A Town Called Evening (episode VII)

By the Light of the Fire

Previously on A Town Called Evening…

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After a hasty goodbye to the family, Luke exited the manor. He was happy to leave. Eityre’s hands had fluttered all over his arm while somehow never making contact. “Do be careful, do be careful,” she’d urged with a too-wide smile and too-wide eyes.

Just by the gate, he paused and cast a final glance toward where he believed the library window sat. Luke stuffed an ungloved right hand into his pocket. The sound of crinkling paper reached his ears. Yet, he left Grace’s note in its place with her picture. Who knew whose eyes watched him from that strange tower?

Sniffing against the cold, Luke turned away.

There was nothing to be done. Not yet, anyway.

His boots crunched through the ice, rifle bumping his hip. The chill was beginning to set in through his weather-resistant clothing and his stomach growled. A small tension headache seized his temples. Luke ignored it. He unwrapped a cereal bar and finished it in two bites. He chewed, eyes flicking to the pines that penned him in along the narrow footpath. “A hardy horse or mule could get up here no problem,” he muttered around the granola.

A stray breeze caused the trees to groan. Snow was shaken from their branches and pattered onto Luke’s coat. He walked on.

The sun struggled to pierce the forest floor and the light began to dim as Luke was guided deeper into the forest and Evening’s valley. Suddenly, the path dipped steeply. Luke hesitated before a wall of mist. It was so thick, he could not see more than five feet before him.

He gnawed his lower lip. He could hear things fluttering in the trees. The ravens?

Haw! Haw!

Luke resisted a shudder as he recalled the strange hyena-like sounds the ghastly birds made on his ascent. He took the rifle down from his shoulder and held it. He didn’t have much choice but to continue.

With a soft inhale, Luke entered the mist.

The fog was thicker than he’d anticipated. Luke kept his eyes trained on the ground, placing one foot in front of the other. Along the edge of the path, Luke observed fields of nettles. They wound the trunks of trees and unfurled their tendrils just far enough to brush him. Luke frowned. He hadn’t noticed them before. Was he going in the right direction? It was hard to tell.

A quick consultation of his compass reconfirmed that he was indeed moving homeward.

A twig snapped.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Something panted, something animal. Luke halted and raised the rifle. There was a bark and then another.

Wolves.

Calm, Luke waited. He did not blink. Shapes faded in and out of the mist. They were extremely close for a pack of wolves. In his experience, the creatures were shy. Being loud would do the trick under normal circumstances. For some reason, Luke couldn’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t make any noise at all.

They bounded about in the snow, sniffing and growling. Eventually, those sounds faded into the distance.

Luke stood stock still, gun ready, and counted.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…

When he reached three thousand, he felt safe enough to move.

Luke went on, determined. If the forest was disturbed by his presence, the best he could do was to keep that presence brief.

Darkness closed its jaws.

When he knew he could go no further, Luke paused by an overhang. He built a fire. It crackled—almost merrily. Back straight and rifle within reach, Luke sat. For an hour, he allowed himself to think of absolutely nothing. He sat in silence and stared into the flames. His body ached and the bar had done little to serve his hunger.

Maybe he should’ve packed a reading material. It would’ve distracted him from discomfort. Then again, Luke thought, I also could’ve brought food.

Reaching into his pocket, Luke produced Grace’s note. Two more pages tumbled out. He flipped them over. The paper was yellowed. Judging by its edge, it was from a book, complete with strange illustrations. He placed those aside and began to read to Grace’s letter:

Dear Mr. Gatelin,

I saw you arrive through the library window. I don’t have much time to write this letter and I didn’t prepare anything. I’ve included scraps from books here, hoping it will help you understand.

In three days, I will be dead.

Don’t come back, the day of night is coming. Stay away from the ravens. They are wolves too. If they attack you, aim for the space between their eyes. They will die without their heads.

Just tell my parents I love them and that I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

-Grace

Luke felt his stomach churn. Every line she’d written was jilted and awkward. The penmanship was hurried. Carefully, Luke folded her letter and replaced it in his pocket. He then took up one of the torn pages.

They are born when ravens feast upon the heart of a chieftain or mighty warrior. Should a man, with purposeful intent, present said heart to a raven, the resultant valravyn¹ shall be bound in servitude to him for eternity. Subsequent to this union, they possess the ability to manifest in a semblance akin to the human form. Furthermore, it is noteworthy that upon adorning their feathered coats, these beasts may also go about in the guise of wolves.

Luke’s gaze made its way to the top of the page: Abraham W. Scirenton, “The Secret Ways of Night Creatures”.

He continued:

In the absence of a guiding master, these creatures may roam unrestrained. Their youth is retained by the lifeblood of a maiden fair. Their vigour and might are augmented through the consumption of the hearts belonging to valiant men fallen in battle.

The valravyn is nearly impervious to death. In order to kill one, the prescribed method involves the severance of the head from the body, followed by incineration.

NOTE: The esteemed author most earnestly advises against any encounters with the valravyn, for the unlikelihood of survival. Nevertheless, if compelled to confront and dispatch this creature, pray you do it by the light of day. Inexplicably, the valravyn's potency surges in correlation with the profundity of darkness, particularly during the winter season.

Luke’s forehead wrinkled. Was this some sort of clue from Grace? Perhaps the family belonged to a cult? Maybe they’d collectively lost their minds and believed that they were these strange supernatural beasts.

What could he do?

He chewed the inside of his cheek. The FBI was in charge of cults, weren’t they? Looking out into the dark, Luke found himself picturing that strange tapestry in the manor. It wouldn’t show itself clearly in his mind’s eye. Perhaps because he was tired.

He pulled his hat down and leaned against a moss-veiled stone. The fire licked hot on his face and warmed his bones. The mist hung back. It was almost comfortable. Luke found his body beginning to relax. His mind, however, was a different story. Behind his shut lids, could see Grace’s pale hands in his. They were cold. His index finger had found its way beneath her delicate wrist. He could feel the rapid pace of her heart.

Her written words echoed in his mind: “In three days, I will be dead.”

Luke fell into a strained and fitful slumber. He dreamed of queer creatures peering at him from beyond the light of the fire. They melted out of the dark between trees like water through skeletal fingers.

The daughters of Eityre leaned in close. Their white faces stood out against the plumed wolf-skin cloaks.

“He is asleep,” said one.

“I can hear his heart beat,” another whispered.

The eldest and most beautiful turned to look over her shoulder, eyes glinting like a dog’s. “Our sister will be returned to us in three days. She will need a husband.”

The fingers of the first unzipped his coat and plucked at his collar before retracting with a hiss.

“Most offensive!” cried the second. “Cloak it from my sight, sister.²”

His jacket zipper was pulled back up.

“The light is almost out. Let us wait until then.”

Luke awoke with a start, hand flying to his neck. The beads of his mother’s rosary pressed against his flesh. He’d quite forgotten he’d worn it. He caught his breath.

A dream. It was just a dream, he thought.

With a slow exhale, Luke willed his heart rate to return to normal. He glanced around. The fire burned low, almost down to its embers. He threw another log onto the pile. Within minutes, the flames climbed high once more.

Luke did not sleep for the rest of the night.

1. This is my take on the valravyn. I’m aware that it might not fit exactly to its folk roots! I hope it’s still fun.

2. What is a gothic weird-west story without a lil reference to Dracula and his wives?