Sunset,
skydeath; every day there went forth that orb to boil, then perish - now overhead,
so soon to slip behind the West German slopes where both beauty and old tales
seemed to churn in earnest. Mitch stood there
feeling quite tired, seeming a bit grizzled as he glanced up at the mass of land
and foliage rose further east, wondering again why he should be here, at this particular
place, near this unusual town, thinking of meandering such a steep peak as the
one before him. The very ground here
seemed made of tree roots or of broken gravel, thick ribbons that would snatch
quick to his untested boots. There was still
time though to get up somewhere to see something beautiful, he supposed, still
a few hours by which catch a quick peek, a road beer, or even make it down to
one of the haughtier clubs before the city rolled its sidewalks up for the eve. He was glad he had come on this trip alone, pleased
to leave his annoyances back stateside, thrilled to try something gorgeous,
something new.
He
snapped a few shots of the locals as he went up, debating his next course. For he was Frieburg, and had been happy to
find the city as charming as its inhabitants were bold as they were youthful. It was true that his legs had been getting a
bit tired wandering through the town all day, checking out the larger of the
Rhineland malls, nibbling upon quality links, the pastries, wondering every now
and again that everyone seemed to be wearing hats, or else showing their
midriffs (even as he sported his own new shapely Tyrolean). Yet his eyes had not grown tired of the
sights, or the loveliness being displayed in hundred thousand unnamable forms –
of the people that flowed through town as easy as its legendary bachle,
or the words and babble that seemed to bubble everywhere. Though he was not much of a hiker, he was
smitten by the little paths that split from the town towards the parks, toward
nature, figuring that the best images, the greatest future slideshows might lie
somewhere up ,beyond through the bows.
Better to get in shape now, he figured.
Better by which to fit into some dark shirt now; do his best to blend in
to the local discotheque later.
It
had been hard enough to make it even this far though, as there had been several
wonderous sights to distract him. The
first had been a lovely biergarten carved out of some old townhouse on the
lower flank of the hill, with views out over a small garden, of vineyards
flowing out to the north; of gorgeous servers with many a story to tell. How
that had been difficult to leave behind, indeed. Then had been an actual park (a platz he
had to remind himself) on the middling flanks, with fascinating dancers, the
heat of the fleeting sun and enough reds and pinks and twirls swirling round to
bewilder a mind. God, they were
impressive, he thought, snapping a few reams of it all, of the near cathedral seeming
now to be directly at eye level - but also a few of the cuter gals that forever
seemed to be frolicking near. Several of
the lither ones were prancing about now, with strange symbols on their clothes,
their arms, hell, even their hair seemed tasseled into unique waves, bands
about the shoulders shimmering as they moved.
It
all seemed poetic in some planned sort of way, though he didn’t have the care
or wherewithal to ask.
One
of the nearer ones noticed though, flipping her hair, clearly suggesting to her
friend in some form of French that they move on, seeing quick that his lens had
started to linger. Damns, how his luck
never seemed to hold. Maybe they had
been a NeoRoma, or an offshoot of American Hippi sect? In the fading light, he was unsure. They had been doodling something interesting on
the benches, the taller one actually carving something sharp upon the near
trees before his clicks, his shuttering clacks had found them.
Best
to go up, move on then.
Schlossburg: what a strange name for a hill – he would
have to look into its history more later, but for now struggled with the steep
quality of the upper turns, pushing past all the lounging locals, the sunburned
tourists, all on his way up up up. He
had seen a vantage tower on both his tourist map and listed in a highlight
search of his mobile, each of which offered considerable promise - another
lovely spot to watch what was sure to be a spectacular sunset, all to add to
his own collection of endless images for few hapless souls back home to click
at, gander, to possibly share.
Sunset. Oh how he loved sunsets; the turn of the
colors upon the green, upon rock, something about the beauty of it all. He had missed seeing the one yesterday when
he arrived, gazing out only into deep shadows from the flat cavern of the train
depot, while waiting for the tram into town.
