The Lost

an excerpt from a novel that never may be

The Lost

The witching hour…

…when all is still, quiet as the grave.

Winter was at its height, with the yellowish clouds stubbornly resisting the bitter winds gusting in from the unseen sea. On the path running close to the desolate, windswept beach, a girl, cloaked by shadows, stopped and shivered. She peered out over the vast expanse of inky nothingness stretching before her - out, up, above her – seemingly stretching all the way to the roof of the world. She shivered again - and not only because of the cold winds - wrapping her shawl tightly around her. Something - a subtle icy kiss - gently brushed her cheek, its chill suffusing into her blood. Another came. And then another. She glanced up and saw that a soft shower of snowflakes, like verglas fairies, were descending down upon her. They danced maniacally in the wind and, although there was neither moon nor stars, they glittered in some unnatural, unseen light like diamonds. Dance with us, they urged, teasing her with their frosty caresses, until Amirah - for that was the girl’s name - was unable to resist. She laughed and began to twirl amongst them, eddying like the tiny stars of ice around her. Round and round, faster and faster she span, whirling like a dervish in sync with the steadily increasing flurries.

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

The unmistakable sound of footsteps came from the gravelly path. Amirah stopped and listened. They were coming closer, but through the dulled air, she could not gauge just how close they were. She peered up through the gloom and the flurrying snow and saw the vague shape of a man. She waited, wondering if it was the snow playing tricks on her senses. They stopped, and she saw the ghostly form motionless just steps away. Moments passed, like hours, as if time had paused. Even the snow seemed to cease falling, as if it too was waiting with bated breath. They stood, two statues…waiting…

“What will you be wanting, sir?” Amirah asked in a whisper which sounded strangely loud. She whispered because there were things in the shadows that could hear, things it was best not to disturb. But she knew they watched. And that they saw…everything. She flinched, feeling as if she may have stirred them, alerting them to her presence.

The man was silent, as if he were unsure of himself. He had been full of purpose when he had set out but now it had fled, leaving only uncertainty. It was all odd here, and he felt a fear of the nearby sea, unseen yet heard. The waves against the beach, their icy spray mingled with the falling snow…it was ominous and threatening. He flinched from the water all around him, water changing, expanding into its frozen form. It seared his flesh like acid. He had only seen the sea by day. His mind wandered back to the sun. This journey meant that he would never see it again. By its light that had seemed like all he had wanted but now…the night was darker than he knew. And alive! Alive with something terrifying.

Through the obscure darkness Amirah saw his face. A stranger. But no matter, they were all strangers. He looked nervous, frightened of the shadows, a man out of place. Yet there was also something unpleasant about his features, a look of entitled haughtiness. It was the face of a man who had lived a life of getting what he wanted. It was a common enough look on such men.

“Come with me,” the man said, abruptly cutting short the sentence as if the sound of his own voice terrified him. It seemed louder than it should, despite the muffling of the snow.

Amirah followed him down the path into deeper shadows, as she had done a thousand times before.

Far along the beach, perched on a seat of rock which was sheltered from the elements, sat a young man. He would be considered handsome by most except there was an air of cynicism which clouded his features and gave them a hard cast. Every night he sat there, gazing out into the nothingness. At his side there stood an ornate glass pipe; pale mauve, tall and intricate with swirls of finely blown gilded glass, as thin as silk, winding around it like a sinuous serpent. He smoked thoughtfully, wafts of fragrant tobacco floating into the darkness. As always, he had heard all, and he smiled, although rather sadly, to himself. It was a sordid trade, he thought. But what choices did the girls have? So many scavenged around like animals. What sort of life was that? It was a cruel world - dog-eat-dog - all had to try and survive the best they could. There were worst ways to live he mused. And his girls were well taken care of. He protected them from the wicked things which lurked furtively in the deep shadows. He sighed again and began to refill his pipe.