The Moors

Darkness and mist shrouded him, enclosing him on all sides.

Looking down, he could barely discern the outline of his expensive hiking boots. He was effectively blind.

Worse, he was lost.

Night had fallen with a ferocity that had surprised even him. He wasn't a novice and had traversed an untold number of inhospitable terrains. Experience had taught him to be respectful of the power, of the raw unpredictability, of the natural world. He knew that the normal rules didn't apply out here.

In places like the Moors.

But, the impregnable blackness he was now marooned within was something new, something different. He had never encountered anything as unforgiving as this.

The blackness seemed tangible, solid.

As did the silence.

Before darkness had descended, he had taken the chance to study his map. So he knew that just a few miles to the east, cutting through the rugged desolation, ran a motorway. Yet, no matter how hard he strained his hearing, there was no faint echo of car engines.

More strangely, there was an absence of bird calls, or foxes, brimming with sexual heat, crying out for a mate. Just...

Silence.

It was as if the darkness had consumed both the natural, and man-made, worlds.

And, now, he felt as if he was in neither.

Trapped in some silent, unseeing realm between the two...

He found himself falling, tripped by an unseen rock.

Instinctively he extended his arms, to cushion his fall. As he tumbled, he prayed that no more rocks lay ahead of him. That his landing would be soft. A broken bone would not aid his escape from the inky void he was lost in.

Mercifully, he thudded into a mound of soft, damp grass.

He lay there, giving himself a moment to mentally scan his middle-aged body for any signs of hurt. To his relief, no part of him was suddenly inflamed in pain. Luckily, he appeared to be okay. For now, at least.

He lifted his head. And...

Was that...?

He craned his neck a little further and squinted into the darkness ahead of him. In the distance, he could see...

Yes...

A pinprick of light. Flickering. A candle. Every so often, the flame of the candle would dance higher, illuminating the outline of the window frame the candle safely sat behind.

Three of the four sides of the frame were white; the fourth - the one that formed the top of the frame - was a darker shade. Pink? He couldn't be sure.

However, neither did he care.

But...

There were no dwellings on this part of the Moors.

He recalled looking at the map when planning his trek earlier that day. As he had sampled the local ale, ensconced beside the inn's fire, he remembered he'd had two options in how he could cross the Moors. As was his custom, he had selected the harder of the pair.

The route he had decided upon was harsh but suitable for his level of expertise. And one of the reasons for that was, in the unlikely event he should encounter trouble, he would be alone.

For no one lived out here.

It was the kind of challenge that invigorated him.

But, now, tired, and lost, he was glad the map had been wrong.

Harnessing his limited, remaining energy, he slowly stood. Carefully, he moved forward, weary of anything else that might make him stumble once more.

As he crept onward, his eyes remained fixed on the milky light in the distance. It would be his lighthouse...

He stopped.

The candle had vanished. Ahead was a pitiless, black cyclorama. No light was visible.

He waited. Perhaps the owner of the candle had simply moved it; maybe, if he was patient, he would be rewarded by seeing it re-appear in a different window frame of whatever house it lived in.

As he stood, peering into the darkness, he became aware that his heart was, almost imperceptibly, beating a touch more stridently.

The candle did not re-materialize.

Perhaps he should...

On the outskirts of his peripheral vision, to his left, a small circle of yellow light suddenly appeared.

The candle. In the same window frame; the darker hue of the top strut was clearly visible. But...

It had been ahead of him. Straight ahead. It was difficult to be sure in the gloom, but given how small the candle appeared, it was at least a mile ahead. Therefore, the distance between the two separate light sources must be vast. It was inconceivable it was the same house.

Were there two cottages out here?

But the frame...? Two homes, neither listed on the map, each with an identical window frame...?

He ignored the thought; it was superfluous given his present predicament. Much like the very presence of any abodes not listed on the map, the provenance of the candles, and the similarity of the window frame that housed them, were all factors to be thought of later. Once he was safe. Warm.

Stiffly, he turned his body, and, more purposefully this time, briskly began walking towards the...

He stopped.

Gone.

The candle was gone.

Blackness once more.

No matter. He resumed his march. He would head towards the...

He stopped.

The light reappeared to his right, cutting through the darkness.

The dancing flame illuminated the same, mismatching, window frame...

But...

But this was even further to the east than the very first candle. The first window frame. It was miles from it.

He span, and, his knees lifted into a jog. Propelling him toward the new...

Gone. No sooner had the candle appeared, than it had been withdrawn.

He juddered to a stop.

He blinked. Nothing.

Blackness.

He could feel the sweat begin to form on his chest, beneath the myriad of costly, precision-engineered layers he wore.

Panicked, he swivelled his head...

There! At least two hundred degrees to the left of where the previous light had appeared, the candle materialized again.

In the same mongrel window frame.

But how was that even...?

He broke into a run, sprinting across the perilous surface of the moor. He was going to try and...

Darkness.

The candle was gone once more.

He skidded to a halt.

Nervously, his head span, scanning the darkness for the candle.

Where would it appear next?

Where?

But, even as he asked himself this question, another thought washed over him...

It wouldn't matter.

It wouldn't make any difference where the candle next appeared.

For he knew...

... knew...

He would never reach the source.

He knew...

... knew...

He knew he would never leave the Moors.

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