Simon sat idly in the carriage as it bore down the beaten path past large trees entrenched on by vines and through thick mud that threatened to engulf the small party whole at any moment.
The old carriage seemed to drag endlessly through the world. First, the hooves of the horses in front clattered and clopped loudly on the paved streets of that godforsaken borough for long minutes, then the carriage trundled haphazardly along beaten paths through defeated foliage, and now they seemed to trudge and wade through thick mud that threatened to consume them.
Simon sighed loudly to no one as he was dragged through the mud, after all, this was his duty. His, and his alone, as the newest officer appointed of the Arima borough. But there was no point in ruminating on issues like this, they were best left to sunnier days that would surely come once he was done with this tedious task. With one last thought, he dispelled the small ‘city’ from his mind, “Fucking natives.”
It was then that the carriage came to a sudden halt, first signalled by a loud whinny of the two horses in front, followed by some cursing of the coachman and finally the ceasing of the near incessant rumbling he’d become so familiar with over the last couple hours.
Simon pushed open the carriage door and jumped out, only to be swallowed up to his ankles in thick mud. He cursed silently to himself as he gazed about him, taking in as much as the environment as he could. He seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, the path they’d been on stopping rather abruptly with the same large trees bordering on each side, just as impenetrable as ever. The rain quickly soaked his clothing, the hard pellets seemingly attempting to rip through the fabric as it pelted him. With a grunt the coachman jumped down and joined him, he looked as annoyed and angry as Simon felt.
“What is this rubbish?” The man asked him angrily as if Simon had been the one who dictated the path and the sudden stop himself.
“How on Earth should I know? I paid you to drop me to this blasted estate and now we’re lost? Do I have the full grasp of the situation here?”
The man seemed ready to say something, perhaps to curse him out but instead, he released a heavy sigh and took a step towards Simon. Simon flinched, fully expecting the brute to assault him and altogether end him in the forest. Perhaps that was the ruffian’s plan, lead him to nowhere only to slaughter him. Instead, he heard a laugh and then the heavy, squelching footfalls as the man trudged past him. He seemed to be carefully scanning both the trees and the ground as if looking for something, at least that’s what Simon thought, he could make out nothing but the occasional twist of the man’s head and the bending of his weathered but strong body.
Simon occupied himself elsewhere, deciding to return to the carriage to survey his belongings. He’d engrossed himself in this pointless task when the man’s voice called out again, “You got a torch or a lantern, Sir?” The man’s voice was absolutely dripping with feigned respect but Simon ignored it, he would have to. Against his better judgement, Simon attempted to light the gauze wrapped torch within the carriage, telling himself that the rain would render it incombustible outside.
To no one’s surprise, the fire took very well within the dry, wooden chamber of the carriage. So well that it leapt from the torch and onto the drapery, quickly consuming that before properly spreading to the walls. Soon the carriage driver would have more light than necessary or intended.
Simon stumbled out the door screaming like the fool he was, barely managing to keep hold of his torch as he tripped out into the mud. He saw nothing, but in the commotion, he heard the coachman screaming and the horses whinnying and, when he eventually found it fit to stand again, he was greeted by a very, very angry man leading two terrified horses.
“You will pay for the cost of that carriage and double for this accursed trip! I know you have the money, all you rich dolts drain the Queen’s coffers dry!”
Again, Simon flinched, he swore the man was about to beat him down into the mud. Instead, he was roughly dragged up, out of the mud, the steely grip of the man tight around his previously untarnished, royal blue undershirt. The coachman released Simon’s shirt in disgust once he saw his whimpering face, shaking his hand clean of the muck as if the man, an officer sent by her majesty himself, was now beneath even the slaves they subjugated. With a grunt, the man snatched Simon’s torch and marched off. He followed a path that led into the forest he’d apparently found in the commotion, torch in one hand, horse reins in the other.
Simon scampered wordlessly after the burly, intimidating man. He’d find his pompousness later, for now, all he desired was a renewed sense of safety, shelter from the rain and a place away from the burning wreckage that not cast the shadows of hell itself upon the foliage and trees. Images of demonic dances seemed to flicker upon the area, perhaps a premonition of what was to come he thought.
The coachman followed a narrow path that barely fit the animals through the forest, the horses close behind him and Simon behind them. Eventually, the trees gave way and the ground solidified. He found himself walking uphill for what felt like an eternity before they finally arrived at an estate. Simon wasn’t sure just what he was looking at when he saw it, the massive building was not at all what he expected.
