Campfire Stories 11 at #OurAuthorGang

 The Moon Bears Witness by Dawn Treacher

The rucksack was far heavier than she'd anticipated, the air fare exceeded her budget, just, but Frances had already booked time off work, boasted about it to her friends and bought a full colour guidebook.

It was happening and she wasn't going to let her niggling lack of confidence stop her this time, nor the reservations of her work colleague.

"You're seriously going hiking with someone you met online?"

"It's not like that, Tasmin, it's a reputable guide, with fellow hikers."

"But it's off grid, right, as in, wild camping, carrying your own water, no toilet, that kind of off grid?"

"Look, Tasmin, I'll be thirty next month and I haven't even been on holiday abroad, not once. You know what I said about this year, it's time to stretch those horizons, seek out new experiences."

"Yes, I get that, but I was thinking along the lines of trying the new Malaysian restaurant, enrolling in a language course, looking for a better job, not using behind a bush for a toilet in front of strangers and making one pair of knickers last three days.”

Frances couldn’t wait to tell Tasmin just how wrong she’d been. Having arrived in her destination, they’d been walking three days. She’d been expecting to meet the guide, Anya, plus two more hikers but when she got off the plane there was only Anya to meet her. Her fellow would be hikers had cried off; a medical emergency, a family funeral. Those things happen. But immediately Frances took a liking to Anya. Her appearance was striking, her enthusiasm contagious. After only a hour’s hiking across the windswept landscape, the air hot and dry, Frances had easily forgotten the fresh blisters that formed, the weight of her pack, the insects which bit her exposed arms.

On their third evening, Anya chose a site next to a deep blue lake.

“We’ll set camp here”, she said. “Make a fire.”

Frances had surprised herself by quickly picking up skills she’d never dreamed of, collecting wood, getting a campfire to spark, and nurturing the flames. The smell of smoke heralded the chance to massage her feet, absorb the stillness of the air, enjoy the rugged landscape of boulders, the fragrant spruce, the water before her a pool of the deepest blues. But most of all, Frances relished listening to Anya, who would talk until the moon was their light, the air filled with the sounds of the night. Frances had never sat by a campfire before; she loved the smell of it, the sound, the sound of Anya’s voice, deep and rich at times, haunting. The light of the fire warmed the colour of Anya’s skin. Anya’s tales had been of her adventures, the people she’d met, the legends which ran through the regions like seams of precious metal through rock. Like a small child listening to a mother, Frances had been entranced by her words, words which brought alive places she’d never been, people that seemed so real they could have been sitting with them, sharing the hot tea they’d brewed, laughing together. But that evening something had shifted, in the way Anya had moved closer to the fire letting the heat of its flames glow on her face, glint in her eyes. Her voice took on an edge of chill which made the skin on Frances’ arms inadvertently shiver.

“They say the water here holds a secret,” said Anya, sitting crossed legged beside the fire, her eyes never leaving those of Frances.

“What kind of secret?”

“The water bears the souls of the dead.”

Frances shifted her position on the ground. “You mean, someone died here?”

Anya looked out across the water. She picked up a small stone that sat near her feet and skimmed it across the lake; it skipped several times before disappearing into the inky depths.

“Not everyone who has walked this land leaves it. It is said the souls of three campers remain here .The missing are not always found.”

“What happened to them?” asked Frances.

“Their stories have never been told,” said Anya “But their absence is still felt, appeals from

their families still ardent, despite the years which have passed.”

Something moved in the shadows beside them. A wisp of cloud moved across the face of the moon.

“But you shouldn’t fear the wilds,” continued Anya. “We are born from the earth, we encompass it, we are part of it and one day we will return to it.”

She eased another log in place. A new spark ignited, a flare in the dark. The shadows deepened across the lake. A cry of an animal rang out, its echo blown across the water. A larger drift of cloud shrouded the moon. Frances wrapped a small blanket around her shoulders.

“Do you know who these campers were?” asked Frances.

“I’ve heard their names. They weren’t much older than you. They came seeking adventure. But some adventurers are misguided. I believe the youngest made the mistake of coming alone.”

An uneasiness tingled in Frances’ legs, rising up into her whole being. “Are you saying they may be around somewhere?”

“They were reported to have walked these mountains, these hills, trodden the ground we walked today, yes. They too looked at these waters, smelt this air. These rocks heard their voices, that moon looked down upon their faces. This land knows their stories.”

“But haven’t they been looked for, has this area been searched?” asked Frances, staring into the lake before her.

“Why of course. But no trace was found. Rain cleanses the rocks, time erodes details.”

“But what about the lake?” Frances tucked the blanket up around her chin and shifted a little further from the water’s edge.

“Oh, the lake will never give up its secrets. Its waters run deep, too deep. This place is too remote. You know yourself the gradient you’ve climbed, the twists of the paths, the density of the trees, in places so close there is barely air between them to breathe. No, the water will hold their souls, their truth.

Anya inched nearer to where Frances huddled. Her mind flew to Tasmin, their banter about wild camping. Frances wished she’d stuck to learning a foreign language. The very ground beneath her seamed to tremble.

“Do you really believe their bodies are in this lake?” Frances’ words seemed to shiver as they left her lips.

“I know they are,” said Anya. “But don’t worry, I see fear in your eyes. I am your guide. I know this place better than anyone. I’ve swam in these waters, slept peacefully beside it. Listened to its sounds, its whispers.”

Frances relaxed her shoulders a little. The fire released a spark as Anya poked it. The embers glowed white with heat.

“Soon you will be joining them. You will become part of their story, part of the richness of this land.”

Anya leaned closer still. “But don’t worry, the water will hold you close, hold your secret closer still. No one will hear you. Only the rocks. Only the moon will bear witness and I will never tell.”

Only Anya heard Frances scream. The clouds slipped in front of the moon and the surface of the waters shivered.

Dawn Treacher

www.dawntreacher.com

Dawn Treacher is based in North Yorkshire, England. She writes in both adult crime fiction and children's middle grade fantasy adventures. She is also an illustrator of children's fiction, an artist and plush artist. She runs both a writing critique group and a creative writing group and goes into schools to promote storytelling.