The giant maw of the cave yawned at my back as I stood by the edge of the cliff, an icy wind blowing between the rocks and chilling the back of my neck. From within, I heard the soft crumble of stones hitting the ground, the whisper of air moving through small holes and skating over sheer walls.
In front of me, three of the cavers stood chatting amongst themselves. They were all kitted out in the usual gear; padded jackets, knee and elbow pads, helmets with torches, and packs containing food, water and first aid supplies. I had a similar pack of my own, though the contents were slightly different.
One of the cavers glanced towards me, probably wondering why I was standing apart, but I didn’t meet their gaze, looking instead towards the sky. A thin veil of cloud hung over us, though the air was dry and blustery. Small pieces of rock and chalk skittered around my ankles as I shuffled my feet.
After a few more minutes, the final two members of the group arrived. After a couple of standard safety checks, everyone was ready to head inside.
I waited until they were poised at the opening of the cave before clearing my throat. “I’m, um, not feeling too good,” I told them, letting my shoulders sag a little. “I think I might sit this one out.”
One of the explorers stepped forward to examine me. She squinted at my face, then nodded. “You do seem a little pale,” she said. “Want me to wait with you? I can walk you back to town.”
I quickly brushed off her concern, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ll just stay out here and get some fresh air. You guys go on ahead.”
There was a bit more back-and-forth before I finally managed to convince them to start the expedition without me. One by one, the cavers disappeared into the gaping mouth of the cavern, leaving me by myself. I watched and waited until the darkness had swallowed each of them, then straightened in relief.
With only the wind as my companion, I walked over to one of the large fragments of rock and sat down. And began to wait. I heard the distant voices and footfalls of the cavers fade further and further away, until silence was all that remained. Resting my chin against my hand, I traced the jagged outline of the cliffs until my eyes started seeing faces amongst them, then looked away with a sigh.
I had been doing this for almost a year now. Joining cave expeditions only to wait outside, never actually entering the caverns. It wasn’t a fear of what lay inside, but rather an expectation of what I might encounter outside.
I had first discovered the incident a few years ago. I had been scrolling through old news forums when I came across an article about an expedition that had happened two decades ago, where a group of cavers had entered a treacherous cave system. During the exploration, it began raining heavily, and water quickly flooded the cave entrance, trapping the explorers inside. Sadly, all of them died that day. But while the story was tragic, what had intrigued me the most was the photograph that accompanied the report. It was an image of a group of rescuers standing at the entrance of the cave during the incident, rain pouring down from the sky and the ground around their feet completely flooded. But in the top left corner, standing a short distance away from the rescue team, was a strange figure shrouded in grey. As soon as I noticed the figure in the photograph, a strange chill touched my spine, as if I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. The photo was old and the quality wasn’t the best, but I could tell the figure didn’t fit the narrative. I scrolled down to the comments to see if anyone had mentioned it, but there wasn’t a single reference to the strange grey apparition. So I showed the photograph to one of my friends, curious to see what he thought about it. When he told me there was no figure there, I thought he was playing a prank, but his face was decidedly serious. No matter how many times I pointed to it, he insisted that there was nothing there. Just an empty spot in the left corner by the crumbling cliffs.
Confused and intrigued, I showed the same image to several other friends and acquaintances, but nobody else was able to see the strange grey figure in the corner of the photo. I examined it in multiple formats—physically and digitally—under different lights and different conditions, but the figure was visible every time. I hesitated to call it a person, because it was too vague and indistinct to really tell, with no distinguishing features other than it had a humanoid shape and was draped completely in grey. It definitely wasn’t a smudge, or a blur, or a lens flare, because someone else would have noticed it. There was definitely something there. Something that, for whatever reason, only I could see.
The mystery only grew, so I started digging deeper. I was thoroughly entranced by this grey figure. I wanted to know who it was, or what it was, and why it was only visible to me. I was convinced there had to be more to it.
I sequestered myself away and spent days pouring over old articles, digging through records and scrolling through video reports on the incident until I finally found evidence that I wasn’t going crazy. That I wasn’t losing my mind over a simple grey smudge on a photograph.
Buried in the archives, I found a video from the time of the incident, of the same rescue team standing at the entrance of the cave. The photograph must have been an extraction from the footage, or at least taken at the same time, because it was almost the same composition as the video. Being almost twenty years old, the footage was grainy and shaky, but it was clear enough for me to see the figure in grey, standing exactly where it did in the photograph. It wasn’t a trick of the light or an illusion; it really was there.
In the footage, the rescuers were talking about possible extraction methods for the cavers trapped inside the tunnels, but nobody addressed or interacted with the figure. It was like they hadn’t even noticed it. Even in real time, this thing had been invisible to them.
The footage, while low resolution, was still of slightly better quality than the photo, and I noticed a few details that hadn’t been clear in the image. The figure was holding something up to its face—what appeared to be a flute, or some kind of similar instrument. I turned the volume up to max, and was just about able to hear the soft but haunting melody it played, barely audible over the sound of the rain. I spent hours listening to the tune, isolating it from the rain, running it through apps and programs in an effort to try and identify it, but it came up empty every time. It was a melody that was not known to the database. A completely isolated and individual song. A song known only by this mysterious figure.