It was a massive, wooden structure that was in an amazing state of disrepair. All around it was signs of conflict, damaged walls and shattered window panes with the occasional odd deep scratch from some kind of foreign beast. Occasionally he’d spy a detail that implied the glorious empire it hailed from, the architecture of the chosen ones, from the occasional cross adorning a small arch or beautiful patterns and shape language he knew all too well. Some walls seemed reinforced with a thick, heavy mortar; the hardened sludge seeming to consume the walls more than holding it up in some parts, as if the world itself intended to swallow it whole.
The coachman seemed to pay no attention to any of this and walked right up to the massive building, horses in tow and rapped so loudly against the door Simon feared that it might cave in.
--
The door was answered by a rather mean looking fellow. He had thick creases on his forehead and a small, retreating crown of grey hair on an otherwise pale white surface. He must’ve been tall and proud in his prime, but now he had a very pronounced hunch. He was propped up by a long, dark rod that was about half his height, forcing him to bend low to use it. Simon noticed the man’s eyes, they seemed perpetually bloodshot and near unblinking, with veins that bulged from the gelatinous orbs. His face seemed to alternate between moments of lost confusion to an intense fit of anger and hatred at something more. Then he noticed the old man’s clothes. He wore a surprisingly clean and very expensive-looking, pressed uniform. It was a beautiful blue with golden accents and red underclothes that stood in drastic contrast to the now dilapidated estate as if the man was a relic of a war long fought overseas. He recognised it as belonging to France, Simon’s birthplace and second home after Great Britain.
“You the owner of this estate, right? Well, my name’s Geraldt. I was hired by that dolt behind me to escort him here on some command by the nearby borough but we ran into some trouble and the cart burnt down. I don’t know about the man behind me but I need some shelter, will you be able to help me?” The coachman’s forwardness startled Simon and for a second he feared they’d be turned away until the old man gave him a nod and nothing more.
He took a step back and to the side, allowing the coachman in, an offer that was quickly accepted after he tied his horses to one of the few posts that still remained standing. Without asking another question, the coachman simply left, entering into the estate and disappearing within its halls as if he knew the place. This left Simon alone with the old man now, who seemed content to say nothing and simply glare at him, with that same disgruntled confusion, as if he was looking through Simon rather than at him. Whatever was playing out in his mind, it was bad.
After what seemed like an eternity, Simon finally located his vocal cords, “Err, Hello? My name is Simon, as the previous fellow stated I am an officer sent by her majesty after a report was filed about a...slave revolt? I have my um, documents on me.” At this, Simon began frantically searching his various pockets until he procured a document a short moment later. The parchment was partially soiled but the royal insignia and stamp were still clearly visible. He tried to hand it to the man for inspection but it was waved away.
“Yes, we were...attacked. The savages killed most of my men then ran off into the woods. I’m sure they’ll be back soon enough, either to kill the rest of us or take whatever’s left. Why’d they send just you?”
“Attacked, sir? I thought it was a revolt. Often they simply flee and are nev-”
“Will you shut that blasted mouth of yours? I’m telling you they attacked us and left. They’ll be back surely. Especially after what happened. You can stay with us for a day, then you’ll be off. We need an army. I’m sure her MAJESTY can scrape together enough of you imbeciles to help suppress a couple of niggers. Get in the house, I’m sure they already know you’re here.” Simon stared slack-jawed at the man’s tone, still in that curious state of confusion that had taken hold of him.
A few moments passed and then he simply entered the building, likely out of fear that his invitation wouldn’t last if he dallied any longer. He was met by a dark-skinned girl who was just out of view from the doorway. She was a pretty thing, with dark curly, and a nice smile but had a very curious limp, as if one of her feet was longer than the other. Simon couldn’t bring himself to question it and was content to simply be led to his room by her for the moment.
She left him soon after he entered, telling him to simply call for help should he desire her services in what he thought was an attractive mix of French patois, African creole and British pronunciation.
Long hours were spent by Simon, holed up in his room doing absolutely nothing. He thought of the actions that had unfolded before, the carriage catching aflame and their underreaction to it. It seemed as if an odd numbness had overcome him once he’d left the fledgeling town’s borders. Then he thought of the brown beauty, her soft voice that seemed to entrance him and how uncomfortable her charms were. A shame she belonged to their kind, she’d surely breed young that shared at least a decent portion of her charm. Then he thought of her caramel skin, the light brown tone that indicated a dilution of the dirtiness made him feel almost proud, if not a bit revolted.
Then a curious thought occurred to him, but before he had the chance to dissect it he was brought back to reality by a knock on the door.
