For those departing

Those who’ve never been here call it ‘The Land of Shadows’. A misnomer if ever there was one. But as no one ever returns or, more properly, is never seen again who is there to correct them?

As for those who do arrive. They learn the truth. Eventually. It takes a while for them to come to terms with what has happened, where they are. Then they realise. After the shouting, the screaming, the fear that no one hears and we who are here care not one whit for, and less about, there is action. Running, crawling, stumbling. The desire to find their way ‘out’ as if there was such a thing. As if where they had come from is, any more. It may take days for them to realise, but they always do for it is ineluctable. Even an idiot will realise, eventually. E-ven-tu-al-lyyyy. The word flies around inside the watcher’s head like a ghost having lost its chance of solace, too tired to continue but unable to stop and know rest.

It seems strange to him that he can remember this word. Strange too, that he uses it, that it seems to act as a companion to the one now in front of him. He watches her with no feeling save that he has had a thought and it is … so long since he did this: that thing called thinking that once he did daily, without even knowing it. And so you miss what is gone only when…when the moment comes that you do.

He turns his attention to the fallen; just in time. She starts to scream. Loud, harsh, sharp; it would be so painful to he and all those watching who never utter a word all the day long. And she screams and shakes and rolls and vents her fear upon herself because there is nothing else to vent it upon. And surrounded by the misconception of her now-useless senses, she fails to notice that the rules have changed: her screams are silent, unheard. For here there is no sound.

The watcher watches. What else is there to do? Not ask questions, certainly, but perhaps this is a special day, or he is too young, too new. An older watcher would have forgotten thought long ago, there being no point for such a useless tool here.
They would have forgotten when they arrived, how they felt, how they came to stay and what it is to feel sympathy for the young woman in front of them.

Still she screams and it seems to the watcher that she will be slow to turn. As this comes to mind so does another anomaly: a memory. Long, detailed, he remembers how he was when he first came here:

Dark. All around is dark. For hours, days, even all he can see is dark. It cannot be longer than days; without food and drink he would not be here still. Though how he got here is a mystery in itself, so perhaps there is more to this than…he does not allow himself to finish, but he knows already that the phrase ‘meets the eye’ is ironic and his predicament too grim for him to raise even a bitter smile. After all, if he stays here, he will die. And who wants that?

He does not. Not in this land of … he pauses. The Land of Shadows. This must be where he is, but…where are the shadows? Shadows need light to live and here there is none, or so it seems. For he can see. All around, blackness. But not complete. He is not blind, but all he can see is darkness. Darkness ahead of, in front of, behind and beyond and through…darkness.

This is enough for him, however. Enough for him to resolve to walk and explore this new world. Perhaps it is just a large cave and when he fell, he knocked his head? He has, of course, felt for the bump on his head to confirm this story and knows there is none, but why give up on reason when otherwise is…what? Insanity? No. He is too practical for that.

And so he walks.

How long and how far, he cannot guess. It does not seem important but gradually, step by step it seems to him that he can make out his surroundings. And…it is night. Almost midnight, in fact. He knows this, yet he has no way of knowing it nor any reason to think it. Just a feeling, growing inside him, a moment of realisation that spreads languidly like ink through water.

And as the ink spreads, so too do the shadows around him. Yes, shadows. At first tens and then hundreds of them. Faceless, voiceless, shadows of men with no features at all; just dark outlines of men, uniform in every way. As he walks, he realises that he is walking in the opposite direction to most of them. No, to all of them. And now the hundreds become thousands. Where once he could almost walk through them as if they were indeed shadows, now he realises that this is getting harder. Harder to the point of a fight for every step. A fight that saps his sagging strength and prompts the weary desire to turn and be carried away. Back. Back to where it was he came from.

There is no need to turn as now simply not resisting means he is carried along with the wave of …millions? For all around him, as far as he can see is a solid shadow that moves as one.Somehow, though this is another thing that cannot be explained he can see it stretches for miles and miles to his left and right and in fron t of him and behind him is….He is right at the forefront. Right in the very front row of this vanguard of black that marches on, noiselessly, ceaselessly, with no apparent movement save that which his senses tell him is taking place.

