State of Grace (Resurrection)

              State of Grace             

Elizabeth Davies

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Davies

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Ch
apter 1

I came home to die.

Home is a small farm on the outskirts of the market town of Brecon, near the Welsh/ English border. My family have farmed this bleak hillside for as long as anyone can remember, and a building of some kind has been on this site for hundreds of years: rumours of a Roman villa are somewhat unfounded, though.  The house and its outbuildings cower on the northern slopes of the Brecon Beacons, shielded from the worst of the prevailing west winds by a stand of trees. I grew up with the bleating of sheep, the smell of wild places, the feel of rain, and a strong sense of family and my heritage. It hadn’t been enough to keep me here when I was healthy, but
it was more than enough to draw me back now I am dying.

I am…
I
was
… a pilot. I still miss being in the air, the feeling that comes from the sheer thrill of the sky, flying free. It’s my drug, and like an addict, I burn with my need. Nights are the worst, when all is still and quiet around me, no distractions from myself and my thoughts. At night I struggle to keep my terror and despair in check. Tonight was no exception.

I sighed and gave up the fight to stay in bed. I knew that if either of my parents woke and found me gone – again
– they would worry, but the urge to be up high was inescapable, and the nearest I could get to flying was to climb to the top of the mountain range behind the farm. The Beacons ran in an east-west direction at the bottom end of Wales, with the South Wales valleys running in parallel lines down towards the sea, and the cosmopolitan city of Cardiff to the south, and the remote sparsely populated regions of mid-Wales to the north; a land full of legend and myth, Arthur and dragons and giants. And sheep.

Pen Y F
an is the highest peak in the Beacons, at nearly three thousand feet, and I could hear the mountain calling to me, her sweet voice disguising the treachery of her sheer sides and slippery paths. On a bright summer afternoon the mountain swarmed with hikers clad in the latest outdoor gear, the less wary in sandals or flip-flops oblivious to the fact this small mountain range was no less savage than her big sister to the north: the weather could, and did, change quickly. People died on her slopes. Perhaps it was this very real danger that was so attractive to me and drove me to climb in the middle of the night. After all, what did I have left to lose?

Quickly and quietly I dressed in hiking trousers, thick socks and a couple of layers of fleece. It would be cold on the mountain, colder than the farm, and even in the warmth of my bedroom I could feel the chill through the glass as I p
eered into the darkness. Good: it was a clear night. I hated having to wear waterproofs because they made too much noise.

Hooking my down
jacket free of the ancient coat-stand in the hall, I wrote a brief note to my parents to let them know which route I was taking – common sense still prevailed, it seemed – and grabbed my boots from the boot room. The dogs wagged their tails expectantly, having gone from paw-twitching sleep to walk-ready in an instant, quickly alert in a way we humans seem to have lost. I hushed them under my breath debating whether to take one of them. Flick, the bitch, was heavily pregnant and her walks had shrunk to a fat waddle around the yard, but the other two, Bran and Jet, would be more than happy to oblige.

‘Sorry guys, not tonight,’ I whispered. I wanted to be alone. They understood the tone if not the words, and three sets of ears drooped and three tails stopped wagging. Bran and Jet gave me reproachful looks, but I think Flick was relieved not to be chosen
and I got the impression she had only seemed excited at the thought of a walk to save her doggy face and not let the side down. Conscious of the squeaky back door, I eased it open slowly and slunk out into the night.

Autumn. The scents of the season flowed around me: sheep down from the hills, the field-bound ewes ready for tupping; the smell of heather and bracken drifting down from the slopes above; the sharpness of the not-so-distant winter in the air. I breathed deeply, the mountain already beginning to work her magic, soothing my soul.

I zipped up my jacket, wriggled my feet into my boots and began to walk. After fifteen minutes I was on one of the ridges that ran from the bottom of my valley to the top of Fan Y Big. The air was crisp and a faint breeze ruffled my short, dark hair. The sky was clear: light pollution over the Beacons was less than in other parts of Britain, and the stars wheeled and gleamed brightly above me. Breathing hard I stopped, and turned my face up to the heavens. The huge expanse of the glittering ice chips made me feel insignificant, a tiny speck in the cosmos. When I was younger that feeling used to scare me: the universe was so big I could lose myself just thinking about it. Now it comforted me: life would go on even if I would not. I was less than nothing in the vast scheme of things. My personal tragedy didn’t matter.

An old memory nudged me. I used to imagine another sentient being, a girl my own age perhaps, on one of those myriad of sparkling lights doing exactly what I was doing
, looking up at the sky and questioning her place in her universe. I wondered if she was still there, or had she grown up like me and allowed the worries and distractions of adulthood to dampen her imaginings.

With a wrench I brought my mind back to the here and now: this mountain range, although small compared to others, was not as tame as she appeared to be, and still needed to be treated with respect.
People have died up here. I didn’t want to be one of them. Not yet, anyway.