But not today. Ahead of him was
the real start of the Schwarzwal, the Black Forest, real monsters of
trees seeming to grow and peer down. Of
the stairs and stairs of stairs spread out at all angles between, stepping
stones too that were covered in swooping A’s and O’s, with little written “B”s
and curly q’s seeming all around.
Gods,
how the graffiti seemed to be on everything.
And
damns, how his luck never seemed to hold!
Ahead of him now was a bridge, one that clearly did not show on either
map. It was an old thing, had clearly
been rotted out for quite some time - the main central ties had all collapsed
from the wet or the rain, leaving only some metal, some side supports still in
its place. It too was covered with
similar swoops and emblems that seemed to decorated the flat walls, all the
sidewalks in the town below, leaving Mitch feeling a bit annoyed he hadn’t
noticed such sights earlier. He looked
again at his mobile, then up to the sky ahead, wondering what other challenges might
still be in store.
The
hell with it. He clutched his pack a bit
tighter, moving closer to the nearest cracked boards. He knew what Kate would have said at such an
attempt, so started forward with a gleeful smile as he threaded his way across. He almost slipped twice as he went, moving
slowly, grazing himself mildly on one of the nearer struts, thinking the whole
time of tetanus. He made it across with
no real trouble though beyond that first spell and after pouring some rum on
the wound, realized it wasn’t much more than an abrasion after all.
Gods
though, he felt stoned. Likely, it was
just the first real strain of the day, the first real exertion of locked
muscles on the entire trip. Got to get
in shape, buddy boy, he thought to himself, either for tonight, or else
when he got back to the Chesapeake. That
climb was no help, yet he’d have to be diligent if he wanted to stick to his
plans. Higher and higher he meandered
still, seeing more unusual sights as he tried to catch his breath. A giant cross of wood, double the height of a
man peeping off on the right. Little
playscapes, where children pranced mostly naked. Graffiti on darn near everything, befitting of
the best New York dens. Even a few fake
tombstones, rotten benches, flat walls poking from the very stain of earth.
Then
this one in front of him.
ABNOBA. He did his best to take shots of it all,
wondering what it could be, or could be later arranged, or meant. A white stone was there at odds with the
green and shadows rising all around, with one single word carved brazenly into
its hard side, pulling him to pause. For
some reason it spoke to him, almost vibrated in a manner similar to the way the
French girl had down in the platz. He
wondered why this totem should stand out, all in strait letters, seeming so
very Latin in this woodland layout. It
was on one of the cleaner stones, looking well cared for, except for this one strange
word or phrase that stood so out of place amongst the green.
ABNOBA. He started to wander on, trying his best to
ignore it. There had been similar (identical?)
numerals or names painted on some of the crossings back in town he remembered,
in similar goofy letters or styles. It
looked like someone had tried to write the word ‘abnormal’, and then had given
up halfway through.
ABNOBA. He shook his head, to clear himself. He had to keep going, had to push a little
harder if he was to catch the sunfall. Still
more up then, to the tower.
He
snapped a few more photos of though, just in case, to check for a match, then
headed still higher.
Ah,
there he was! After a bit longer than
the map had shown, here was a burst of change.
The trees had suddenly flown back, revealing a sandy grey tilted totem
amongst their midst. Ahead was tubular
tower that bent in a way he almost recognized, all of dulled steel, sharpened
fingers at the edges plunging their barbs up into the sky. Beyond him, the Rhine Valley brimmed, hills
lapping out to the horizon. He snapped
photos of it greedily.
Ascending
of the tower proved a chore, but worth the view. The city now blossomed below him, little
tendrils of streets and water falling away at all angles. It looked stunning in the ebb of the eve, so
pristine, and he wondered for a minute what would happen as fall truly fell on
this land, the little leaves giving way to sandy air, to longer nights. Again and again he nabbed shots, doing his
best not to get to close to the edge of the platform. Symbology had found these twigs too, but no
matter - on all sides, the land started to glow in a fever pitch of greens and
reds. This he snapped at too.