It was the same coloured woman from before, now in a beautiful white dress that made little attempt to hide her shapely figure. He found his eyes drawn uncharacteristically to her body, tempted by her form despite her genetic origins. She said something to him in that same pretty voice but he heard none of it, only fantasies of being with her filled his mind. Only when she gestured to him and began to walk off did he realise that a conversation had occurred.
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She led him to the dining hall which had miraculously remained unharmed. The large room was filled with beautiful paintings depicting classical renaissance majesty alongside the large, powerful ships of the navy of the French navy.
The table had a banquet laid out, covered in many kinds of meats, bread and other meals that had been expertly prepared by chefs, a feat he found impressive seeing as the plantation master implied that most of the staff were slaughtered.
The coachman who had escorted him was already seated there, engrossed in gorging himself upon the food set before him with an almost pig-like intensity. The plantation master was also there, who Simon finally remembered might’ve been named Jean Thurei. Thurei was involved in a rather loud conversation with another seated man who had features that didn’t seem to typically belong to either of the great nations of France or Great Britain but he shared the same white skin and rosy accents typical of both. The conversation seemed to span all possible emotional spectrums and would alternate within them quite quickly, moving from heated argument to jovial laughter to long bouts of weeping. It was mostly conducted in French or what Simon guessed might’ve been Russian but occasionally English words and phrases would be thrown about.
At one point, in a heated section, Jean erupted in anger and the words ‘filthy good for nothing nig-” managed to leave his mouth before he seemed to catch himself. A long silence followed that moment and he looked at the black servant who’d led me about the mansion prior for several long seconds before resuming his conversation. Simon couldn’t tell if his expression was one of fear or anger or if it changed between a mix of both just as the conversation did but the woman showed no signs of awareness and simply continued eating quietly at the table.
Hesitantly, he ate the prepared food. He’d managed to gather from the conversation that it was all prepared by the same woman seated near him and that she was named ‘Cassandra’, a distinctly Non-African name. She was skilled at foraging and gardening and had employed those skills to season the various foods she’d prepared to perfection.
He’d never tasted anything as delicious as that and found himself eagerly sating his hunger with the abundant amount of food set before them.
Once finished, Simon announced his departure to his quarters but no one seemed to pay any attention. With a shrug, Simon left but only after ogling Cassandra’s features one last time. Her plate was mostly empty, he’d noticed but in his current state of satisfaction, he couldn’t be bothered to concern himself with the eating habits of a coloured woman.
He walked slowly down the dark hallways that were now illuminated by the occasional lantern and the moonlight that streamed in. Gnarled shadows were cast through the arched window by the trees and shrubbery outside and Simon saw many hands that seemed to grasp and reach out around him on the walls.
Once in his room, Simon collapsed on his bed and was almost immediately swept away by the tides of slumber. In the distance, just before he drifted off completely, he swore he could hear crying and the occasional womanly scream in the background.
Again, he dismissed his instincts but he was roused again an indeterminate amount of time later by the loud boom of thunder and the occasional flash of lightning. It was still night but some hours had to have passed since, because now, even through the heavy cloud cover his room seemed to be brighter than before. The rain poured in heavy, muffled droplets, rattling against the roof.
It was as he was gazing out the window as he saw the first of the beings. It came as an odd light in the distance at first, bobbing and weaving through the trees as its light illuminated the area with flickers and flashes. As it drew nearer he made out more details, first that it seemed to be a massive ball of floating flame. Next, he saw that within it was what seemed to be a giant cart’s wheel, twirlings and spinning swiftly on many axes. Then, in the centre of that, he saw what he thought was a human. It was this figure that made him understand and realise what he was looking at. It was the figure of an old woman, her skin peeled off and her figure aflame, her muscles, tendons and skeletons exposed to the heat. The wailing followed after as it drew ever closer and only when it crashed through his window did he realise that he could run.
Broken from the trance, Simon scampered along the floor. A bright flash of lightning and the loud boom of thunder seemed perfectly synced with the soucouyant’s entrance as it rained glass shards upon the floor. His room caught aflame quickly, much like the carriage before Simon thought as he left. He heard her cruel cackling and the crackling of the flame as he left the room and bolted down the hallway, just barely managing to slam the door before exiting.
The being didn’t seem to give chase but Simon didn’t want to wait and see if it would eventually. He accepted the headstart graciously as he bolted, unsure of just where he was going.
Perhaps he’d find the coachman and his horses, yes, then they could ride out of this cursed place and be done with this blasted task he thought. In his confusion, Simon turned a corner, paying little attention to the possible obstacles or the flash of light from the crying skies that illuminated it beforehand.
