought about by war. Whether it happened on the field of battle from a blade piercing the chest, or from a gun, a man shot down from afar by enemies sneaking through the solemn woods, such a death proved only a nuisance to Lucas’ superiors. Lucas promised himself that even if he were to be gassed to death, captured and tortured, or bled out from the throat like a pig dangling by an iron hook in a slaughterhouse, he would not be – he refused to be – just another death.

He had promised his mother this, on the day that he went away to war, and had prayed for the same on top of his fathers’ grave. His younger sister, her husband, and all of their children, wept for him on the day he went away, and continued to shed tears in the hope of his survival, and Lucas would not forget nor dismiss the tears they had shed for him. His mother, however, did not cry nor speak when Lucas told her – she simply stared at him through old and near-catatonic eyes, almost knowing of the perils he would face, until he was forced to look away, for what now has been a very long time. Every day and every night he prayed, to whatever god there was that all things pray to, that some poor bastard did not run screaming into his cabin, explosives strapped to his chest. He prayed for the concept of ‘rations’ to disappear, and for all the soldiers to be fed to full and blissful contentment. 

Some nights he prayed for all of the friends and fellow soldiers that had been captured or killed, to be returned to him, alive and healthy. He often remembered their smiling faces, some faces grinning days or even hours before being blown to pieces, or worse, captured and taken as prisoners of war.

He found war a cruel and sickening process – but at the same time, he felt it to be completely necessary, if any country were to ever find a level of peace for long. Like any other healthy soldier, he harbored a secret pacifism, a desire to spread peace - but too often, he thought, people must fight so that others can live at peace. It was the unfortunate and ever-lingering truth. So there he was, trekking through mud that sank him to his knees, murmuring to himself the wish not to have holes shot through his chest or legs, nor for him to be captured and taken prisoner, like so many of his comrades before him. The trees around him seemed to reach out to him, wanting to wrap and tangle around his legs and arms, and trap him there – but Lucas fought on, tearing and hacking at the branches and vines obstructing his path, and often constricting him. He could not see the sky, or any way out of this thick forest, his vision obscured by plant life, and often he felt that he would slip, fall and drown, in the swampy muck and grime he seemed to be wading through constantly. He could not hear any enemy approaching, for his ears were deafened by the noises of the wild creatures no doubt completely surrounding him. This was his day-to-day life away at war, and as much as he knew from previous experience that he would soon find an exit from the hellish maze surrounding him - stretching, tangled and twisted up, and often beneath, him - the escape seemed to never come. So he fought on, praying again to whatever god there was that all things pray to, that he would find sunlight, and leave the trapping vines and ominous swamp-like depths behind him.

As he trekked, he thought that he saw things in the forest, like many other soldiers had before him. Grotesque shapes that, once examined, turn out to be nothing but the contorted fake figures made by vines and swamp trees, and every subtle noise near him, thought to be the whispers of enemy soldiers and spies, turned out to be nothing more than the croaks and chirps of frogs and birds in the forests and swamps. Around him, there was nothing but complete mystery and death, and the fear that once consumed him was now numbed after days and days of fatigue and exhaustion, and Lucas was so used to the far-off sounds of gunfire, and so used to diving in any dizzying direction after hearing the horrifying cry of a fellow man not even feet away being blasted by the explosion caused by a grenade, that he no longer felt anxiety. He did not wish for death, but he was completely and utterly ready for the day when it would approach, scythe raised and the tail of his black cloak whipping in the air behind him. Still, he prayed for its visit to be delayed, by an hour, a day, or even a mere minute, so that he could find a way to try and escape.

Somewhere in the numbness he thought he heard a noise – a noise not quite as loud as the hacking of his machete that he used to tear the vines in front of him from his way. It was hardly even a noise, he felt, for a noise is a sound that probably was not meant to disturb someone such as Lucas, but does so by accident. This slight sound was completely and utterly with intention, for no soldier in a place such as this would be so idiotic and thoughtless as to forcefully pry his way towards, or away from, someone as armed and as dangerous as Lucas. He would do it with secrecy and sneak, if the fool possessed any logic whatsoever, creeping all the way back to wherever he came from, being sure at all times that Lucas did not follow.

The sounds he heard were footsteps, and he swore he heard whispers, and if Lucas did not know better of the world, he would have thought the whispers were coming from the trees themselves. Once he had heard them, he followed them - traced them, trying to see through the hanging trees to locate whatever fool the noises were coming from. Steady as a knife-thrower in a circus troupe aiming a blade at an apple atop the head of their partner, knowing full well the consequences should their blade fly a little lower than the apple, Lucas crept to find the source of the sounds. As soon as he had picked up his own pace, however, he heard the footsteps becoming louder, and more rushed – it became clear that whoever this fool of a man was, he was alerted to Lucas’ presence, and had taken off in a run. At that, Lucas tore after him, abandoning his poise, breaking through the hanging vines with his own body, and darting through the thick swamp, the foul muck splashing around up to his waistline.

His ears were focused on the mystery man, who was at a run now, and he found himself getting closer and closer to the source of the noises until it seemed that he was right behind him, wherever this man was, so close in the forest. He felt himself breaking through the shapes in front of him, feeling this man’s presence before him, nearly upon this escaping soldier.