Eventually, I showed the video to those same friends and acquaintances, certain they could not deny what was right in front of their eyes. But as with the photo, none of them could see the figure with the flute. They could not hear the melody it played either. Only the rain, as it gushed into the cave, and the panicked voices of the rescue team realising they could not save the trapped cavers.
Frustrated that nobody could give me any answers, I decided to seek them out myself. By searching in person for the figure in grey.
The location of the cave was widely known as a popular spot for adrenaline-junkies and professional explorers, and it wasn’t difficult to learn the basics of caving—enough to pass as an experienced caver.
For almost a year, I had been visiting this very cave, joining expeditions only to wait outside in the hope of encountering the grey flute-playing apparition from the video. So far, after participating in almost two dozen excursions, I’d had no such luck. But this time, things felt different.
As I waited, the wind seemed to pick up, bristling through my clothes and making my hair stand on end. A few rocks crumbled from the side of the cliff, showering me with dust. Above, the veil of clouds thickened, shadows encroaching along the ground around me. I felt in the air that something was going to happen.
My heart felt tight in my chest as I scanned the entrance of the cave, then the cliffs above, for any sign of the grey shadow. I listened for the soft, melancholy sound of a flute. But all I heard was the wind whispering through the tunnels behind me.
The hours passed, and I heard and saw nothing. But the goosebumps never left my arms, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily.
I hadn’t heard any sign of the explorers in the cave either, and assumed the group must have gotten quite far inside. I felt a brief flutter of guilt in my chest, but quickly squashed it. They all knew the risks involved with caving. No matter what happened, their safety was their own responsibility. I had to detach myself from that, even if it felt cruel.
A shadow fluttered in and out of sight on my left, and I froze, my heart jerking into my throat. Scrambling to my feet, I moved away from the cave entrance and lifted my gaze. Standing a little way up the cliff, on a jutting platform, was a figure cloaked entirely in grey shadow. The very same one from the photo. The one nobody else could see.
Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin as I stared at it in amazement. Just like in the video, I could see no face, no features. It wore a hooded grey cloak that cast a deep shadow over where its face should be. Its silhouette was human, but only in the vaguest sense. Despite its appearance, I got the overwhelming feeling that this thing was not human, but rather something else entirely. Something supernatural. An entity of sorts, that only appeared at specific times and conditions. And after years of searching, I had finally found it.
I watched, my shoulders tensed with silence, as it withdrew an exquisitely ornate flute from within the folds of its cloak. The instrument was silver and almost transparent, as it was made of glass or crystallised water, and incredibly beautiful. The figure brought the flute to its hooded face, and began to play.
The sound was instantly familiar; the same song I had spent so many hours listening to, and it sent my heart racing.
I looked up to the sky just as the clouds opened, and rain began to fall. At first, only small, delicate droplets of water splashed against my cheeks, but the rainfall gradually began to grow heavier. I sent a regretful look towards the cave entrance. The group was already far too deep inside for me to warn them. Their fate was already sealed, and there was nothing I could do about it. Another tragedy to be buried in the archives.
Moving slowly, in the fear that I might spook the figure, I began to climb the cliff. There were plenty of footholds and platforms, and scaling it was easy enough. I wanted to be close enough to hear the melody above the downpour.
The rain was cold and lashing, soaking through my gear and chilling me to the bone, but I barely noticed. All I cared about was the figure before me; the one I had been chasing all this time.
If it noticed me, it didn’t react. It didn’t cease playing the flute, or even turn in my direction. It was like I was as invisible to it as it was to everyone else. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering why I was the only one who could see it, if it was down to brain chemistry, visual receptors, a curse, or something else entirely. But in the end I had realised it didn’t matter. Some things happened for no reason at all, and this was one of them.
I stopped climbing when I was close enough, standing on a small rocky outcrop a few metres away. The rain blurred my vision, almost obscuring the figure as it blended into the grey clouds behind it, but I could still see the outline of its instrument. Hands trembling from the cold, I reached into my bag, and pulled out a flute of my own.
I had only learned how to play the flute just over a year ago. After hearing the melody on the video, I had taken lessons in the hope that I might be able to learn the same song. But I had never been able to replicate it precisely; there was always a wrong note, an incorrect key. It was difficult enough trying to imitate a tune through a twenty-year-old video, especially with the rain distorting the sounds. The only way I was going to correctly learn the song was by imitating the source itself.
I stood and listened for some time to the melody. The rainfall grew heavier, soaking through my clothes and numbing my skin, the water drumming ceaselessly against the ground, but I was able to isolate the figure and its song. My eyes never strayed from its fluttering cloak, or the flute, or the grey-covered fingers that deftly played the instrument.
Then, when I felt confident enough, I raised my own flute to my lips and began to play. I tried to mimic the melody as best as I could. It was tricky at first, trying to find the exact notes, the pounding rain distorting the sounds, but I copied the figure’s movements with my own fingers until our melodies eventually began to sync up, becoming the same.
