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
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.
