The Journal of the Walk, Wednesday, May 28th
After days of trudging through mud, the uneven hardness of cobblestone was a welcomed sensation beneath my boots — what was ahead, however, was less so. The road on which I stood led into the walls of a city enveloped in a heavy fog; everything ten paces ahead rendered mere silhouettes in the greyish light of day. I could tell, however, that what awaited me was but a ruin. The main gate, once strong enough to withstand a siege for time untold, was nothing but splinters, and the walls had crumbled at so many points that an entire army could march unimpeded through any of them. A lingering dread fell upon my chest as I gazed upon the unseen yet monumental desolation, my eyes slowly drifting up towards the one thing that protruded from the mist: a mountain of grey stone, bare and barren, an uncaring titan whose sharp peak pierced the heavens as if it wished to make them weep, a monstrous witness from whence the mist itself seemed to seep, covering the entire city with its malignant shadow.
As I swayed on the balls of my feet, unsure whether to continue into the city or walk away, a sound reached my ears as if inviting me to choose the former. It was unmistakably a voice – one that dripped contentment – and it came from the bowels of the mist. The same force that has driven me through all my wanderings pushed me onwards, and I soon found myself slowly advancing with my arm outstretched so as to not bump face-first into any structures that may remain standing.
After some minutes with only the satisfied purrings as my guide through the city, I reached what may have once been the town square, now reduced to a dry fountain surrounded by a ring of dilapidated buildings. The voice, I realized, came from one of these derelict constructions. I approached the shadowed threshold with careful steps, trying not to reveal my presence to whatever lurked inside and made such pleased yet unnerving sounds. The creature, however, seemed to have noticed me regardless, for it lunged forward and rose to its full height before I even had time to gasp in shock.
It was black and glossy, tarry and slick, equal parts plumage and fur, shade and cloak. I could not tell if it wore a garment that concealed its shape or if it was as I saw it – formless, limbless, more shadow than substance. A thick but sinuous neck – the only protrusion that emerged from its bulky mass – ended in a head crowned with curved horns like those of a ram, and I likewise could not tell if the visage I beheld was a mask or its true face. Alabaster white, it met my gaze with a mirthful expression, its mouth curved into a wide smile, the orbits of its eyes contracted to match it. Its friendly countenance did not make me lower my guard, however, for the emptiness beneath it spoke louder than the sweetness of its voice as it addressed me.
“Another visitor! A fellow living face in this lifeless city!”
“Forgive me,” I said. “I did not mean to intrude.”
“Nonsense,” the creature said and lowered its head until we were eye to eye. The blackness peering back at me was so inky that I could swear there was nothing within the sockets. Its smile grew larger, the lips stiffening into an almost beak-like rigidity. “No offense committed, so nothing to forgive. And besides, almost finished… Almost your turn…”
Again it purred with the same contentedness that had lured me here and turned back towards the ruined building it had been lurking in, its form rippling almost imperceptibly the way a throat bobs while swallowing a full glass of water. I suddenly felt lightheaded, as if the fog that drowned the city had begun seeping into my head, clouding my focus and making everything around me seem even more diffuse than it already was. Struggling through this malaise, I managed to articulate a question:
“What exactly are you doing here?”
The creature twisted its neck towards me, its smile waning for a mere blink before returning to its otherwise unflappable wideness; I could have sworn it looked surprised.
“Mmmmmm, a question. Where one question is, more are surely. But can wait. Always waits,” it said. “Am, as your kind might call… taking… no, consuming? No… eating.”
“Eating?” The fog within my mind grew heavier, thicker as the creature smacked its lips with satisfaction, its attention now fully poised on me.
“Yes! Am eating, am devouring,” it cackled as if happy at having found the correct words.
“And… what are you… devouring?” My tongue was swollen, my saliva foamy and pasty as I powered on, refusing to give in to whatever this was that strangled my mind. I recalled a technique I had learned sometime before to pull myself out of such mental fog – to focus on a single point and latch onto it with all my might – and settled my sight on the unmoving mountain towering above us.
“Remains,” the creature answered, its voice betraying a tinge of unease. It seemed confused, as if it had not expected me to remain cognizant enough to ask it any questions, let alone power my way through the fog. “Eat what others leave behind. Eat the mute echoes that linger. Eat until no more. And then… move on to the next place.”
Still fighting my own inner battle, my hand found its way to my belt from where my journal hung. The feeling of its pages rustling beneath my fingertips, of its worn cover with every crease and scratch I knew from memory jostled me out of my trance, and the creature recoiled with a hiss as its pale face instantly shifted from its jolly smile into a scowl of profound fear and disgust.
“Chronicler…” it growled like a scared animal, the word spoken as if it were a profanity.
“Yes, yes I am,” I said as the strangling mantle was lifted from my mind. “I walk and write what I see. Does this upset you?”
“Opposite,” it muttered, its voice still shrill but having lost all semblance of sweetness. Then it said a word with an effort that made it seem like it had scrounged the very bottom of its mind to speak it: “Anathema.”
“I see,” I replied. Confidence dawned on me that I was a bite too hard to swallow, yet my curiosity required confirmation. I clutched my journal the way one holds an amulet to ward off evil and said: “You are a creature of oblivion, and I am one who preserves memories. So that is what you eat.”
“Eating. Forgetting. All the same,” it said as if fighting the atrophy of its vocabulary. “Eat fragments of dreams shattered. Eat mementos of lives past. Eat triumphs and defeats alike. Eat words spoken and secrets unspoken. Eat names of things and places, of people and gods. Ate own name long ago.”
“Is that what you did to this city? Is that why it is covered in fog?”
“No, not this,” it motioned around with its head. “Did not bring it; followed it. Follow it wherever it comes, wherever summoned, wherever someone wishes to forget.”
It paused, its mask shifting without settling on a single expression as if struggling to find the right feeling it should be demonstrating. Finally, it landed on the same forced grin it wore when I first met it.
“I–” it said, and the very utterance of the word I seemed to pierce it painfully. “I come with the mist.”
It spoke no more, its form deflating and heaving with exhaustion. Our conversation, although very brief, had undoubtedly required tremendous effort on its part. I, for one, had no desire to wait for it to recover and attempt to feed on me again. I am alive, not yet a ghost nor a fading echo. With some luck, my journal will outlive me, and even when my name is forgotten the people and experiences here recorded shall not fall prey to oblivion.
As I again walked through the mist, it seemed to grow lighter. It felt like the half-eaten phantoms of the vacant city conceded me one last grace, the path out of their tomb clear ahead. As I took one last look at the ruins, I pondered the mountain whose shadow crushed all in its wake and from whence all the mist descended. I took it all in: the featureless grey face that regardless seemed to scowl at me; the jagged salients that scarred its surface; the cruel peak that was the crown of the Lord of Mists – so tall and terrible, I thought, that at night it might just scratch the Moon.