Fell Runner

Fell Runner

by John Davis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © John Davis 2011

Cover art by Leon Roberts

The right of John Davis to be dentified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

For Jim, who introduced me to Evie.

And for Jen, for everything else.

Chapter One

Evie woke to the God-awful stench of something hippy going on. For a moment, caught between sleeping and waking, fragments of dream still clouded her mind, of running, or of being chased, or perhaps it was she who was chasing, she who was…But even as she thought to grasp hold of the images she knew to be naggingly, frustratingly, familiar, so they slipped further from her and were gone. And cursing under her breath as she rose from the bed, she pulled on tracksuit and trainers before leaving the refuge of her bedroom and entering the chaos that was the McGurk farmstead.

Farmstead. Bullshit. A run-down, damp-running house in the middle of nowhere, that her mother and Ivo thought that they could make self-sufficient. Machine-cut crystals on strings hung from rusting tacks in front of dirty windows; plants that were either dying or out of control and climbing the walls in fertile, futile attempt to escape littered every window sill; half finished, hand painted murals adorned the walls; and do-it-yourself, self-help and self-obsessed books gathered dust on shelves.

In the kitchen, she found the table she had hoped to eat breakfast from covered with newspaper, which was sodden with what could only be described as grey gunk leaking from several wooden twine-bound boxes, their lids pressed down with bricks. The source of the smell.

Blessed be, darling daughter.

A nauseatingly cheerful voice drilled into Evie’s mind and she scowled, the familiar anger stirred by her mother’s incessant good mood churning as acid in her gut. Why it was she could not say, but recently it seemed that her mother’s merest presence was enough to set her teeth grinding together, and her voice set her nerves on edge, made her want to scream; or howl. To answer at all then was an effort, to respond with sufficient forced enthusiasm to avoid the inevitable concern impossible, and so instead she merely gestured at the mess on the table.

What the fuck is that shit, Saffron?

Her mother winced, though whether at Evie’s swearing or refusal to call her mum, Evie could not say. Or care.

It’s fermented tofu, dear, Saffron replied. Or rather, it will be. She peered hopefully into the top of one of the boxes, before replacing the lid and adding another brick to its weight. Though I wonder if I’ve got the balance quite right?

I think it safe to say, Saffron, that you’re pretty fuckin’ unbalanced, Evie retorted. Then, not bothering to wait for either her mother’s inevitable hurt look filled with imminent tears to appear, or for Ivo to come in and make some half-arsed attempt to act the father figure – or at least, the step-father figure – she made her way through the kitchen and out of the house, banging the door shut behind her.

In the yard outside a dozen so chickens pecked half-heartedly at the muddy ground. She aimed an idle kick at one of them in passing, and the others scrambled out of her way in a flurry of feathers and disgruntled squawking. Then, pushing open the garden gate, Evie made her way out into the moors.

The moors. Barren, cold, wild. And hers. The one thing of late that seemed to make living at home bearable. Not that she had much choice. Or rather, she supposed that she could quit college, get a job and move out, but the thought of working all day in some office or warehouse, shut inside and breathing stale air, cramped and confined, was more than she could bear. No doubt eventually someone at the college would figure out that she was never actually there and expel her, but until then, at least, there was the freedom of the moors. The freedom to run, to be alone, to be herself.

Away from the confines of the house, whose walls seemed to close in ever more stiflingly about her, she breathed deep of the cold clear morning air. And now the restless, sourceless frustration, anger, almost, that seemed to twist within her, took on a sense of focus. The need to move, to run, was like an itch deep inside of her that she could never wholly scratch, a wild and untamed energy that stirred within her, clawed at her spirit. She had always run, ever since she was a child, the one thing she was good at, excelled at, the one thing she truly enjoyed. But recently it had become more than something to take pleasure in, it was something she had to do, the only way of easing the tension that built inexorably within her, a way of sating, if but for a time, the wildness, the sense of being caged by her home, her life, herself.

Stretching as she made her way up the pot-holed, crumbling drive that passed for the road from her house, she broke into an easy jog, feet falling into a rhythm as familiar as that of her own heart beat. Then, as she vaulted over a rotting stile and into the trackless reaches of the moors, she lengthened her stride, mossy ground springy beneath her feet.

When she had risen the sun had been shining, offering a hint of the spring that was yet a few weeks or so away. But as she ran the clouds descended, softening the sky, and a light drizzle, more mist than rain, dampened the air, caressing her skin. Breathing deep, she savoured its coolness, and drawing it into herself even as her misted breath mingled with the rain in the air, she imagined the boundaries between her body and the world beyond breaking down, each dissolving into the other, so that she was no longer a person aware of and thus apart from the world, but merely an object among other objects, thoughtless, mindless.

The world closed in about her as she ran on, minutes merging into hours, her existence reduced to the pumping of legs and arms, the placing of one foot in front of the other, the fierce joy of the cold air filling her lungs, the sweet pain of the slow-growing ache in her legs. Gradually her breathing became more laboured, ragged, one to every three paces, then every two, then one. The rain, heavier now, mingled with her sweat, her clothing soaked, clinging to her like a second skin, her coarse black hair plastered to forehead and neck, and as she ran she raised her head to the grey sky, opening her mouth to catch the rain.

