Antrazein - Part II

'There is a village of Antrazein then?'
The woman rattled some toothless patois to her husband. He nodded to her and then looked straight at me. 'Oh yes, there is a village. You must not go there. They keep to old ways there. You would not be welcome.'
No matter what I said, the old people were insistent. They fed me and we drank syrupy fortified wine together; all the time they repeated their warnings.
Finally, so they would relent, I told them that I would indeed retrace my steps the next day. After that they seemed content to talk of other things. At the end of the evening the old lady took my hand in hers, 'There are old things in the valley, very old things.' I nodded and she smiled at me sadly, 'You go home young man' she added.
I slept under the roof and I could see bright white stars through the gaps in the slate work. My breath billowed in clouds above my pillow. I was glad to have a half-decent sleeping bag and I pulled my woolly hat right down over my ears.
I do not remember what I dreamed about that night, but I do know that I woke up startled and anxious in the early hours. I reached out and fumbled for the light switch, and by the glow of the bare bulb cast my eyes around the attic room as if I expected to see some dark creature sitting on a beam or crouching in a dusty corner. Exhaustion finally took me back into peaceful sleep, but when the bright light of morning woke me again the wan little bulb burned still.
After breakfast that morning I think the old man and his wife were resolved to take any steps necessary to stop me going on down the hill. I had already decided what to do and they seemed quite pleased with their work as I made my goodbyes and took the way back in the direction from which I had come the day before.
Only when I was completely out of sight of the house did I double back, pushing through the undergrowth until I found once again what I took to be the path.
I had set out in full sunshine but, following the winding chemin downwards I soon came into deep shade. The valley I was entering was so steep and so overshadowed by the steep hills and nearby snow-capped mountains that it must, I thought, hardly have seen the sun at all through the months of late autumn and winter. A heavy frost covered the leaves of the ferns that crowded my path; the air was icy cold and grew colder as I descended.
I had been walking for only quarter of an hour when I saw a low ruined wall alongside the track. It was made of large stones as if it had once been the foundation of a good-sized building, and behind it there was a great mound, grass and fern-covered, under which, no doubt, the rest of the masonry was buried. It was with a shudder that I noticed, largely hidden amongst the trees, there were gravestones, ancient gravestones in profusion. I had clearly followed the chemin into a churchyard; the ruin had once been a church.
Hardly cheered by my discovery, nevertheless I had yet to find a village. I pressed onwards and downwards. There was an inexplicable sense of desolation in this valley. No doubt the trees were as beautiful in their autumn colours here as elsewhere; no doubt the air was as pure, but the place was oppressive. What fields there were amongst the advancing woodland had broken fences and only once, around a barn close enough to collapse to look positively dangerous, I saw some sheep. They hobbled around disturbed by my arrival, sickly looking creatures, dirty and broken mouthed.
Not five minutes later, across a ford where once there seemed to have been a stone bridge, I came to the edge of a settlement. Village is almost too grand a name for the shambles I beheld.
More slate roofs had fallen in than were intact. The frost lay thick on rubble walls and in gardens abandoned to shoulder high weeds. Smashed shutters littered the lane and I saw two bicycles against a wall; the colour of rust, they looked as if they had not been moved for decades.
Lines came back to my mind from the ravings I had read on the internet and I realised to my added discomfort that this place boasted no church other than that pile of stones back up the hill a little way.
Nonetheless, here and there there were signs of habitation. A handful of gardens, pathetic and ill-tended plots, had been given over to sorry looking vegetables. Some of the houses which retained their roofs, shutters firmly closed, issued pale wisps of smoke from their sooty brick chimneys.
As I reached the second ruin I caught a glimpse of movement to my left. An arm shot out of an upstairs window and pulled another shutter tight against the dim daylight.
I watched the closed shutter for a moment as if the occupant might realise that I was there and open up again. Everything was quiet until, further into the village someone left the front of one house and rushed into one opposite; a glance was all they spared me as they went.
It is difficult to describe my incredible first impression of this individual. He was a man in rags; he had a long thin face and a oddly turned up nose; his forehead sloped backwards at a dramatic angle to meet straggly black hair. Rather pointed ears, large enough to be visible through his hair, protruded from the side of his head.
He slammed the door behind him as he vanished. I was alone in the silence once again.