It was a person, and he’d slammed right into them, into her and taken them both down in the process. He opened his eyes slowly to find himself pressed against the body of Cassandra.
“Mr Simon, are you alright?” Cassandra asked, apparently having learnt his name.
“Aye, yes, I’m fine, but what the blazes are you doing here in the middle of the night? Ne- never mind that anyway, I saw a thing! I think a soucouyant’s after us! We have to go. NOW!” And with that, he pulled himself up and grabbed her hand in an attempt to yank her up and run as well.
She resisted and pulled away from him, a look of pain forming on her face then that of understanding and then something else. Wordlessly she stood and stepped towards him and took his hand in hers, leading it to her body. He felt the softness of her body and for a moment he faltered and forgot what was happening.
“You needn’t lie to get what you want, Mr Simon,” she said in almost a whisper, her voice as sweet as ever. He felt another need begin to grow and his grip tighten and squeeze down on something amazingly soft, the woman’s bosom.
“I- what? What’re you talking about, woman?” He asked, his tone confused and voice very, very high.
Cassandra was still wearing that white dress from before and in the dark hallway the fabric seemed translucent and he could make out the finer details of her figure. He’d been slowly corralled up against the wall by the woman, his back pressing on the cold window that vibrated from the force of the rain outside. Another flash of lightning illuminated something he saw only for a split second. He’d barely managed to glimpse it but it explained what he’d noticed before. The woman’s left leg was indeed different from her right. It was that of a goat’s, covered in dense furs that ended in a hoof.
“Y-you’re a. You’re a… le diable no...la diablesse. You’re a she-demon, woman! I know what you are.” Simon said as he rejected the woman. He pushed her with all the force he could muster, enough to send her down hard against the floor sprawling.
He didn’t look back then as he ran but he swore he heard more laughter, that same mocking cackling as before.
Simon turned many corners as he barreled down the labyrinthian hallways, losing any semblance of direction he might’ve had. Eventually, he arrived at a long-dead hallway that led to nothing. It didn’t seem to have a purpose but at the end was a window that led outside, he could make out the vague features of large, long trees stretching out into the sky from the distance but saw no shrubbery and no roots to indicate the ground.
His mind still frantic, he continued hurtling down the hallway before he threw himself full force against the window. The glass shattered easily, splinters showering his body and covering him in many small cuts as he escaped into the cold midnight air.
He landed on a slope and in the rain the ground had become quite slippery, his bare feet unable to find any grip. The momentum of the fall carried him forward, his body turning several times as he was bathed in mud and tumbled down the hill. He hit several things on the way down but the worst came at the end when he felt his body break upon a large unyielding tree. He heard a loud snapping sound a numb pain in one of his arms but felt too weak to properly acknowledge it.
In the last moments of his current consciousness, he heard footsteps and the high pitched chatter of many voices. His eyes, barely held open with the full exertion of his being, glimpsed many humans walking about. But something was odd, they seemed off as if the feet had been turned backwards or they were somehow back-bowed.
These were his last thoughts as he drifted off completely, dreaming of nothing as many hands took hold of him and lifted him off into the night.
--
Simon awoke in what he thought was another part of the forest, pushed up against a tree. His mind felt foggy as if something was missing. He found he had a hard time focusing and recapping what had happened. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed or how he got here but he had more wounds than before. Several deep cuts were made along his arms and legs and he swore he saw the occasional odd symbol etched. It troubled him that they didn’t hurt, even when he touched them. They’d ooze blood when he poked and pulled at them, and an odd yellow crust had begun to form at some areas but none of his cuts hurt. They didn’t feel numb, they simply felt like another part of his skin.
Standing up, he felt his limbs grow heavy and fatigued rather quickly as if it was a chore simply to do that. He ignored it and took several steps forward, scanning the area.
He’d thought he was completely alone but now he heard the faint sounds of people in the distance, loud and boisterous. Simon moved towards them as best as he could, slowly navigating the landscape. He could barely make out the position of the moon through the forest foliage.
It had moved a bit closer to the horizon now, indicating that it was somewhat close to the night’s end. A new light had begun to take hold as well, the faint orange-purpleness accompanied with dawn’s coming.
Eventually, he arrived at the source of the sounds and as he neared them they became unbearably loud, echoing through his skull. It was like the gibber of loud monkeys crossed with some kind of guttural incoherence. As disturbing as the sounds were, he was drawn to them. Whether it was curiosity or some other force taking hold of him he wasn’t sure.