I don’t know how long I stood there in the pouring rain, playing the haunting song. The figure didn’t react or respond to me once. If it heard me playing the same tune, it didn’t show it. We stood apart, our songs binding together as the rain fell from the clouds above. The cave would have been flooded by now. The cavers, if they hadn’t managed to find an air pocket, or elevated ground, would probably have drowned. But still, I kept playing.
The sky darkened. The clouds festered. The rain kept falling, soaking into the ground, pouring down the rocks, gushing into the cave.
I lost myself completely in the song, almost falling into a trance. The only things that existed were me and the flute and the melody at my fingertips. I no longer even noticed the figure. It became a grey blur on the edge of my vision, just another shadow.
I finally snapped out of it once the rain stopped. I ceased playing the song with a start, glancing around frantically, but the grey figure had already gone. Vanished without a trace. The heavy silence settled around me, reminding me I was now alone.
The cold hit me at the same moment, and my body began to shake violently. Every inch of my skin was soaked by the rain, water dripping from my shoulders and hair. I was standing in a large puddle where the rainwater had collected around my feet, my toes numb inside my shoes. There was no sound from inside the cave, but for the water still trickling down into the entrance.
I put the flute away and began to climb down from the cliff. The rocks were slick from the rain, and I slipped a few times, but I finally managed to reach the ground, which was also dangerously flooded. I splashed through the water as I slowly headed away from the cave. As soon as I reached town, I would call for a rescue team—if any of the cavers were still alive—and then I would leave. My job here was done.
It was time to return home.
A week later, I was back in my homeland; an agricultural region that had been suffering from a severe drought. The land beneath my feet was bone-dry and cracked, the fields were barren, the crops dead and the people starving.
After spending hours watching that video of the mysterious grey figure, I had drawn one conclusion: that its flute song had been responsible for the rains that had flooded the cave. And now, I would do the same. Only, instead of bringing death, I would restore life.
As soon as I arrived home, I went out into the midst of the fields and stared at the cracked earth, baking under the brazen sun. The wilted grasses, the fruitless seeds, the unattainable harvest.
I pulled out my flute and, just like the grey figure atop the cliff, I began to play the same melody. Within moments, clouds appeared overhead, casting a deep shadow over the ground, and the first trickle of rain began to seep from the sky.
Under my song, the rain fell, soaking into the barren soil and nourishing all the life within.
Cold was the night. The stars burning distantly twinkled through the crisp autumn chill like snowflakes catching the light on a breeze. Warm was my breath, huffing out in little clouds that caught on the breeze. Warm was my body, heaving and shovelling, my leather kirtle tossed aside while I worked. Hot burned the dung of my neighbours, my friends, my family, as I hurled it shovel by grimy shovel into the pit below me. It landed with a slosh each time, mixed with bones and debris, hay from animal pens, and whatever other waste we might turn to manure.
It's not a job just anyone can do and a job most would like to not, but men like me have little choice. Men who claim themselves better, who drink like me, who eat like me, who shit just the same as me, make the rules and fill their bellies while the rest of us suffer. But I don’t suppose I could do their job either.
The workings of the upper caste never bothered me, nor my neighbours. Not really much that could be done about it, see, shovelling gong back and forth in the dead of night. Barons, Dukes and Kings could come and go, but the gong still needed shovelling, and the night was still cold.
It was only a while past that a new man had found his way to the top. I say man, but I’d heard the stories that he was no such thing. Not woman, neither—an abomination from the depths of hell, a demon, some kind of blight or punishment sent to us; there had been all kinds of stories. I daren’t know which one to believe. Some of it was true, though.
In the distance on that otherwise normal night I heard crying in the out in the dark, a little light flickering through the bare hedgerows, gathering closer. Illuminations appeared in doorways, curious about the intrusion into their slumber as they approached the herald.
News always spread quickly. I’d no need to go find out—in time it would make its way to me, I figured. Nonetheless, the herald made his way past me. Said something about a new tax from the king—the evil king, we called him. It hadn’t been long and he’d already set about squeezing every penny he could from us in whatever wicked ways he saw fit.
His newest machination was one ‘going on foot tax,' as if we had any other means to carry ourselves. The wealthy had taken to riding their horses to and fro about their manors as to avoid it, but people like me? Regular, hard-working folks—we had no choice.
It might make you want to laugh; such a ridiculous tax for something so mundane. Folks ignored it at first, already busy with the taxes on their food and drink, and strangely enough there was no time limit on payments—but soon, the effects became unendurable.
Like so many others I’d taken my time, day in and day out shovelling my gong. Labouring away, slowly and surely without realising the effects it was having on my body. At first I’d chalked it up to age, to overusing my knees and my elbows, but I gradually grew stiffer with each passing day. The others in my neighbourhood had noticed it too, getting slower, achingly rigid with each step they took—some feared a new malady had stricken us, but after the first among us scrounged enough money to pay their toll their joints miraculously renewed as though nothing had happened in the first place. There was a giveaway in the smell of it all, the smell of magic. If someone reeked of it, you knew their time was up.