Strange
though. He had expected to see more
people up here though, or else other photographers clicking way, jostling past
each other for the best view. The tower
was lovely in a way that made it a clickster’s dream, asymmetrical, with little
side-booths where people could mingle, frolic, could even kiss under the
moonlight. Leave it to those backward Europeans
to design something so beautiful, yet all so out of proportion with the human
body – it hurt his head just to look at it, even more to move through it. Likely, it was just the exhaustion of the
climb, the extra steps seeming a bit much alongside his weighted pack.
It
looked like the sunset would be a bust, too, with long fingers of clouds
seeming to come down now from the north.
He flipped back through the photos, admiring his talent with a camera,
but suddenly seeming a little strange, feeling as if the backgrounds were out
of focus or something. He was just leaning
in to examine closer, when the first of the loud sounds caught his ear.
Boom.
He
stood for a bit, mesmerized, the land sloshing out beneath him. Though he had heard the wine of piccolo music
most of the way up here, likely from the gypsy camp, this new sound almost
sounded drum like, or a hammers reverberation, quieting everything. It shook the tower a tad as it went by, its echo’s
and sigh’s carrying some cry, an energy, a charge he swore he could almost hear.
Was
this ground seismic? He recalled the
rebuilding efforts in that one medieval Swiss town to the south, but had no
idea here. Perhaps the hill, hell, maybe
the whole forest was a fault line?
Better
to be down, he guessed, kicking himself, still feeling bewildered, still doing
his best not to drop the pack, the camera, both.
Keee-rash,
BaBoom. Boom. More shifts, quieter that the first,
but no less threatening. It was doing
something to the base of his mind as well as the tower, waves and slows teetering
back n forth. Wavering. Quicker his feet found treads.
It
was when he was about halfway down the tower that he realized what had nagged
him at the summit. It hadn’t been the
light, nor the approaching nimbus, but something so much closer to his lens
that he’d been mulling over. Yes, back
home, such a sight, the peak, hell this entire tower would have been covered
with children, dog walkers, people with snot clogging their faces as they
laughed. Folks who would have been
yelling obscenities, dealers in the corners, elders all looking for
respite.
Yet
no humanly sounds could he hear, no cough, sputter, or gaseous intake to humble
him.
Also,
what of the town?
He
looked out and round, gasping now at the sights he could see, checking
his camera rolodex again, furiously, wondering.
Though the angle he was at now was a bit wrong, and though he could only
see a few of the northmost streets, the digital display proved his uneasiness
right. What he saw in hindsight, both
from his lower vantage and in the camera screen spooked him dearly. He peered closer into the histogram,
expecting to see the thick tendrils of crowds milling about, crowds clogged
with weekend traffic.
But
no, the lens did not lie - they were suddenly all gone. White lights had begun to twinkle on, it was
true, ghostly shadows reached as they fell, but the streets in all his pictures
were empty. Everything seemed frozen,
both on and off screen. Even with the
height of summer near, the thrill of coming vacations, the streets he could
witness and see were blank. The plaza’s,
the park, hell, even the square in front of the cathedral (which was always
busy) seemed deserted, screen and view told him so. Derelict, even.
No
honks, no calls, no outdoor music or city bells to tinkle upon the ears.
Gone,
deserted.
For
a full minute, he thought himself cast back in time, looking at a dead place growing
in the pale screens light. Even the
little river rivulets that crisscrossed the town seemed stuck, unyielding. He was flipping again through his screens,
eyeing the mobile furiously, debating about calling the hotel, back home,
anywhere, but then the beats started up in earnest again, matching his own heartthud.
Should
he go up, above the tree line, to ensure the cameras accuracy?
No,
no point. It was time to get down, time
to get moving.
Boom,
went
another soft beat across the valley, as if to echo his thoughts.
----
The
forest around him had begun to grow murky, quite dim; an optical effect he had
not expected due to the thickened cloud cover.