He wonders what they think of him, pale, tall, hairy, with sharp angles and ragged clothes and as he does so panic grips him. “Where are they going? What are they doing? Who will they see?” Looking as he does, an alien among…shadows, and at the front of the crowd he knows he will be noticed immediately. “What if they mean me harm? What if they wish to sacrifice me?” Such thoughts occur in strange situations and he decides that he should hide. Just to be safe.

“But how?”

Realising the futility of this he decides that he should disguise himself and starts to look closely at his companions. “Perhaps they are more like him than it at first seemed?”

But no. They seem to possess no garments at all.

There is no rhythm to their wash and this makes him wonder how they move. He tries to look, but cannot see below the waistline. In turn his curiosity moves upwards and he cannot see if they have arms, or not, or how he is being carried, but carried he is; he knows his legs are mute, making no pattern of steps to jar his spine. Tiring quickly of this, he turns away, not even bothering to look to see if they have faces and for a brief moment catches what he thinks are eyes.

Just two, set in the head like a human. But these eyes belong to no man, or no man he has ever met. Not cold and pinched like those he has argued with or large and defiant like those he has killed. Not even dead and uncomprehending like the animals and insects he would fight for right to swelter in peace.

No. These eyes were …malevolent, soulless. Somehow he knew they wished only to see his complete and total destruction, the erasure of his pitiful being. And his very being screamed and shook and sought to save itself even by dying, just as his body shrunk into a hunched, tiny, crumpled sack of despair.

They had stopped. How long he did not know, but now he had other things to worry about.

He was in front of a stage. On the stage were two spotlights being played over the crowd. “What a waste!” he thought and turned to look over his shoulder to confirm that the spotlights would not penetrate the dark or show up the shadows for being something else.

He was right on both accounts, but what the lights did, somehow, was highlight the robed figure on the stage. The figure in the royal blue robes with yellow stars on it. The hooded, faceless figure, who seemed to be speaking to the crowd; noiselessly.

The crowd reacted by swaying and he swayed with them. The speaker became more animated, or so it seemed, because the more it spoke, the more the crowd swayed and swayed and he thought he would be tipped over and in the ensuing melee would be there: discovered. Highlighted and alone, a last second in the light before the inevitable frenzy of hate overtook and destroyed him.

Freeing his arms, he reached over his head. Why? A desire for survival that tapped into unknown knowledge in this unknown place? Luck? What is luck? Whatever prompted this, he knows it was his salvation.

Somehow, as he reached up, up and over, he felt something and pulled it forward. Like a lid over an eye, it curved over his form perfectly, covering him in shadow. He was one of them! And safe! Safe to sway and not worry about the fall that would never come.

When the lights went out, it was…almost…anticlimactic. No sacrifice, no bloody catharsis and release.

The crowd thinned. Almost immediately he felt the pressure ease and as it did so, he became aware of how much he had felt as his sides, bruised in aching relief stretched out to their full width. His feet sank to the solid…dark below and, now rested, seemed to take on a life of their own quickly, but not too quickly, taking him in reverse, away from the stage and the doom part of him still felt was inevitable were he to remain there.

He walked and walked and as he did so, he kept his ‘hood’ on, even when he was once again alone. After a long long while, when he was certain he was safe, he would remove it, he said but not for the moment. When that moment would come, he could not say, for all that he could remember was that he walked and walked and now he was here, with the woman now in front of him.

She had stopped her futile attempt to shatter the immutable silence and had taken to her feet. Tentatively, furtively, she was sliding one foot in front of the other. A baby’s uncertainty in her adult steps, she was making her way towards him. Slowly, unsurely, she would, at some time reach him.
Impassively he watched. He could remove his veil, reveal himself and give her unfair comfort but any desire he had had to remove his shadow shell was long since gone.

Instead he watched as her fear left her and her steps grew faster and stronger.

She was gaining his position now and would be with him at any moment and he wondered what to do, how he should react.

Then he felt it. The tug. This time he did not look around; there was no need.

And as the woman reaches him, he begins to walk.