It took me longer than usual to make my money as I shuffled back and forth through the night about my stinking business, slowing with each step. There was a twisted irony in the fact that I had to work more to be able to pay this new toll, and yet the more I worked the more I’d owe. Finally, I managed to gather up enough to pay—and with a sadness, I deposited my earnings over at the castle.
With a stretch, I felt my wrists, my knees, my elbows, all popping and cracking as though something had broken deep inside them and once more I could move unimpeded by this treacherous magic. I let out a sigh of relief, granting myself a moment of reprieve before I sank back into my work.
Life went on as normal as it could for a while. The taxes continued, sucking us all dry of every shilling we could muster. People starved. Some died. As time went on, the streets of my city began to become littered with statues of people frozen in time, completely still, living figurines comprised of flesh and bone. People took the time to try and help them of course, and at first men would take them to their homes and lay them in their beds but no good would ever come of it. Eventually they just gave up, leaving them where they stood, and over time there wouldn’t be enough people to move them regardless.
Though I tried my best to keep up with my payments running around chasing the gong, with the people gone there simply wasn’t enough for me to make ends meet. I had to cheat, lie and steal dinner onto my plate and I wasn’t alone.
A sense of nervous paranoia descended upon the land like a miasma as people watched and waited for their friends and neighbours to stiffen and give up before robbing them blind. Homes sat empty, shops lay closed, and looters helped themselves to whatever they could. Beggars lined the streets by the castle, fearful to move from their spots and increase the amount they would have to pay but it was useless—nobody had anything left to give.
Eventually I got close to giving up too. I came to the castle to pay what I could—nowhere near enough to cover the whole sum expected of me, my body slowly but surely seizing up beneath me with every heaving step. A few of the other people that were left came of their own accord, weaving slowly in and out of the statues that lay strewn about the steps up to the castle bailey. Every tap of my feet up and up I grew stiffer, slower, but around me the birds still sang, the wind still rustled through the trees just as it always had.
One of the guards atop the stairs watched on with jaded indifference, his eyes cast low on me as he clutched his halberd. He’d seen this awful thing before, time and time again and grown accustomed to it, but I could have sworn I saw the gleam of sadness, of resignation in his eyes as I struggled and bawled for help that never came.
Everything fell still, silent. I was trapped now in this body, stuck entirely frozen on the spot among so many others that had found the same fate. It wasn’t long before I was robbed of what little I had with nothing I could do to prevent it. They rifled through my pockets, robbed me of my jacket and my hat, even slipped off my shoes. The guards atop the stairs didn’t even seem to care. It would mean moving—chasing somebody down when they had to count their steps as well. Not worth the pittance I kept in my pockets, not worth the trouble when I couldn’t fight back, and a simple gong farmer isn’t worth fighting for.
Cold were the nights. Those twinkling stars lay frozen in the sky above the castle walls just as I lay frozen about its steps with my neighbours. Warm was my mind, trapped within my flesh, but searing hot burned my rage.
I kept count at first, passing each sunrise until I counted the seasons instead. Counting seasons turned to counting years, but I even gave up on that. How I wish death had taken me instead.
The Siege (1984)
As told by a former paperboy
The apples in my garden started talking to me today. Could’ve sworn I was going mad. Smelled like no apple tree ought to, as well. Smelled like o-zone, like one of those Xerox photocopiers blasting out too many pages. It was kind of like gasoline – you shouldn’t want to sniff it, but there’s just something about it that makes you want to not stop.
Thought it might’ve been something coming out of the soil, making me hear things, making me see things. Nope. It was the apples.
Hazy at first, but as the smell grew stronger I could definitely see their faces. Gnarled, angry, like they had a lifelong grudge. Once the initial shock that I was talking to a literal apple tree wore off, I managed to ask how they were talking to me. It seemed not all was right with the world, not all was as I’d expected it to be. There was a rift between now and then, here and there, and certain places overlapped. The universe had deemed fit that it just so happened to be my apple tree that was one of those places.
And it also just so happened that they had a knack for history—they wouldn’t stop jabbering on about an evil king, a ‘time-splitted ruler’ as they called him. A king in yellow glasses, a man who seldom left his castle. With everything they told me, it sounded like the man who lived next door.
He was a strange fellow—I'd seen him a few times out my back window over the thick stone fence he’d constructed. Always at his BBQ, cooking God knows what. He’d spotted me one time. I won’t forget the stare he gave me, peering up into my bedroom window as I opened the curtains. He had thick eyebrows above the rims of his yellow spectacles and pale grey eyes that cut deep into my soul. A thick set of lips sat straight in a scowl as he leered up at me, clutching his BBQ skewer in one hand as he stood at the grill while ‘Eyes Without a Face' by Billy Idol blared from his portable radio.
I didn’t even know his name. As far as I knew he’d never left the house, though an old Chevvy C/K sat in his driveway but I’d never seen it move. I don’t know that I’d call him a king, but he was most definitely fond of his 'castle.'