I walked, cautiously now, around the whole place. I met no-one. At last I came to a large house in rather better order than the rest. The garden seemed to be somewhat cared for and the shutters, painted in recent years it seemed, were neatly open to the day. A bare flagpole clung to the front of the house and finally I noticed the faint outline of a painted sign on the front wall. This had once been the Mairie.
When the front door opened I inadvertently gasped. There stood a man of perhaps middle years; he watched me from beneath huge shaggy eyebrows. He did bear a resemblance to the man I had seen in the street, but this character's face was a little less shocking, a little more human even. His clothes seemed less tattered and, but for the manner of his stare, he might have appeared a quite ordinary country person.
'Allez' he screamed at me, 'Go. Go Now!' I stood dumbfounded, startled now as well as anxious. I raised my hands and tried a placatory smile. With that he charged out of the doorway and advanced some three paces towards me. Almost snarling now he screamed again 'Go. Go now! Go now!'
I heard a door bang somewhere close by in the village. I was already backing off. I definitely did not want to walk all the way back through the village. I decided to take my chances with the direction in which the chemin continued.
At that moment I heard a voice come from within the old Mairie, it was audibly a more cultured French voice. 'Close the door' I heard, and the man who had come out to shout at me retreated inside like a dog called by its master. The door slammed after him.
Thoroughly rattled now, and with the sound of another slamming door, I imagined monstrous villagers coming to chase me off. I did not wait to see if my fears would be realised and instead paced off back into the woods, this time on the other side of the valley of Antrazein.
My first thought was to put distance between myself and that place. I had never seen anything like that half-ruined village or anyone like that strange character in the street. As I hurried away I desperately tried to think about what I should do to find Phil. I had followed the trail here and now I had no idea how to proceed.
At the time I did not even pause to consider it, but looking back I think I was certainly followed as I fled from Antrazein that first time.
I walked for perhaps an hour before I found the stone hut, a refuge for shepherds perhaps. Whatever, it looked safe enough. The roof was good and the fireplace was intact, there was even a pile of firewood alongside. It was only just after Midday but I was feeling exhausted.
It is hardly surprising that I could not sleep. I lit a fire and lay on my sleeping bag; I ate a little and reflected on the odd events of the last two days. It was as I pulled another log from the woodpile that I found there a little notebook; a diary hidden from plain view.
Sitting back down and opening the pocket book I wondered what I would find, but I could read nothing of it, it was in German. I flicked through disconsolately, frustrated that I could not access the thoughts of a previous visitor to this dark valley.
What I found as I reached the latter half of the book though, startled me so much that afterwards I was glad that I had not been able to read the scribbled commentary.
There were ink drawings of a nightmarish quality on every one of the last twenty pages. These were no rough sketches; they were careful studies, vivid images, subtly shaded . They looked like the work of obsession. Diabolical creatures stared from the diary, their twisted and corrupt forms interspersed with drawing after drawing of people, all to a very large degree looking like the individual I had seen dash across the ruin of Antrazein's main street.
Needless to say I was locked in a remorseless struggle with my imagination. All that afternoon I listened intently to every tiny noise from outside of the cabin. I looked at the diary and then hastily put it down again, only to return to its otherworldly images, drawn by their power and worried that I might through fear overlook some important clue to my brother's fate.
If I had had the energy or the clear resolve, I might have left there and then; gone back towards civilisation taking the long way around Antrazein no matter how far out of my way it might take me. But I felt heavy in every limb and on top of that I could not decide what to do about Phil. The old shepherd's words came back to me, but I could not just take one pass through the village and from that, however bizarre it had been, conclude that Phil was never coming back.
All too soon I realised that it was getting dark outside. It was then that I decided I must go back to have another look at Antrazein. I planned to wait until the very last of the pale daylight had gone and then I would have another look at the dreadful place.
That gave me time to brew some tea and now with something of a plan I began to feel a little better. Somehow I remained hopeful that I would find Phil. On reflection, I realise that I was clinging to that hope only because I did not know what else to do.
Before I could summon the courage to finally emerge into the icy evening though I heard something new. This was definitely not some squirrel, or a jay in a nearby tree. I could hear weird sounds carried up the valley, a strange ululating chant from the direction of the village below.
I hastily hid my rucksack alongside the woodpile and there too I replaced the horrific German diary. With that I opened the door to listen properly to the eerie monotone supplication coming through the trees.
