Chapter Text
It was early in winter when the trees softly moaned in protest of the insolent cold, and the dead orange leaves still retained their hue while crushed underfoot. In the deep night, the only light came from the moon above and John’s lantern. Shadows flickered around him, wind ruffled his straw-like hair, and flashes of light hit the sea. The waves crashed and lapped up the moonlight in an almost hungry way, missing the warmth that had left them five hours past. But except for the water and John’s own movement, all seemed pristine and held in place, as if waiting.
John’s pencil scratched across his paper with a faint noise. His eyes roamed the ship’s bright white sails and the ropes that appeared delicate and thread-like from a distance. The vessel was one of his father’s finest: the The Pearl. He drew the curling letters on the hull with some distaste. John always wondered why his father had chosen such a generic name for a fine vessel such as that; he thought she deserved better. One day, though, he hoped his father might let him take his pick out of his fleet… and the The Pearl could be his. Perhaps John could rename her then, but he knew it was superstition to name ships after the sky, to please the powers in the domains both above and below. And often, trade agreements and taxes hinged on how much the ship honored the Crown, the only ruling power of which John could understand. He knew some villagers promised things to the mysterious deities in the world around him. Even so, the wild was too unpredictable for real results, and there was nothing anyone could do to please the capricious (and often cruel) force of nature.
John slipped out of his reverie with a sigh. The light glinted off the water. John had snuck out earlier and camped beneath tonight’s full moon, wanting to capture the unique angles of the transient light on the sea. He only had a couple of chances per month for the full effect, and this was the last evening he’d be able to capture the glow. But an artist could always turn back time and make the moon a few days younger. It was the light that didn’t linger in mind’s eye. John finished the final pencil stroke of the night, signing Steinbeck, with a flourish. It was late, and he was ready to leave the ocean waves and rippling light behind. As he ambled his way home, swinging the lantern merrily, he thought he heard a sound in the distance.
Chskt. John jolted in alarm. The sound itself didn’t scare him, nor did the darkness. It was the direction it came from that made him shudder, from the forest behind the iron gate. He turned his ear toward it. The sound was faint, but in the silence of the night, it seemed to echo everywhere. John could feel his heart rate accelerating as he crept through the village, head turned. He considered his options: going home meant relative safety, but no knowledge of what was out there. And following the sound would make sure that there truly was no threat. He made his decision, and though he felt a little guilty for letting his curiosity win, John passed his house and headed for the outer wall.
John pressed himself against the stone, near the secured entrance. Quietly, he concealed his lantern beneath his heavy cloak and peered through a hole in the iron gate. The Pearl’s portrait was still clutched tightly under one arm, and he was faintly aware that the half-drawn lines were smudging against the fabric of his clothing. He waited a few tense moments, but after seeing nothing, he turned away with a sigh. Salinas didn’t need sentries anymore, not after they’d built the nearly 12-foot enclosing wall and a heavy iron gate to shield them from the forest. The submerged cliffs already protected them from naval threats, but a small village couldn’t afford to take any risks, especially in recent years with the turmoil at the capital. John walked away, suddenly chilled, and decided for certain to return home.
Ch-ch-chsk. Crack, crack, crack…
John spun around again and raised his lantern. His hands shook. The noise was coming from behind the gate again, in the forest, and it seemed to be growing closer. His heart was racing, and his breath was fast and shallow. Was it an animal? Or a beast? Or perhaps worse, a person? John fumbled in his coat pocket for a knife, perhaps, anything would do, but all that surfaced was a pencil stub. He cursed under his breath. Every part of his body seemed to be vibrating in fear, in tune with what he was certain was a creature—or creatures, running. Several loud snaps resounded. Transfixed in place, John could picture each footfall, and in his mind, an image appeared. The shadowed enemy had heavy boots, an aura of evil, white metal blades flashing in the moonlight…
Then, a heavy grunt echoed out, followed by a strange hiss. There was a cry of agony. So close, John thought. Don’t be stupid! You know what to do. Jumbled words flowed through his mind, lost in the rushing river of panicked thoughts, but something must have caught on the banks eventually. Vaguely aware of what he was doing, John closed his eyes and inhaled, ready to scream. Three, two, one…
Something beat him to it. The sound shattered through John’s glass wall of fear, the visceral noise more animal than human. But it was human, he was sure of it. Those inflections, that panic—he had heard those same cries before. He dropped his things and sprinted to the gate, cap falling to the ground, unnoticed. Wrestling with the lock, he threw himself against the door. Come on, come on! A crack opened, barely thin enough for his compact frame to squeeze through with the lantern. Quivering, he backed against the door and extended his arm out in a circle. He searched around wildly. A flash of movement caught his eye. There.
John couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing on the forest path. Glimmers of black—if it was possible to be darker than night itself—encircled a running creature that was heading toward him. It made loud sounds, all sorts of crackling and brushing as it hit the forest floor. And it was approaching very quickly. John barely dared to close his eyes. In a blink, he summed up all the courage he had as it entered the clearing. He opened his mouth to scream again, knowing that he could be using his last breath.
The creature burst forth into his light as John loosed his cry, but he screamed not from fear, but from shock. Tendril-like darkness surrounded a boy of about his age. His skin was the first thing John noticed. Dark streaks, made more prominent by the contrast with his lunar complexion, seemed to twist around and through him, and his eyes were filled black from a swath that covered the top half of his face. John wondered in horror if the boy was even aware of what was happening to him. He could already hear the villagers stirring behind him on the other side of the wall, but it felt as if they were across the forest. John was facing down the monster alone and unarmed, with only a small lantern and his wits to defend himself.
Turning in a circle, he swung the light at the boy. As more of his shape was revealed, John put his other hand to his mouth in shock. The darkness was far larger than he had originally glimpsed; the boy was suspended within a creature that was larger than himself, with an uneven and quickly transforming shape. Like moonlight on water. It was growing too, becoming darker and larger as the boy grew paler. The beast was connected to his body, and though he was lanky, he must have had incredible strength to support that large of a monster. John forced himself to glance up at the boy’s eerie black eyes, but he couldn’t find them. The boy’s eyelids were closed and blackened, concealing the pupils’ shine that made them conspicuous in the first place. As John watched, frozen, the boy slowly opened his eyes and looked straight at him. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a faint groan came forth. John tried to say something, make his limbs, his mouth, anything move. But he was locked in place, and the boy’s eyelids fell shut as he crumpled, lifeless, to the ground. The beast fell on top of him, concealing his body from view.
John stood immobile, still shocked. Is he dead? he wondered numbly. And then, a terrible thought occurred to him: Was he dead already? But there was no time to lose. His people were pouring out of the city gate and running toward him with weapons, ready to shoot the creature. And kill the boy, too. Before John could even register the actions, his legs were already carrying him toward the pile of shadows.
The darkness let out a sort of hiss as his lantern made contact with it. The mass burned in contact with John’s skin as he climbed up its mound. He could faintly hear the villagers screaming his name, but the cries fell empty on his ears. The darkness quickly absorbed him as he began to dig furiously with his hands. Each movement burned like he was caught in a patch of stinging forest plants. John marveled at the boy’s incredible resilience, how he was even able to move. John’s eyesight was failing, his heart slowing to pulse along with the creature that had engulfed him. But the lantern hadn’t burnt out yet. Even so, he could see that the black had already entered his body. Maybe he was doomed, but so was the boy beneath him, somewhere in the darkness. Where is he? His thoughts felt unorganized and loose like the smoke around him, and his limbs felt strangely disconnected as he tried to pull the layers back. The incorporeal pieces were hot, and they pulsed in his hands. With horror, John saw that his skin was fusing with the darkness, melting into it as the burning sensation grew stronger.
The light went out. As if his air supply was cut, John suddenly couldn’t catch his breath, he felt like he was inhaling smoke. Where am I? he thought. The thick cocoon had smothered the villager’s cries and the sounds of their blazing arrows. His lungs worked desperately as he struggled for air. At that moment, John knew was going to die. What was it for? The The Pearl seemed to float before his eyes. He gasped. How could he have stood by and watched the boy meet his terrible end? Was his life worth that watching someone else die? John had no hero complex, but maybe something even better, perhaps: justice. And with that, John dug faster. Finally, his hand grasped something solid and unsettlingly cold, a wrist. And then, a hand. Even though it was probably too late, his heart soared in victory. Then, strangely, he heard a noise that penetrated the iron wall of darkness. Excruciating pain shot through John’s whole body just before his fingers entwined with the boy’s. His life functions—breathing, thinking, circulation, metabolism—slowed as the darkness seeped through his blood. He was rapidly losing consciousness, but he couldn’t tell in the darkness. There was a final burst of pain, and then, nothing. John couldn’t feel his lungs breathing in the smog, his eyes turning black beneath his lids, or the cold, pale fingers reciprocating his grasp as their hearts synced to a dead stop.