Creative Writing Course

[Draken]

Bleaklow

The wind tugged at the fog and blew about the thin layer of powdery snow. Frank struggled up out of the narrow stream bed, his flying boots shlucking reluctantly out of the boggy ground that lay beneath the snow. He crested the next outcrop in the vain hope of spotting something other than snowy moorland and solid greyness. But there was nothing to see other than yet another muddy stream cutting through the peat, yet more dead brown heather gathering snow. Beyond, indistinct in the swirling grey, was yet another jagged mass of rock, poking through the hillside’s soft brown skin like broken bones.

He turned to Mitch, who was still standing on the other side of the stream he had just forded. The kid was looking up at him dejectedly. Frank knew Mitch was blaming himself for getting them in this fix: after all, he was the navigator. But Frank wasn’t one for dwelling on such things: he figured they needed to pull together to get through this. Besides, plotting a course through bad weather was never easy. Add to that they were trying to cross an island they knew next to nothing about – well it was an accident waiting to happen.

No, if Frank blamed anyone it was the jerk who wanted the ship ferried across the country by nightfall, and be damned if it was Christmas Day. He looked back the way they had come: a misshapen tail fin could still just be seen above the skyline, black against the grey. Well the jerk sure wasn’t going to get what he wanted.

“C’mon kid,” called Frank. “We need to find some shelter or surviving the crash will be the least of our worries.”

Mitch nodded and clambered down into the deep trench cut by the stream, splashing across it before climbing out over the other bank with difficulty. “Jeez, Frank, I’ve no idea which way to head. You sure we shouldn’t just stay with the plane?”

Frank shook his head firmly. “Those rocks ripped her open like tinfoil,” he reminded. “She’s no good as shelter. And there’s gas pouring everywhere, one spark from a battery and boom.”

Frank hadn’t been much of a one for schooling, but all the same he was smart and blessed with a good memory. He pictured in his mind the map they had pencilled their flight path onto that morning. “We should have been south of this high ground,” he mused out loud. “So we strayed north, but we don’t know how far. I bet we’re in Derby Shire, or maybe even York Shire. Either way, these hills run north to south. So I say we head east or west.”

“The wind was supposed to be from the north east,” offered Mitch. He said this without conviction. He had plotted his course based on the forecast wind: either the direction had changed or it wasn’t as strong as he’d expected. Either that or he had got his calculations completely wrong. That couldn’t have happened…could it?

Frank turned to face the chilly gusts. A few icy little snowflakes stung his eyes. “Ok so let’s say I’m looking north east….” He pointed to the hidden horizon, a way right of where he was looking. “That makes east thataway. Yeah?”

Mitch shrugged and nodded. “Guess so. You’re reckoning we should head that way then?”

Frank shrugged. “Yeah why not. These streams are more or less flowing that way. If all we find is an empty valley, at least we’ll be outta this wind.”

Mitch nodded again. He was a city boy, born and bred: he wasn’t a one for blazing a trail. Frank was older than he was, and a higher rank too. Not only that, he was from a little town way out in the sticks in Virginia. The long flight over the Atlantic had been whiled away by swapping tales of their youth, and Frank’s had been about his days in the mountains, hunting with his pa or just plain skipping school. Frank was a country boy all right, he’d know what to do. Mitch was happy to let him make the decisions.

As he struck off in the direction he had indicated, Frank did not share Mitch’s confidence. He felt light headed and cold. The going was harder than he expected too: with each step his boots disappeared into the sodden peat up to the ankle, and the effort needed to pull them out and move on was sapping him. With the horizon lost in a blur of cloud and fog, he had no points of reference. He couldn’t even tell if they were moving uphill or down: the ground undulated from stream to outcrop and back down to stream.

He climbed over another peat bank and looked up for the rocks he was aiming for. They looked further to the left than he expected. Or was it those rocks over there? They looked so damn similar, he couldn’t be sure…. Despite the cold, a bead of anxious sweat trickled down from his temple. They were gonna survive a plane crash but die on this darned hill, all because he couldn’t find a way off of it! “Goddamn it!” he shouted in sudden frustration, startling Mitch.

Frank guessed which rocks he should be making for and took a pace towards them, but Mitch stopped him. He pulled on the older man’s sleeve, motioning him to shush. “Did you hear that?”

Frank cocked his head. All he could hear was the thin wind gusting around him and whistling in his ears. He was about to shake his head when he caught the faintest sound. It was a sort of high-pitched cry, hollow and eerie. His blood turned to ice.

Both men stood transfixed. The keening came again, a little louder but no less unearthly.

“Frank! Frank!” Mitch was tugging at the older man’s cuff like an insistent kid. “Whaddya think that is, huh?” His eyes were wide and frightened.

“I – I dunno Mitch. Quit pulling at me!”

The young navigator bit his lip. “I mean…you don’t think… you know England is really old right? Maybe it’s a ghost or something? What you think, Frank?”

Frank was thinking he should tell the kid to stop being stupid, but in truth his mind was running down the same road. His pa had told him stories about the ghosts of frontiersmen up in the mountains, and of Indian spirits that prowled the rivers and forests. Mitch was right, England WAS old. And perhaps he was right about what it was out there too…. Frank cleared his throat but said nothing to the kid.

The noise came again. A wordless wailing that trailed off into nothing.

“You – you hear stories about ghosts helping people in a fix, yeah?” babbled Mitch. “You know, there’s no rule says a ghost has to scare you, huh? Could be, you know, the ghost of a friendly shepherd or something?”

A movement ahead of them caught Frank’s attention. An indistinct form in the mist. Something heading towards them. The sound came again, clearer now and definitely being made by the figure : “Helllooo...”

Next instant the shape resolved itself into a person. Frank sighed with relief and smiled around at Mitch before waving his arms above his head. “Yeah, hello! Over here!”

The figure approached. As it emerged from the fog Frank thought at first he must be a military guy too: he wore a bulky green heavy-duty jacket with matching pants. But then it became clear that the ‘he’ was in fact a broad, and one that was too old to be enlisted. Maybe some kinda Limey female reservist?

It didn’t matter. “Boy are we glad to see you!” he greeted.