He was glad for an extra battery pack, happier still for his
architectural memory of such twists and turns in the gloom, but it was this
frenzied thinking and not seeing that almost got him into trouble. Without warning, he damn near ran into an old
man standing silently on the trail, one leaning almost expectantly upward with
the yew. Mitched bounced off of one of
his shoulders, both annoyed and angry at the same time for the inconvenience, yet
happy to see another human in all this waylaid green. He turned in his stumbling to greet him.
“Hey,
sorry about that Mister,” he tried in his terrible German, forgetting for a
moment which city, which Bavarian state he was in. He was dusting himself off in a way, was
reaching out to offer him a hand as the man shot him down.
“You might want to run, little man.” The fellow said, speaking softly in a language
Mitch did not at first understand.
“I,
what?” Mitch tried, even a fell boom in
the woods around him. They both looked
toward the sound, which seemed everywhere and nowhere at once. The old man ahead of him looked ashen faced
now, his thin German beard glistening with sweat. The ground swayed beneath them a tad,
drumbeats sure and true.
“Time
to run, I said.” Mitch wanted to ask
further, but the old man was now moving, was actually hurtling back behind him up
the very slope he had come, something glistening in his hand.
Mitch
didn’t wait to be told, fleeing back down, down, to what he knew not.
Ahead,
the trail branched out again. In his
head, he could imagine fractals, spinning forever outward as he went - for
which way now was true down? The paths
before him turned, squirmed around as living things, leaving his nerves a short
fork twirling round. His feet caught,
the ground itself threatening to open up before him - oh God, he could feel the
pounding, pulsing coming up from the ground.
The thrumming coming through the very air behind him.
The
bridge! Oh, how he had forgotten of that
stupid thing. In his head, all the
little lines, and the trail had suddenly become so jumbled together. Another boom reached his ears, sounding
neither of treefall, nor of firecrackers, or of wood splintering into the
dusk. It sounded like a heartbeat from
the very bowels of the earth, coming up to shake his toes, nose all – how could
he cross in such a state? He tossed the
pack aside, started quickly over the fell beams. Kate would have given him much crap for his leavings,
but he ignored such thoughts.
ABNOBA. He seemed to see the it everywhere now,
little flakes and tendrils rising round.
He could hear it in the thrum in the air. Saw now that the word had been carved into
the steel beneath his hands he saw, the very shape of the bridge, of the tower,
all, forming a giant letter “A” that wheeled skeletal into the night air. He pushed himself faster over the ruts,
pausing at the halfway only as he realized everything had paused, somehow
stopped, a whisper of a whisper seemed to be growing behind him.
“Hello?” He paused for a second, looking back in the
silence of the eve, not sure what to expect. The canopy was split here, seeming somehow
brighter, making his glance back through the struts strain his eyes.
He
gave hope that it the old man, but recoiled at the sight nearing.
Someone,
some thing was coming from back beyond alright, a long wave just visible
in the darkness beneath the jungle trees.
He leaned back, suddenly afraid, unsure of what to do. It (she?) was still waving, whether to beckon
or jostle away, he was unsure. It, they
had almost put a foot upon the first struts, before he found his composure,
irked somehow about the manner of garment and dress, unsettled in his very
lowest ebb.
“Hi!” said someone (something?) else at the same
time, below him, and he almost screamed as he glanced down. The little ravine below had somehow also been
filled with figures, most with similar wavery hair, all staring up, at him. Something about them looked mossy, ragged,
and in moments they all had started to ascend the very canyon walls. Each uttering the same greeting as they
climbed, all looking flattened, thickened, smiling at him.
He
ran flat out now, unsure of what to do, or where to go. His feet flew over cracked wood, then finding
gravel, gaining on the hardtop.
ABNOBA. He could hear it in the click of the
air.
ABNOBA. Could hear the little tinkle of laughter
coming from between the trees, from the very bushes he passed on lefts and
rights, of hands pulling up and over the hardscape.