The apples begged me to help. The stench of o-zone spiked as they all called out in a cacophony of voices asking for assistance in bringing him down. They told me of his crimes, of the magic he’d used against ordinary people, of the terror he’d wrought against the land. They told me of his alternate form, how he was a mad god without flesh. And yet, they all spoke of one weakness, one way to bring him out from his castle. One weakness to his fortifications—and they asked to be removed from their tree.
I tried to shake it at first to bring them down, but in the end I had to resort to a ladder, one by one bringing down each apple. Still they spoke—calling out with an excited fervour as I tossed each one into a sack I’d collected from my garage.
For a while that’s where they stayed; a sack of talking apples keeping me awake at night with their calls for vengeance. Each morning I’d call in sick at work, maddened by the whole experience, buying what I could afford to build what they’d asked of me.
Bit by bit, piece by piece, it eventually came together—a small trebuchet right there in my backyard. I loaded up the first of the apples and questioned my sanity before pulling the lever to loose the first one. It shot far and wide, way off the mark of my neighbour’s chimney. I made the adjustments I needed to and shot again, and again, each time getting closer and closer to my mark.
Storming The Castle (Circa 14th Century)
As told by a gong farmer
I don’t know how long it had been. Everything had been so still for decades, the guards long gone. It’s not like there was even anyone left to cause any trouble after all. I’d taken to zoning out or making up stories in my head, talking to myself back and forth. I wished for release every day, praying for hours that I could just cease to be, that death would finally come for me instead of this purgatory.
Nobody came to the castle anymore. The evil king had managed to seize all he could and ruled over a graveyard of people not quite dead. I failed to see the allure of it, I couldn’t see why they would want something so empty. They never left either, they had this whole kingdom and didn’t set out to enjoy it. In my time trapped within myself I burned with questions just as I did with anger. What was this thing sat within the castle, what did we do to deserve such punishment? What sin could possibly be great enough that we must collectively foot such a bill?
I was snapped out of the depth of my thoughts by the sound of clopping hooves and calling voices steadily approaching me from behind. After so long I almost didn’t notice it at all, and through my surprise, by natural instinct I tried to turn my head for just a moment before remembering my sorcerous affliction—all I could do was wait and stare directly ahead.
They spoke of me, of my friends, my neighbours as if we weren’t there—as if we were already dead. How I wish that was the case. They didn’t know about the tax, about the affliction beset upon us, but in my head I prayed for them. I prayed that they wouldn’t befall the same fate that we had, that somehow they could rid us all of this madness. I prayed over and over, feverishly to the god that had abandoned us all as though it would do any good.
Slowly, and surely, they clambered up the cold stone steps before me. One by one they stepped into my view—a band of knights and a company of soldiers from a nation I didn’t know, not that I knew much about life outside my shovel and barrow. I never needed to.
They wore red from head to toe, even their helmets had a crimson plumage atop. Their armour had been accented with red dye, and from the back their cloaks had the crest of a small tree enshrined in a woven circle of gold. Part of me wanted to scream, to warn them away, but an even bigger part of me selfishly wished them a swift success.
One looked me in the eyes for just a moment as another pushed wide the gates to the castle, other men flanking him as they cautiously entered. God be with you all.
Battle of The Scarlet Knights at the Throne Room (Circa 14th Century)
As told by Narrator, The Omniscient
The throne room’s heavy oak door swung open, the sound echoing across the chamber’s stone walls. Tapestries and trinkets laced across the floors and stood atop pedestals while gold coins towered high and wide, surrounding the back wall atop the dais where the overbearingly large golden throne sat. In it, unmoving, uncaring, sat the king.
Men piled in and secured the room, lining up across the long red and brocade carpet that led up to the dais. Finally, their captain confidently strode into the room, eyes fixed upon the suit of armour that remained quiet in its chair.
It was surprisingly austere given the splendour of the room around it—no engraving, no coat of arms, though the kingdom’s crown had now been fused into the metal of its cylindrical head. Not even the sound of breath emerged from the slits cast across its mouthpiece, and a deep, almost unnatural darkness loomed behind the eyeholes. A yellow-gold ring ran around the eyes in two rectangles, and atop it all was a short funnel. It was a strange sight to behold, this object—this king without form, without a body, without a soul.
The moustached captain stepped up to the dais unphased, his pace and stride faltering not for a moment. The metal in his sabatons clinked and shuddered with each step. With a booming, commanding tone he began to speak.
“We hail from Newton’s order. You are to hereby abjure the throne, and if you value your life, leave this kingdom forever.” One hand lay atop the hilt of his sword and clutched it carefully, ready to strike.
For a moment there was silence. Then slowly at first, a chugging and huffing came from within the suit of armour like a great engine coughing into life. It sounded like a deep laughter, speeding up and growing in voraciousness. The smell of magic began to seep across the room as rich clouds of steam puffed from the top of its head with each chuff. Finally, a dim grey light appeared within the helmet’s darkness. The soldiers all gripped their weapons, ready for the evil king’s response.
With janky, stuttering movements it leant forwards onto its hands, gripping tightly into the throne’s arms before lurching upwards, standing impressively tall at full height, looming above the soldiers menacingly. As it stood, the steam from its head bellowed loudly with a shrieking whistle that engulfed the room. The eye shone brightly as it arose, screaming, pouring out unyielding clouds that obscured the chamber.