Fire burning fierce now in her legs and chest, she pushed onwards, not slowing but rather increasing her pace, driving her body forwards until suddenly the pain fell away, adrenalin coursing now through her veins, so that it was as if it were someone else running, and she just an observer, freed from the shackles of the world. This was what she longed for, struggled for, fought herself and the elements for. For that moment when time loosened its grip, and the world eased its weight from her shoulders, and there was no pain, no suffering, no despair, but only the eternal flowing moment of the present.

For time without time she ran, before of a sudden the shackles that bound her to the world tightened once more, adrenalin no longer sufficient to drive her onwards. And with legs now leaden, each pace was a struggle, each breath a desperate gasp for air. Yet still she continued, face contorted into a scowl born of determination and pain and exhilaration and joy, forcing herself to take one more step, one more step. Until finally, her body gave way, and she collapsed to the ground.

Flat on her back, arms and legs outstretched, she sucked in great gulps of air through the rain which drove down upon her. Her clothes clung to her skin, suffocating, and somehow she found the energy to pull off her top, her trousers, opening herself to the rain and sky. Gradually her breathing slowed, and for the first time she could feel the cold, each raindrop a needle stabbing into her. Yet she did not think to cover herself, instead embracing the rain, the wind, the elements, feeling them drive thought and sense from her, as she gave herself wholly over to the embrace of nature. And finally, finally there came the release she sought, escape from the tension and anger and frustration, as mind emptied, body exhausted, and energies spent, she seemed but a part of the moors, no more aware than the ground beneath her.

Time and sense fell away. And when, finally, they returned, she saw that the sky had darkened further. No soft and pale rain clouds moved upon its face now, but rather the dark and angered high-piled fortresses of a building storm. Tension charged the air, the onset of lightning, and a sudden shiver, of apprehension or excitement or perhaps of both, passed through her numb body. And forcing her limbs to work, she rose to her feet, pulling on her sodden clothing before staggering into an unsteady jog, crying out from the pain as blood drove itself into the cold extremities of her body.

But the discomfort only lasted a moment. And then, once again, there came the freedom of movement as she settled into her stride and rhythm. But even as she ran, so the tension in the air increased. She had felt it before, when out running on the moors in recent weeks, even when the weather was clear, a feeling of strangeness, of unease, as if something were watching her even though she knew she was alone, a rootless, sourceless sense of fear. Always she had shrugged it off, lost herself in the act of running. And so unthinking she increased her pace, the instinctive reaction of the hunted. But now fear, real fear, threatened to take hold of her, rootless, groundless, yet the more pervasive for so being. She glanced over her shoulder, wet hair whipping into her eyes, and for a moment imagined that she could see something following her, dark and formless, rushing silent over the land. A blink of the eye and it was gone, dissolving into the rain-lashed landscape, leaving her wondering whether she had seen anything at all, or rather only the shadow of her own fears given form. But the terror remained, grew, and she increased her pace yet more, sprinting now. Panic gripped her, and tears merged with the rain that lashed her face as, mouth open, each breath came borne upon a cry of desperation. Impossible to dare to look back again; there was only the chase, and she ran for her life.

And stumbled.

The ground slammed into her with the weight of a punch, knocking the breath from her body, one leg twisting beneath her as her face ground deep into the earth. Struggling to rise only to slip again on the muddied grass, she managed to turn onto her back as whatever she was running from gained on her, coming ever closer. And she could only raise a trembling hand in futile effort to ward it off.

Esti emos lawero. That’ll be enough.

A tenor voice, rich and powerful, cut through the rising storm, and turning her head Evie saw a figure emerge from the curtain of rain. Tall, and dressed in a long brown coat, he leaned on a carven walking staff. But then she blinked against the rain and it was no longer a coat he wore but a robe, thick and woollen, and the staff was now plainly cut, still with its bark attached. And then he was dressed not in robes but in the skin of some brown-pelted beast, before again it was a leather coat, heavily waxed so that the rain poured from it, and it seemed almost to shimmer in remnants of the dying light.

Standing before her, placing himself between her and whatever approached, he raised his hand, a hand first old and gnarled then young and pale, now manicured and delicate, now with nails blunted and broken. And incredibly, whatever was out there in the darkness seemed to pause. She could sense, somehow, its confusion, its doubt, its fear. For a moment it hesitated, torn between pursuit and flight. And then it was gone.

Released from its spell, Evie collapsed back to the ground, shivering now not with fear but cold, the hill where she had fallen high on the moors, wind-whipped and exposed to the elements. A strong hand gripped her wrist, and she found herself pulled to her feet. Teeth chattering, she looked up into blue eyes framed by browned features, brown eyes above a thick beard, green eyes above pale, clean-shaven cheeks. And only the man’s voice seemed to remain constant when he spoke, coming as if from the depths of the earth yet with the melodic resonance of the sky, as he regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and surprise, and something else too; admiration, perhaps?

This is no place nor time to be out wandering, he said. Indeed, it is a wonder you found your way here at all. Yet here you are, and so I deem it best that you come now with me.

His grip on her arm was firm, and she could sense within him a strength that belied his form, which remained slender even as it shifted before her. A strength born of the earth, the land, within him even as granite shaped and lent its solidity to the moors, unseen save for where it penetrated the thin skin of grass and ground but present, felt, nevertheless. And there was about him too a sense of security, of the fire that holds the darkness at bay, that was reassuring, almost familiar, touching something deep within Evie’s heart, something which stirred in response.

His grip. On her arm.