ABNOBA. The very ground had begun to pulse, the dirt
itself sweating sound, seeming to flex in A’s and O’s and B’s. Of feminine laughter, seeming to pulsate in
the wood, gathering thick in the bracken round him. He trudged on, finding that the ethereal dark
of the lower canopy, of the steeper slopes shifting down, down. He thought he could see eyes, and forms of
many curves approaching. Features that all seemed slim, slanted, and he screamed
again and again, breathless.
Left,
right, down, down down. He didn’t have
time to check the map, everything becoming a blur.
He
thought he could see eyes, and forms of many curves approaching.
ABNOBA. Another sign passing, this one new, he was
sure. An arm jutting out of the dark,
from around him, from behind the nearest tree, the same words cut, carved
somehow into living flesh. Dodge, move,
run. Run!
ABNOBA. They were whispering, saying something behind
him. Gaining, he was sure. He tumbled on, on, feeling the next of the
thick tree roots catching, pulling. He
was too out of shape to go much longer, much further.
There.
He
had reached an edge, a steep drop somehow, the frozen town suddenly at his
feet, having no choice but to turn to face them or else risk a fall, his hands
were bleeding now, cut on the branches smacking all around.
He
turned, hands up, uncertain of what next to say, to do.
The
first one was now there, pushing through, standing tall, fast, making some sort
of sign in the air, reaching for him in a manner he almost swore he knew. He waved his hands in front of his own face,
stepping back, away, trying to apologize, trying to say anything. To plead, to be away from that glance he
swore he knew, she, it, they were all coming closer, saying the same thing over
and over endlessly, him stepping back, stepping further away, stepping, he….
Then
was tumbling down, down, forever down, out back over the lip of the drop.
He. He. He
fell.
He
rolled.
He
had landed flat on his back in the park, wind knocked completely out of him, crawling
his way forward, further down, out into the main street of the town, bodies
suddenly everywhere around him.
At
first he recoiled from them, seeing wide hands and gaping mouths that reminded
him too much of the forest for first glance. Their faces were too dark, he
forgetting that the sun was mostly gone, distant somewhere. Yet the sun did seem to have one last
little trick, sliding out for a moment from the tepid cloud clover to turn
everything bright reds and golds in the area around him, if only for a moment,
making him pause, making him fall further still. At first he recoiled from them, seeing wide
hands and gaping mouths that reminded him too much of the forest for first
glance. Their faces were too dark, him forgetting that the woods, everything;
that the edge was gone.
Yet
then true twilight found them all, as a large fraulein was jostling toward him,
reaching for a kerchief as she came, darkness seeming to envelop all. Then others too were nearing, a look of
concern upon their brows, nearing further still. He waved again and again at them, uncertain, but
still they pressed onward, toward him, arms reaching.
As
the townsfolk rushed in, he collapsed, looking up at the strange canopy that
wheeled overhead, listening only to the fading voices, the gasps of the
townsfolk as they pointed, gasped.
“There’s
something….something up…on the hill…” he tried, looking up, far too up towards
where the nearest face approached him, realizing too late that they might be
here to help. In his rush to speak he
had forgotten what little German he knew, resorting back to the plain-speak of
points and grunts. The sky was
different, stronger here, the same constellations meaningless under a opening sky.
The
fraulein
merely looked down at him through all of this, then up to the peak of the park,
where he (she?) made a sign to themselves, seeming to understand something
beyond his reckoning.
Cold,
so cold he thought, turning his face down, turning what remained inward,
down, down, further still.
Above
him, true night was drifting in.
Meanwhile,
people did their best not to stair too long out their windows, at the sight now
filling the square. In time, they
dragged the visitor outward, onward, continuing to cross themselves, staring
every now and again toward the wood, glad to be inside, if only for one
night.
ABNOBA.
Around
them, the night continued to drift in, unabated.
Time seemed to stand still - for a little
while, at least.