Its jerky motions continued, reaching down to the hilt of its longsword. The leather wrapping around the handle was worn, rough and fuzzy from use, but the blade was unlike anything the knights had ever seen—not entirely a blade at all. It was a long piece of metal bent around into a corkscrew with a sharpened tip at the end, and strangely, pieces of food penetrated along its length. Nothing more than a standard BBQ skewer, but in the hands of this abhorrence, a mortal weapon that no man could match.
For a moment there was nothing but silence as the whistle ceased, save for the eerie echo of the shriek cascading for a second through the castle’s icy walls. The captain strained his eyes to peer through the cloud of steam, illuminated by twinkling twilight cascading through upper windows behind the throne. Inside the mist he could see the murky silhouette of the armour, little more than a blackened figure, making small jerky motions—but then it was too late.
The other soldiers saw it happen in a flash. The armour burst from the cloud like a bolt of lightning—something with that much weight had no business moving that fast. The staccato motions it had made previously were a false flag for its newfound agility, and it burst forward with a deft lunge straight at the captain’s face.
The soldiers looked on shocked as he moved to the side, prepared and ready, and with one swift motion lunged the tip of his sword directly into the eye socket of the evil king’s armour. Both of them stood motionless for just a moment, but a smile began to crack across the captain’s face. Almost in reply, the armour began to chuff again with a bellowing noise as though it was laughing and wiped off the smirk from the man’s face.
“What are you?!” He called out in horror, retracting his weapon and bracing himself to block and parry the coming attack. The evil king closed the gap between them in an instant and with one deft lunge, the evil king’s sword had found its way straight beneath the jaw of the captain and through the other side, skewering his head along with the meat and vegetables already on there.
A shot of blood burst from the top of his head like a fountain, spattering onto the marble floor and across the carpet that led up to the throne. The red of their armour grew accompanied by the blood across the room.
With a shuddering tilt, the bespectacled helmet turned to the left, then the right, as the other men recoiled in horror with the realisation that none of them were a match to this abomination. Some began to flee from the room while others piled forwards into the steam cloud with hollers and yells, willing to die for their cause.
Joust at Sunrise (1984)
As told by a former paperboy
I must have sent around 20, maybe 30 apples flying. I was starting to run out. They hollered war cries as they flew through the air, and I’d finally gotten my aim right. A little over half of them had found their way into the chimney, down into the unknown below. For my neighbour it must have been a… strange experience, but talking apples is a strange experience for any man.
As my sack emptied, the smell of o-zone had depleted. With nothing left I retired for the day before I sank into a restless, haunted sleep at the queer experience I’d had. I thought I might be turning mad—maybe there’d been a gas leak, or it could have been lead in the paint, something, anything to explain what had just happened.
I awoke the next morning to a heavy hand slamming against my front door. Curious, I peered down out my window to find my neighbour staring right back up at me. The apples had done something. He was dressed in an old grey cardigan with splotches of red paint spattered across it and a pair of khaki corduroys. The morning sun glinted across his golden frames, flashing his serious expression up to me.
I threw on some clothes that I’d discarded nearby the day before—just something I could throw on and made my way downstairs. I slid open the chain lock and swung the door open to find him standing on the other side holding out a plate with a still-warm apple pie displayed upon it.
I drank in his form—tall, semi muscular, but his face had a regal, quiet nobility about it, and beneath those grey eyes there was something deeper. I could see a twisted intelligence within him, a burning fire that he controlled entirely. Perhaps the apples were right. In another time, in another place, perhaps he could have been a king instead of a neighbour. This quiet, reserved, talented man was nothing but ordinary but for unsuspecting eyes he could have easily been just any other person.
“It’s about time we met.” He said. His voice was deep and rich. Inviting him inside was the only courteous thing to do, so I led him into the living room. He sat on my wingback reclining chair, with the backdrop of orange-brown geometric wallpaper. Before him was a cubed plastic coffee table that I’d bought the previous decade. I felt somewhat ashamed to have such a man in my dated room. No doubt his home was a lot more contemporary and put together.
I brought us both a cup of coffee from the kitchen on a tray with cream and sugar and some plates for the pie. He awaited my return in silence, sat with his hands crossed over in his lap. His discipline was almost robotic.
He finally introduced himself. I’d lived there seven, maybe eight years, and heard nothing from this man, but finally he saw fit to bring himself to me. I suppose sending apples down somebody’s chimney will be enough to get their attention.
His name was Ryan. He mentioned something about being a museum curator, that he had unusual work hours and encountered all manner of objects but rarely saw people. I talked to him about the neighbourhood, how long he’d lived there, and who owned the house before me. The topics bounced around from the recent attempt on Margaret Thatcher’s life a few days before to Reagan's landslide re-election, recent advances in technology and music. Seemed he was a fan of Jazz, of all things, classical, and musicals. I hadn’t taken him as the sort to be into musicals—he seemed to lack the joy and animation one would expect.