From the cabin door I could see a line of torches, burning brands, being carried from Antrazein into the woods. For a heart-stopping split second I thought that they were coming my way, searching for the intruder, but in fact they were heading off to the east, winding up a little track on the steepest side of the valley.
Nothing I had seen that day had been quite as jarring to my imagination as this procession of flame heading away from the village. I could not begin to conceive of the purpose of this exodus, but I was already sure enough of the character of the place to discount the notion of some quaint rural custom.
I reckoned there were perhaps fifty torches being carried up the hill. I could only imagine that Antrazein must be empty now. This would be the ideal time to have a closer look, to search properly for clues that might help me to find Phil.
Without a torch, stumbling and often straying into the undergrowth, I hurried back from the refuge towards the ruins and decay of Antrazein.
As I came within sight of the first tumbledown houses, a gibbous moon rose over the black valley wall and suddenly the whole scene was bathed in a cold silver light. It did indeed seem that the inhabitants had, for now, deserted their chaotic home.
I went straight towards the Mairie. I had a feeling that there I might find something to explain the extraordinary nature of this place.
Having hitherto led a mundane life, I reflected on how strange it was to be there, sneaking through a village and intent upon a stealthy examination of the house of a complete stranger. I should have been paralysed with fear. I should have been on my way home. It often seems inexplicable when, in stories, perfectly ordinary people insist on putting themselves in danger, in situations so far beyond their knowledge and understanding as to represent a path to either certain death or utter transformation. I can only report that I felt I had to try somehow to find out about Phil and, beyond that, remarkably, I still doubted the fearful imaginings that filled my consciousness. In other words, sceptical, secular and reasoning, I refused to trust the horror that tightened my throat and told me to flee.
I stayed close up against the low garden wall as I approached the gate of the Mairie. I felt exposed in the moonlight, but Antrazein was quiet. Not even a dog or a cat stirred and only the chanting on the hillside broke the deathly silence.
The shutters of the Mairie were still open, but there were no lights on inside. Only as I ducked around the gatepost did I notice that the front door was slightly open. I could not believe my luck. I dashed, still bent low, to the door and in a moment I was over the threshold, inside and out of sight.
The hallway smelled dusty but there was something else, a chemical smell. It immediately reminded me of a school chemistry room. It was too dark for me to see very much at all. I resorted to opening the front door a little and then, in the moonlight glow, I saw two doors, a narrow staircase and, on a side table, an oil lamp and a box of matches.
It was a risk I had to take. I lit the lamp and watched the flame rise from the wick. The walls of the hallway were covered with faded yellow wallpaper, curled up at the edges. It was ancient. One picture hung there, a black and white photograph of the house when it had been a proper mairie; a tricolour hung from the flagpole. How distant the Republic seemed to have become since that picture had been taken.
Having shut the front door again, I held the lamp up and peered through the door to my left, it was a kitchen. Through the door to the right there was a sitting room. Both were tidy, but nevertheless had an air of abandonment about them. Simple wooden furniture brought to mind an earlier age, and even by lamplight I could see thick layers of dust on every surface.
I thought I might find rooms more lived in upstairs. Just as I began to climb towards the first floor I heard a very odd noise outside of the front door. It seemed to me like the beating of great wings; one beat and then another, followed by a rasping noise of something hard on the path between house and gate. Whatever tricks my ears were playing on me, it was clear that any swift retreat from the house was for now cut off.
The wooden stairs responded to my footsteps with great creaking complaint. Each footfall brought a bang that I imagined would surely be heard around the valley, even over the chanting of the villagers. I tried to creep upwards, but the worry that the front door might open at any moment made me hurry and that made me noisy. Still, to my relief the door stayed closed.
Upstairs a door on the landing was open. I went straight in and, now in the bright moonlight, I turned the lamp down until its flame died. I crouched by the doorway and waited. All I could hear was my breath, the tiny squeaks of the floorboards beneath my feet and, still in the distance, the chanting.
By the time my thighs were aching from being crouched down I had decided that I had been mistaken. There was no-one outside.
The stench of chemicals was strong in that room. I glanced around and saw a desk by the window. In the pale light I could see that it was cluttered; I had to have a closer look.