That was when Lucas heard her voice.

He ground to a complete and utter halt. The swampy waters he had forcefully interrupted restored to their meditative state. The mist that cloaked his eyes and left him unable to see slowly began to lift, as though answering to the strange voices’ call. The voice whispered to Lucas from somewhere different than the way the footsteps had been coming from – in fact, the opposite direction entirely.

“Are you trying to find me, sir?” The being vocalized, forming words, and Lucas knew it was human then – or something near to it. Lucas was shocked at the sudden disturbance. He flailed his arms in the muck, hacking at the soaked shrubs surrounding him with his machete, gasping in fear while reaching blindly for the voices source.

“That’s funny, really…” It almost giggled then, without fear or loathing. “It’s almost convenient…”

Lucas turned around and around, spinning like a dancer, looking in every direction for the source of this mysterious voice. The being seemed to see him – to see him through all of the trees and the growth that he couldn’t see through himself.

“Because, Lucas…” He heard the vines and the trees start to part, and suddenly, all the wildlife around him went completely silent. All that he could hear was the movement of the trees, their rustling that the wind caused, and with that no footsteps at all. “I have been looking for you…”

Before his very eyes, the creepers dangling from the swamp roof parted completely to form an archway, the mist blanketing the bog disappearing completely, almost being repelled by the arch of vines. And through the archway; moving like the wind itself with the grace of a fine breeze; came a girl - a girl with long silver hair, and with eyes sleepy and aged. Her eyes seemed to have seen so much and too many difficult years, yet she possessed a pale face that seemed eternally youthful, so much so that Ryan felt the concept of her being elderly impossible. She had eyes that were ancient, yet possessed the face and the body of a young woman.

“I have been looking for you for a very long time, Lucas.”

The woman spoke, and Lucas pulled back in awe. The voice was soft, lulling and soothing, and almost willed Lucas into a relaxed daze. He could not fear her, regardless of the supernatural intensity of her entrance. He gazed upon her, paying no notice to the robe she wore, and the silver cape that covered most of her, almost sheathing her from the world and the eyes of all human life. He did not even pay notice to the fact that the grimy waters were unmoving at her feet, perfectly still as though she could pass through solid objects like air, and the creepers that had parted to form a mysterious archway had sunk back down into their original dangling forms.

“My name is Sierra, and I must tell you something important, Lucas. You need not speak, only listen to what I have to say. There is a pestilence coming, to take this world, and all those who breathe within it. It will not come now, but in many years, and you must help us rid the world of it, cleanse all those affected by it. The plague is not an infection, in that it does not spread from person to person – but a sway, an authority, and an influence. This plague is the oldest thing to trouble man, and without you, it may be the last thing, too.”

“Woman...” Lucas began, stuttering slightly in awe and disbelief. “You better explain to me exactly what you’re doing here – and exactly what you are, or else…” He pulled out a rifle, and pointed the firing end at Sierra’s face. He was not frightened by Sierra, but was not taking any precautions. She could have been the spy – or perhaps the invention – of the enemy force he fought against. “I’m going to shoot you. You’re not supposed to be here – hell, no normal person is supposed to be here. Tell me why you’re here, or I’ll fire, I swear to God.”

Sierra smiled something gentle then. “Why, I’ve come to take you, Lucas.”

Lucas was not a killer, nor a murderer, or any other word to describe what a man becomes when he intentionally takes the life of another human being– he was simply acting out his duties as a soldier in a war. He would not have ever imagined performing the act of shooting a person, especially a woman, under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances.

Lucas aligned the rifle between Sierra’s eyes, closed his own, before pulling the trigger, and letting the gun he held call out to the bayou. When he opened his eyes, however, Sierra was not where she had once stood.

He heard the threatening whine of shells flying at unseen enemies from a place not too far away, and the loud cracks and explosions that followed their cries, before realizing that the real enemy – the men with the real guns that could kill him, not the strange woman adrift in the bog – were closing in on him.

“That will do you no good, Lucas.” A voice whispered from behind him, “Not if you want to live.” The voice was irritated now.

Lucas flipped around, and found himself face-to-face with Sierra.

“You… What on earth…” He murmured, his eyes wide and frozen with fear. “How did you get around me so fast?”

Sierra suddenly grabbed Lucas’ arm at an alarming speed, her limbs moving swifter than the shots fired around them – and at once, Lucas was filled with a spine-chilling cold. It flowed from the spot Sierra had touched him, coursing all through his body, distracting his thoughts until he had no more drifting through his head. Lucas realized then that he felt dizzy, and Sierra had to hold him up with support if he were to continue standing. He looked deep into her age-old eyes, feeling faint, his vision slightly blurred. He only had time to think of his family – and his mother. Sierra’s eyes reminded him of her mothers’ – wise, as if she had seen many a terrible thing. He suddenly felt calmed. 

Sierra knelt down to meet his face, then reached behind his left ear with her head. “You will understand in time, Lucas.”

Lucas, despite his promise to his mother, and the sacred promise he made to himself, never emerged from the quagmire he waded within. In fact, despite the calls of his fellow troopers for days on end, and the seeking searchlights of his comrades searching for him throughout the bog, he was never seen again.