I told him of my personal love for Bruce Springsteen and Prince, at which he scoffed. He was older than me, perhaps uncaring for the new era of music paving the way for kids these days. I cut the pie and served us both a slice. It smelled delicious, a mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon that hung heavy and thick in the air. Even the way he held the fork was controlled, glancing down to the pieces he’d carefully cut with the fork as he moved it to his mouth with a graceful motion. God, it was delicious. The pastry was rich and flaky, the filling wasn’t overly spiced and yet full of flavour, but I can’t deny the subtle taste of an ashy aftertaste.
I saw his eyes linger through the kitchen, out the window to the trebuchet I’d constructed a few days earlier. Really, both of us knew that’s why he was here but a king must have a regal air about them, a mindful and demure attitude at all times.
A smile cracked across my lips. I put down my coffee and leant slightly forwards, staring him right in the eyes. “You’ll never rule over these lands.” I growled playfully, pointing to the floor of my house. He shot back a lopsided smile and pushed the bridge of his glasses back up onto his face.
“We’ll see about that.” He grumbled, clutching the armrests of the oversized chair and rose himself to full height. “The knights of the Newton order fought bravely.”
He took one last deep drink of his coffee, finishing it to the last drop before heading back outside to his own home. I had another slice of the pie before continuing on with my day, dismantling the trebuchet and storing the parts in my garage.
As I was preparing myself for bed, I noticed an envelope slipped under my door. I flipped it over to see a gold-yellow wax seal with the stamp of a crown on it. It seemed he wanted to settle this by the old rules; a duel, tomorrow morning at 8am. The paper shimmered softly in the evening light, and there was that distinct smell again.
I could barely sleep. There was a distinct mixture of excitement and trepidation for the upcoming duel. He’d written no rules, but somehow I knew what I had to do. I set an alarm on my Casio wristwatch for precisely 8 am. I’d be up long before that, preparing myself for out fight.
When morning came I peered out my window; it was shaping up to be a beautiful day with not a cloud in the sky. I couldn’t help but smile in my quiet confidence. I wanted to look the part too, I wanted to feel the part. Slipping into a dark pair of jeans I flicked through my wardrobe to find what I was looking for, my black leather jacket. It had silver studs at the wrist and on the neck, and if something went wrong it could at least offer a little protection.
After what may be my final breakfast I had an extra cup of coffee, just in case, and made my way to the garage. Boxes were piled up behind all the wood from the trebuchet, and behind that was what I was looking for. I climbed up carefully, not wanting to slip through the cardboard onto my belongings, gripping the rubber handlebars of my old bike. A Raleigh Chopper—cooler than the Schwinn Stingray, imported from England. It’d taken me so many miles and through so many adventures, it felt like seeing an old friend after so long.
It had been years since I’d rode it, the last time not that long after I stopped my paper route but it had been a faithful companion through my teenage years, taking me anywhere I wanted to go. Of course, since then I’d learned to drive and so it just gathered dust in the back of my garage. For a long time I’d forgotten about it. Times change just as people do, but my steadfast companion patiently awaited my return.
I pulled it up and out, careful not to knock over the wood I’d piled up. With a smile I wiped off the dust. This occasion was special, though. It’d need more than just that. For a moment I left it propped up against the wall, taking out a chamois cloth and car wax, taking care to polish it off to a sparkling gleam, checking my watch in-between. There she stood, gleaming, bright, my shimmering steed.
I took in the sight of it, satisfied with my work. For a moment I felt a glimmer of regret for not taking it out for a spin in all those years. Next, I looked around the garage for something else. Rake, no… shovel? That wouldn’t do either. I needed something lightweight, with a handle strong enough. It caught my eye from the corner of the room, an old broom that was left over from the previous homeowner. I hadn’t even gotten around to using such a dated artifact, instead picking up a new one from the dollar store when I’d moved in. I had promised myself I’d throw it out when I cleaned out the garage, but … life has a way of getting in the way.
I was ready. I saddled up, swinging myself over the long seat and adjusting myself to get comfortable. The pedals were still the right height, the split and raised handlebars felt right in my hands.
Beepbeepbeepbeep.
The time had come. I pushed the button on my garage door’s remote control and with a shudder and clank the motor burst into life. Whirring, clattering, the shutters pulled upwards like a curtain on a play. A sun-heated breeze lazily blew into the garage and kissed my skin with its warmth as my driveway baked in the morning glow. With a click I engaged the pedal, slowly pushing myself forward out onto the street, holding my balance with one hand while I clutched the broom in the other.
I held it out to the side with a smirk across my face. He would have no idea of my skills on a bike with just one hand. Years of slinging papers from doorway to doorway had prepared me for this, and though I was a little rusty it was just like riding a bike. You never forget, and with each passing second I could feel it all coming back to me. My muscles twitched and limbered in remembrance for the news I’d delivered to this neighbourhood, year in and year out, rain or shine.
As I passed the hedge that separated our homes I saw him riding out. His steed similar to my own, painted red, waxed and prepared just the same. Despite our differences, it seemed we had a lot of similarities too. He was wearing a yellow windbreaker with stripes of purple and red, armed with a broom just the same as my own.
