From the shores of the rolling oceans to the feet of the craggy mountains, silence descended upon the war-torn land. Out of cracks and crevices, the mist began to bubble and spew. It pooled around the broken trees and bloodied bodies, and flowed around the feet of those who would disturb the peace. Higher and higher it rose, thicker and thicker it became, until anything it covered disappeared forever. People ran in terror, gathering on higher ground. There they knelt, arms thrown skywards in prayer, their voices reaching out to the Heavens; forgive us! Save us!
But still the mist rose higher…
II
The village where Rhi and Calla lived was small, although there was nothing nearby to compare it to. Rows of wooden houses, all of a similar size and style, had been built in a roughly circular shape. Each had a small plot of land out the back where the families kept animals or grew vegetables. In the centre stood a much larger and grander building, built in the shape of a square and referred to as the temple. It contained a sizeable courtyard in the middle, which was populated by roughly carved wooden statues representing the many gods of the village. It was at the feet of these statues where the people laid their tributes and whispered their prayers. At this time of year, most of those prayers were for a good harvest, so the villagers turned their attention to the biggest statue positioned against the north wall of the courtyard. The God of Plenty was depicted as muscular youth; under one arm he held a sheaf of wheat, over the other shoulder was slung a slaughtered ram. Rampant vines bedecked the wall around him and the last few blue flowers of the season peeked among their dark green leaves. The statue itself stood on top of a stone pedestal, raising it higher than any other. Around this pedestal the gifts and tributes had started to gather; carefully plaited loaves of bread, a basket of eggs, whittled figurines and a jug of milk were the current offerings. The people who had placed them there, full of hope and expectation, would return the next day; if their tribute was gone, they would know their prayers had been accepted and a fruitful harvest was assured. However, if it remained, they knew the gods were displeased and they would have to return with something bigger and offer more fervent prayers of forgiveness.
Inside the building itself, lived the Elders; wise and respected men who were charged with protecting the life of the village and making decisions which would benefit its residents. It was they who arranged marriages and presided over every birth and death. They were the ones who assigned tasks and responsibilities to each family and decided whether their children should become farmers, weavers, builders, healers… Two years ago, Rhi had been told it was his destiny to follow in his father’s footsteps on their small farm. He had accepted it graciously, but a part of him couldn’t help but feel that his life was meant for something more.
After the ceremony had finished, one of the Elders had gestured for Rhi to come over. He had confided that he felt differently to the others but had been unable to convince them to change their decision. He had urged Rhi to come and visit him and hinted that he had many things to teach him. Ever since, after a particularly tedious day alone in the fields, that is exactly what Rhi would do.
Baba’s room was in the northernmost corner of the temple. It was built to be identical to all the others; four walls, one window, one door. But once inside you were transported to another world. Exotic scripts and paintings adorned the walls, parchments littered the floors and even the ceiling had drawings on it. When Rhi appeared at the window, Baba was sitting on the bed in the corner putting the finishing touches to a sketch he had made on a scrappy page, probably torn from one of the few books in the corner. He looked up and smiled.
“Right on time again young man.” His voice was deep and croaky and had a soothing quality to it that made him an enthralling story-teller. Rhi checked that no one was watching and swung a long, lean leg through the window. With a quick jump he was inside and he folded himself neatly to fit on the end of the bed.
“What have you drawn this time Baba?” he asked, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse.
Baba had had another name once, but it was so long since anyone had used it that he had forgotten what it was. The oldest member of the village, although no one was quite sure how old exactly, he was referred to affectionately by the same name the children called their grandfathers. With creaking hands, he slowly turned the page round so that Rhi could take the drawing. The parchment itself was thick, much thicker than the skin which was stretched thinly over Baba’s bony fingers. Upon the page, sketched in charcoal, was an animal unlike anything Rhi had seen before. It had long pointed ears and sat up on its hind legs. A small, round tail sprouted from its haunches and made it seem rather comical. Rhi studied it carefully, seriously, and then gave it a lopsided grin.
“Another one of your fantasy creatures? What’s this one called then?”
Baba was used to the scepticism and he kindly shook his head. They had had versions of this conversation many times before, and he knew it would take more than a few drawings to convince Rhi of his seriousness. “They are not fantasy, young one. Before the mists came, there were many such creatures in the world, and when the mists go, there shall be once again. This one was called rabbit.” He held his hands apart a small distance above his lap. “It was about this big and, if I remember correctly, rather delicious.” He grinned a toothless grin.
Rhi was very fond of Baba, they were closer than most family members, but he never quite believed the old man’s claims. Everyone in the village knew that the mist had descended centuries before, a lasting punishment for man’s selfishness. While adults clung in vain to hopes that one day they would be forgiven and be allowed to walk in the world once again, very few seriously believed they would be alive to see it. Even fewer thought anyone amongst them already had. But because Baba was thought of so affectionately, people tended to smile at his stories, politely nod their heads and change the subject. More than most, Rhi wanted to believe him. His adventurer’s spirit longed to find out that there was a wider world to be explored. But as much as he enjoyed Baba’s tales, they went against everything he, and everyone else in the village, had been taught.
“It’s a shame we don’t have any then, I could do with a change from lamb,” he joked and went to hand the sketch back, but Baba shook his head.
“Keep it,” he said. “Actually, I have a gift for you. Here, help me up.”
Baba stretched out his arms and Rhi took his hands. He was surprised by how delicate they felt: through the skin he could feel every joint and curve of his fragile bones. He held steady as the old man pulled himself up with a groan. He looked rather unsure on his feet, as if it had been a while since he was last standing, and the effort left him breathless. Rhi was unsure whether he was supposed to let go or not - he didn’t know how much he was being used for support – and he was rather relieved when Baba reached towards the shelf and lifted down a battered, wooden cane. He shifted his weight onto it and shuffled slowly towards the desk by the door. Once there he opened a drawer and reached inside.
“We’ve spent so much time together, you and I, talking about what once was. I hope you will be the one to discover if it can be again.” Baba’s voice was husky and weak, the trip across the room having taken the last of his energy. He turned around slowly and Rhi saw that he was clutching a heavy, leather-bound volume to his chest. It took both hands for him to hold it up and the walking stick clattered to the floor. Rhi started forward, ready to catch the old man as he fell, but Baba leaned backwards against the desk and seemed stable. He held out the book with shaking arms and Rhi took it quickly.
“In there is everything we ever talked about. I have no more stories left to tell. Use them wisely young one.”
Rhi flicked quickly through the crackling parchment. Scores of drawings of animals, fruits and landscapes filled its leaves. His eye was drawn to the back page. He recognised it as a map but it was far more complicated than any he had ever seen before. Inky rivers wound through dark forests, raging seas batted against white cliffs and in the centre towered a rocky mountain. In the bottom corner Baba had drawn a small house and a group of simple figures standing together.
Rhi turned to Baba, who had quietly made his way back to the bed.
“Where is this?” He asked, his curiosity aroused. Baba raised a frail hand to the window and pointed.
“Out there.” His voice was barely above a whisper now; their brief conversation had exhausted him. Baba gave out a sigh as he dropped onto the bed and laid his pale head against the pillow. Rhi took a blanket off the shelf and placed it gently over his legs. He slipped the rabbit drawing into the book and tucked it under his arm. Then as quietly as he had arrived, he climbed back out of the window, his head now filled with more questions than answers, and left the old man to sleep.
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