An iced, solid mass of mud squeaks, cracks and crumbles beneath my leather boot as I try to step forward, I know not to where. Leaden, damp air cramps around my head and shoulders from every angle, crushing my frame and sucking my soul out through the tip of my spine. A blurred haze of bluish-grey swamps my vision in an endless sea of tears, flooding down my cheeks in ever-thickening waves, threatening to sweep away my frail form. My sense of direction is halted and upturned, like a bullied table, thrown on its face. My memory of the world evaporates, like a small puddle under an unrelenting sun; I begin to wonder if there really is anything but empty space, damage and destruction beyond the fringes of this vast murky ocean? Which way is forwards? If I step backwards now, will I simply descend deeper into this frozen forest of gloom?
The chilled air pricks at my skin, like pine needles, and scrapes delicate hairs away from my arms with long, sharpened, grimy nails; these nails cut my bone-china skin and draw globules of ruby-red liquid up towards the surface, with a magnetic attraction. Harsh icicles form on my cheek, the salt from my eyes not strong enough to repel the omnipotent darkness swallowing me, with its frosty tongue. A jaw filled with a thousand stalactites and stalagmites, all meticulously filed to a murderous point, shadow my helpless corpse, ready to silence my pitiful cries.
From within the ghostly grey wall, the shaky outline of a blackened figure morphs. An unnaturally tall figure stands rigid, like an overstretched candle, with a shadowy cape flapping around him, as if it were an enchanted rug, dancing strangely in an invisible wind. He reaches two extraordinarily long hands, exaggerated by padded gloves, towards his head, and pulls down the hood covering his face; but, at such a distance, even with the obstacle removed, I can see none of his features in the gloom, save two cat-like eyes, throwing out a weird saffron light as they shimmer in the night. He lifts one hand from his hood and stretches his long arm down his back; he stops as his hand makes contact with an unseen object just beneath his shoulder, before he draws a terrifying claymore above his shoulder. A lump of acid rises up in my gullet and deposits itself ungraciously upon my tongue and I fear the unending blade rising upwards eternally. I choke on the sour lump, trying to swallow it, as I finally sight a fierce point at the bottom of the blade.
The figure pauses for a second, his sword poised in an attacking position, above his shoulder, before he majestically swings it forward in a fast motion and plunges it towards the ground with increasing velocity; just before the point kisses the now sodden earth, the peculiar fellow checks the hasty motion, catching the thick, black, U-shaped hilt in his other hand. He stalls in this position for a few seconds, as if consuming the kinetic energy generated by his sword’s motion. Then, he very gradually lifts his sword until the hilt sits opposite his shoulder with the blade shooting upwards, past his head, directed upwards towards the hidden sky. A dark gloved hand clenches around the sword’s thick U-shaped hilt and, as if to mirror this, another U-shape runs down from the blade’s point, along the figure’s forearm and up towards his shoulder. The individual elevates the sword as if it were Lady Liberty’s flaming torch but the image is so fearsome that I cannot decipher the message. A hot tear scalds a path down my icy cheek and I blink rapidly as my lips tremble clumsily, still numb from the frozen atmosphere.
A slender leaf swoops and spins outwards, from beneath his cloak; it dances like a well-trained ballerina, her movements displaying a sense of floating on water. Just as the pirouetting leaf touches the clayish soil at my stranger’s feet, an unexpected wind flips the edge of the leaf and sends it spiralling uncontrollably towards me. I screw up my eyelids to protect my eyes when I anticipate that the leaf will slam into my face. However, I reopen them wide with a gasp of surprise as the object makes contact with the bridge of my nose. It feels soft and dry and does not slap my skin as a sodden leaf should. Instead, it bounces lightly off my nose and tickles my cheek as it drops weightlessly past my chin. I catch the object in my hand as it drifts serenely past my chest. I glance down at my closed hand and, upon reopening it, a new smile pushes its way across my mouth as I glimpse a large white feather nestled comfortably within my palm.
Testo Oscuro 