I stood the lamp on the table. It clinked against a glass jar. I took the jar in my hand and held it up in the moonlight. It was all I could do not to drop it when I recognised its contents. It was a jar full of teeth, human teeth, roots and all. On some of them I could see flakes of black, clearly these flakes were of blood.
Shaking, I put the jar down. Despite my revulsion I held on to it tightly for a few moments to steady my hand. I glanced out of the window on the other side of the desk and my chest tightened as I saw something move in the garden below. It was something black and swift and went out of the corner of my vision towards the front door.
As mortified as I was I had to finish my search. There was a large book in the centre of the desk. I laid my left hand upon it as I reached down with my right to search for drawers. As I found a drawer handle I felt the cover of the tome under my palm. It was smooth and dry, it felt brittle. Even as I pulled open the drawer I could not help but look more closely at the book.
I could not be sure of course, but I had a dread feeling that I knew what the cover of the book was made from. I could see, but could not read the title written across in flamboyant script; it seemed to me a certainty that it was written on human skin.
I could have fled in that instant; my stomach turned and I felt that at any moment I might vomit. But I looked down at the drawer to which my right hand clung, pale and tremulous. In an otherwise empty drawer a ring glinted ever so slightly.
I knew I had seen that ring before, in a coffee house in London, the last time I had seen Phil. The skin-covered book momentarily forgotten, I had just time to snatch the ring before I heard the front door open and close downstairs.
I panicked and turned to run, I do not know where. I knocked the oil lamp and the jar of teeth from the desk. Glass shattered, metal lamp pieces clattered across the floor closely followed by a cascade of teeth.
From downstairs I heard the start of a very high pitched screech. It soon rose to such a volume that even though I was upstairs my ears hurt. As the first unearthly cry came to an end and before the next began, I could hear that the chanting had stopped. Whatever had made that noise, it had clearly raised the alarm and now it was coming up the stairs. Each stair groaned under a great weight. I could hear something scraping on the staircase walls. When the third screech was issued it came from the top of the stairs. I feared my ear drums would burst from the noise.
The screech raised primal terror from the centre of my being. I threw myself to the floor, but somehow found the presence of mind to crawl behind the door. A second later the door crashed open. The handle had not turned; the latch crashed its way through the door frame sending splinters flying. My fear mounted such that I could hardly breathe; I waited, petrified, to see what would come through the gaping doorway.
Even now I can hardly bring myself to describe what I saw, and I can scarcely ask anyone to believe that it was not just a figment of my traumatised imagination. It was black and huge; moonlight showed me the outline of huge folded wings, and its head, or what I took to be its head, was an abominable conglomeration of writhing limb-like appendages and huge round eyes, multi-faceted and bulbous.
The only advantage I had was that in that room the thing had limited space to turn its massive form. Once it had advanced a pace towards the desk at the window I threw myself for the doorway. Reaching the top of the stairs I leapt into the darkness not caring where, or how I would land.
Even as I heard the monstrous creature manoeuvre to come after me, I made my landing somehow unhurt. I ran out of the Mairie, the blood chilling screech shattering the night air once again.
I immediately noticed that the torches had come together on the hillside and their bearers were coming mob-like back towards Antrazein. I ran headlong through the village and splashed heedless across the ford. By the time I passed the last ruined house I could hear voices behind me. I turned to look back and above the Mairie a vast flying creature took to the air. For a moment its wings obscured the moon.
I lost all reason then. I remember little except running for my life. I am sure that at least once I heard the flying creature pass at speed over the tree tops above where I was running. I do not think I even paused to hide. I was in a waking nightmare and only good fortune kept me to the path.
I have no idea how much later it was that the old man pulled me bodily from the chemin and into his house. He slammed and bolted the door behind me; 'Very lucky English' was all he said to me. His wife chattered at me as she thrust a glass of fiery spirit into my hand. I could not understand her patois scolding.
There are things in this world that I try not to think about any more. I might almost say that there is another world, a hidden world. I lost my brother to the eldritch powers of Antrazein and to that hidden world. All I have of him is his ring.
It is hard enough to take part in this normal life knowing, or thinking that I know the things I do, but it is harder still to recall that I left my rucksack hidden in Antrazein and within it my passport.
It is irrational I know, more irrational even than giving credence to my perceptions that night, but no day passes when I do not glance upwards at some movement in the sky, and now, well, I do not venture out at all when the moon is full and the great expanse of the night sky is stretched clear over all of us in the world below.