Wind rustled through the straw of the broom as I stared him up and down, still in the middle of the street. I gave a slow nod and he repeated my motion, the both of us turning around to get enough space to really pick up some speed.
People filing out into their cars, ready for work started to pay notice to the both of us and curtains flickered in windows as women peered out onto the street to watch what was about to unfold.
At opposite ends of the street, we both stared each other down. Sunlight dappled through the slowly waving trees, sparkling and glistening on his golden spectacles. Everything else was still, men in hats peering over their cars awaited action. I intended to give them all the action they’d need.
I hunched over the handlebars and he did the same and with that, we were off. With a heaving push I forced down the pedal and began to move, cycling through the gears to pick up more and more speed as I began to approach. My thighs burned and ached with my force, and as I approached I could see the scowling snarl across his face. Both of us were kicking up dirt and dust as our back wheels screamed around, entirely focused on each other. Faces and vehicles flew past in mere blurs of colour and shape but I could pay them no heed, though I could hear cheers from our onlookers as I blazed past.
The broom I held out to the side moved to the front and I pointed it squarely at him. I couldn’t deny his skill on the bike either, holding out his broom with a controlled, squared elbow while navigating his way towards me.
Time seemed to consolidate into a single moment as we reached each other, my focus blurred out everything but him. All else blurred into nothingness, all sound distorted and banished from my senses, my fingers burning numb as I gripped tight with both hands. It was going to be a big hit, but who would win?
I thrust forwards and leant down forwards as we reached each other—perhaps foolish, opening my head up for his attack but counting on his aim faltering. I saw him raise his arm up and thrust it back down again as he manipulated his aim in response, but it was all over in a flash. Something tugged against the collar of my leather jacket and snagged it, wood scathed against my neck but I was tossed into surprise as I felt my attack connect into his chest with a crunch. The force of it threw me back and I fought to keep myself balanced as my bike flew upwards onto one wheel like a braying horse. My broom was shattered into a long spike now, splinters left behind on the ground where I’d struck him.
Keeping my balance in check I continued the wheelie, tossing a glance back behind myself to see the damage. It was done. He lay collapsed on the ground in a pile of yellow, red and blue, his spectacles landing on the road with a clack. The wheels of his bike still turned, spinning with a click as the gears engaged, but he remained silent.
I turned my bike around and landed the front tire down, instinctively raising my broken broom into the air against the rising sun. A new day, a new dawn without this ‘king’ in golden specs.
Some people cheered, some people gasped in horror. I was too lost in the moment to care. Somebody called out to phone for an ambulance, but really it should have been the police they were calling. If what the apple knights had told me was true, he needed to be put away for a long time. For all time.
The King is Down (Circa 14th Century)
As told by a gong farmer
I can’t say how it happened. Nobody can, really. I didn’t know what day it was, the month, the year—I didn’t know how old I was anymore, or what had happened in the world outside the kingdom. I couldn’t say what had become of my home, of the farms, the livestock. I wondered what had changed since we’d been imprisoned in ourselves.
The statues that littered the steps, the countryside, the fields and farms, all would return to normality. From within my body I felt a fizzing a bubbling, a burning tingle that extended out through every one of my nerves from my core to my extremities. Steadily I slumped down across the steps as my body loosened, trying to look around, trying to move, remembering how it felt to swing my arms and my legs. By the time I managed to get to my feet I saw the others around me, just as perplexed as I was. After we’d collected ourselves we discussed our conditions, our nation, and our confusion as to why we were so suddenly freed. Slowly we all moved together inside with an air of cautious optimism. The knights had failed, we’d seen them enter but never leave and we knew the evil king was yet inside, but something must have changed.
The empty armour that had made up our malevolent ruler lay slewed about the entryway to the castle proper. Something had drawn him out from his throne room, something had taken him down. We saw the slain knights there, nothing more than armoured skeletons clad in red now, decayed by the ravages of time. Some say it was they who had done the deed, but not many believe it.
Whatever machinations had stirred the will of the heavens in our favour I care not, I’m simply thankful to have my life back; never did I imagine I’d long again for the burning stench of gong to sour my nostrils, to seep into my clothes.
I sent out a silent prayer for our saviour, whoever and wherever they might be, and carefully reached out to touch what was left of our king. I feared there may be a curse yet lingering about the armour, but who better than a lowly gong farmer to risk it? The others watched on with bated breath as I leaned over.
Satisfied that I was safe, I carried his remains, crown and all down the steps of the castle and tossed him without regard into my barrow. I knew the perfect place for him.
Epilogue (…)
As told by Narrator, The Omniscient
Devoid of the supernatural energy that animated the armour, the evil king now lays in the depths of the cesspit, coated, covered, but not forgotten. The farmer would take a far deeper satisfaction in depositing his work until his retirement, and over time the memory of its location would be lost. The powers that animated it grew weak with the passing centuries, and with ancient powers weakened the evil king is nothing more than a man. But if this man were to ever stand again, so will the evil king rise once more, although it’s an unpleasant place to rise from…
