A statue stood in the middle of the square, an image haunting from memories lost and unknown. The only memory I seemed to possess, it created an awkward sense of deja vu. She was a fair maiden; long flowing hair; a robe around her ankles; and a crossbow in her hands which aimed off into the distance at an adversary only she could see. How old she was, who could tell?
Though I was alone in the square, I felt a sense of eerie foreboding – the presence of a thousand pairs of prying eyes, each witnessing my every move. I scanned my surroundings, dismayed to find my vision obstructed by the darkness of the night. The torch in my hand lit up the only sign of life a few paces away – a dim wisp of smoke rising from a bark hut. This I moved toward, the darkness crushing in upon me. I bowed my head as though to block out the intrusion and forced my way across the grassy expanse.
The door to the small hut was covered with an animal skin, which I pulled aside to reveal a low burning fire surrounded by stone in the center of the room. Beyond the smoldering embers sat an old man, his eyes closed and a meditative look on his face. Believing him to be asleep, I made to leave, only to halt when my back was turned. My stomach rolled over inside me as I felt, more than heard, the old man say, “Stay.” I peeked back over my shoulder to confirm what I had heard, when the voice sounded again, “Sit.” Not wanting to argue with the forceful and mysterious voice, I obeyed its instructions and sat on the ground, eyeing the man across the tiny flames. His eyes had opened, each blue-green iris fixing me with a piercing gaze. Sensing that he may have answers to the thousand questions running through my head, I opened my mouth to speak. “Hello. I am sorry to intrude. I seem to be lost. My name is – ” I stopped. Though I had known it from the moment I awoke in the square, the reality had not yet become painfully obvious.
Realization dawned on me like a wave of despair. I had no clue who I was and I had no more notion of my place of origin than I did of where I sat at that moment.
“I know” Again, it was more of a feeling than a sound. I concluded by the intent look in his eyes that the old man must be the source of the voice. It seemed as though instead of using the normal modes of talking, he simply reached out with his mind and connected with mine. The sensation left me disoriented, full both of wonder and of horror. I made to speak again, but the old man continued. “You are not the first,” he… er… said. “You have many questions. Who are you? Where do you come from? Why can’t you remember? Unfortunately, I don’t have the answers you seek.”
“What?” I started, but the old man’s hand was in the air, beckoning my patience. When he was satisfied that I was listening, he continued. “My name is Urwain. I am the seer for this village: Carthensha. Our numbers are only a few poor farmers. Each year, on the night of the midsummer, as tonight, we receive a Visitor.” This last word he spoke as if it were a title, and I had the sense that it now belonged to me. “Each visitor is different, but always, his clothes are strange. His hair is strange. His speech is odd. And he smells of fruit or flowers. We know not whence they come, but come they do.”
I struggled to wrap my mind around the concept. Once a year someone like me showed up in the middle of this village – just as I had – with no memory of his history. What became of them? What would become of me? Did I really smell like flowers? The fear in my heart grew.
“In time you will learn the answers to your questions, but first you must rest. You may sleep here. Rest now. Tomorrow we will speak again.” A sense of hope gleamed in the midst of despair. We would speak again (if that’s indeed what we had been doing). Perhaps tomorrow I could convince this old seer to dispense with his riddles and give me straight answers. Maybe I could find these other “visitors”. Maybe I could find my way home – wherever that is. A throbbing had begun in my head. Without thinking, my eyes found a bundle of straw and fleece to the side of the room, a small mass that must pass for a bed here. I nodded to Urwain, who stood and made for the door, but before he left, he paused half way through the animal skin cover and said over his shoulder, “Oh and do excuse the villagers in the morning. We generally try to be polite, but curiosity never fails to induce some child, or not so young adult, to sneak a peak through the door. If they should wake you in the process, you have my sincere apologies. That was the last thing I remember concretely of that night. My head hit the straw, the questions circulating as though they were moths flying around the ceiling, taking turns landing on my face. Where was this place? Who was I? Who was this Urwain? Could he be trusted? Why were these Visitors appearing in this village? How can I find them? What would happen to me tomorrow? I wish that I could say that when I awoke the next morning, I was once again at home, all of this a fleeting dream. I wish that I could say that and not be wrong.
Editor’s Note: I think that technically this submission lacks the resolution element of flash fiction, but since Mike is a brand new author who is only just cutting his teeth on the genre, we’ll let it slide. ;-)
Looking forward to part two. So hurry up and post it. LOL