Simon pushed past several low hanging branches and entered into an enclosure to see the source of the sounds. There were many large dark figures chanting, dancing and screaming around a fire. Their bodies were grotesque and malformed, bending and warping in unnatural ways as they moved in the light. Yet they still seemed strong; many of their figures were large and burly with impressive statures. There were many gashes, cuts and scars on their limbs with some even having what resembled bullet wounds. The most troubling parts were their faces however; It was all unpleasantly human but for the horns that sprouted from their temples, crooked and curved. Their faces were contorted into snarls as they continued their ritualistic dancing.
Almost unconsciously, Simon moved closer, drawn like a moth to a flame. He pushed past gnarled branches that scratched at his skin until he was mere metres away from them. Even at this distance they didn’t seem to care, their movements and sounds slowly intensifying as they continued. He could see that they all seemed naked, their genitals exposed and their bodies covered in various paints and dirt.
It was when their ceremony reached its peak that Simon sought to flee. The fire at the centre flared up, becoming so intensely hot that it scorched his skin even from a distance. It grew into a large pillar before taking shape, morphing into that of a man. Then it changed further and grew larger until no human could rival its height, standing several metres tall. Ram’s horns grew from the creature’s head, seeming to endlessly curve into the air. Its legs seemed to slowly move backwards, breaking themselves and becoming back-bowed as the feet changed to that of a hoofed creature. Then its arms seem to lengthen unnaturally, its fingers becoming long claws that might easily tear a man in half. Its face further lengthened then, resembling that of a stag crossed with a man.
The creature seemed to rejoice in their praise, relishing it as it raised its arms.
Then the fiery creature turned its head and looked at Simon, its shifting golden eyes staring into his very soul. Its arms reached out to him, seemingly stretching and reaching through all its worshippers to touch Simon. The movement was unnatural and its reach extended much longer than it reasonably should’ve. It stopped just short of his face, a long claw hovering so close to his cheek that he could feel the heat emanating from it and the fire lapping at his skin. Simon stepped back in a panic before turning to run.
The creature spoke as he did so, the voice talking directly in his head as the floor rumbled with each rasping, grating enunciation, “I am the devil, evil reborn. Flee you fool, lest my people rip you limb from limb.”
Simon did exactly that as he willed himself forward through the trees. He followed his senses, moving where they led. The creature or its followers didn’t seem to give chase but not once did Simon slow down, his body overcome with a very familiar panic.
He ran for what felt like hours on end, slowly making his way over trees, rocks and other obstacles. Occasionally he spied something odd through the trees or marks on the surroundings like massive paw or hoof prints indicating several large beasts. There was also the occasional deep gash in the tree from where several sharp things cut into it, almost tearing the wood apart completely. But there definitely weren’t stag or wolves in this forest.
This seemed to elicit a response from Simon as he moved faster through the trees until he was moving full sprint. Branches pulled and scratched at his skin but he didn’t seem to care, his heavy footfalls clumsy. He was definitely injured, he knew that by the way his vision bobbed and his body limped but he felt nothing, none of the telltale pain.
Eventually, his mind grew dull and the unfamiliar scenery fazed him no longer. His haste-filled steps became slow trudges as his heart began to slow.
The sound of the ocean and its waves grew louder, first as a soft crashing until he could hear what he thought was an odd churning as if the sea had become a large stirring pot.
It was as if an odd being had taken hold of his body and, though he could still think, the will to move wasn’t his own. The serenity grew into a melancholic longing until he felt a great aching desire to reach the shore, something was waiting for him. The dense foliage slowly gave way, and in its place stood tall palm trees, slender things that seemed to bow their head in mourning as he walked past.
His heart still recovering from his franticness and his breaths still slow and heavy, he finally stopped. He collapsed onto his knees, spilling himself onto the cool, damp sand in the pale moonlet enclosure. The saltwater lapped at his legs, at his exposed wounds but he felt not the sting of the brine, instead replaced by the kiss of the mermaid.
He saw nothing there but knew of its presence, something deep within his consciousness knew. A beauty deep within the ocean called to him and was waiting for him. He had enough of this cruel planet’s torture and would willingly give himself over to Mother Ocean. He stood once again and gazed into the waters and the horizon. He swore he saw many shadows and movements but they only drew him in further.
Small tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he was slowly overwhelmed with the beauty of the ocean.
And as he slowly left the shore and waded into the water the words came upon his lips as if forming on its own. He found himself whispering her name, over and over as if in incantation as the waters swept up and engulfed him, “Mama...Mama D’lo.”