I trudged further up the ridge, carefully picking my way, more by feel than sight, the blackness of the ground giving little guidance as to where to put my feet.
The recent rain had turned the hard-packed soil into churned up mud and although this was not the most popular route to the top (that particular path was nicknamed ‘the motorway’ because it was so crowded some days), enough hikers used it to ensure that the grass had been worn away, leaving a sticky blend of red sandstone mud and black barely-formed peat, interspersed with rocks and small boulders like currants in a cake mix. 

It took me a couple of hours to reach my goal – a horizontal slab of rock at the top of Fan Y Big , jutting out hundreds of feet ov
er the valley below like a diving board over an exceptionally deep pool. I inched out towards its edge and gingerly sat down. I could feel the lure of the tremendous drop underneath the rock even though I couldn’t see it. I knew that for the first hundred feet or so the drop was sheer, and beyond that it was too steep to walk comfortably, although I had done so. I didn’t think there was an inch of this valley I wasn’t familiar with. I let my breathing slow after the hard, fast climb and the big muscles in my thighs were grateful for the rest. Calmness descended on me as I concentrated on the lights of Brecon which glowed in the distance beyond the farm and I sought out other familiar clusters.

Gradually the mountain relaxed
me. I have always loved wild, high places and the mountain was my retreat when life troubled me or my playground when teenage exuberance couldn’t be kept in check. My job had meant almost constant travel, and I had visited other mountains, higher and more impressive than this, seeking them out when the lure of nightclubs and beaches palled. I hadn’t made it to the Himalayas because my airline didn’t fly to Nepal: it was on my to-do list but now the list would remain undone. Of all the mountains I had climbed (or I should say hiked, because I didn’t climb in the way that true climbers meant, with ropes and crampons) these Welsh peaks were my favourite, and no matter that I technically lived in London, they were my spiritual home. No visit to my parents’ farm was complete without a quick hike to the top of Crybbyn or Pen Y Fan.

My heart rate steadied and m
y fear, although still present, was for the moment held in check. Perhaps that’s why I loved flying so much: you can’t get much wilder or higher than that!

After a while I felt tired and I scooted back from the edge t
o find a safer place to lie down. Away from the path the tussocky grass was springy underfoot and, after testing the ground for damp, I sank down and nestled into it, my face turned up to the diamonds above. The exertion of the climb had so far kept me warm but now the cold crept around my body, the barely-covered rock stealing my heat, the grass providing little in the way of insulation. Just a few moments more and I would begin the trek back down but for now I was reluctant to leave my sanctuary.

As I lay there I felt a little strange, not quite dizzy, yet similar to the feeling I had experienced the
one and only time I had fainted (my own fault, too much exercise and not enough food or fluids). My mind felt disconnected from my senses and my body appeared distant as if it were not quite under my control. I could still feel the cold air, the grass beneath me, and I could hear the wind, but it was all far away and not really ‘there’. My consciousness was being drawn in another direction, not deeper into itself like sleep or even unconsciousness, but somewhere else entirely. I felt a tugging in my head; my soul was being pulled in another direction, away from the reality of the here and now. The oddness intensified and I became worried: it wouldn’t be a good idea to faint up here. Frowning, I stood up unsteadily, fighting to remain conscious. With my mind turned in on itself, I took one step and stopped. Something was very, very wrong.
I couldn’t see
! Fear flared in me, cold and sharp, robbing me of my breath, making my heart pound and throb. For a brief second that lasted a lifetime my mind was floating in a lake of nothingness, not one of my senses registering any kind of impression. I had the fleeting thought that this must be death, and guilt and remorse at my recklessness overwhelmed me.

It was noise
I was aware of first, yelling and screaming and a clashing ring of metal on metal, a cacophony of sound which battered my ears after the silence of the mountain. My fear soared higher and higher in my blindness, but gradually my sight returned; it sort of did a fade-out in reverse, and I found I was looking, not at the mountain or the nightscape view from Fan Y Big, but at large rounded structures, domed beehive-like huts with straw roofs and pitch black doorways looming in the darkness. There were a number of them, and the dim shapes of people fighting danced in between, lit by several fires. The acrid smell of smoke stung my nose. My confusion was absolute and being able to see only intensified my fear. What the hell had happened?

Movement close by caught my attention and I was transfixed by the spectacle of four men, on
e with his back to me, three facing me, all with swords (
swords
?) in their hands, the metal gleaming and catching the firelight. I had an image of wild, long, black hair, snarling mouths gaping out of straggling beards, ragged, unfamiliar clothing and weapons in both fists. Then the stench hit me: stale sweat, unwashed bodies, sewage and dead things mingling most unpleasantly with the peculiar money-smell of blood and the scorching rawness of the smoke. I gagged.

The small sound should
have been lost in the discordant thunder of noise which filled the night, but it was enough to draw the attention of one of the men facing me. He looked past the man with his back to me and his snarl abruptly turned to a gap-mouthed leer. His two companions followed his gaze and spotted me, surprise causing one of them to lower his sword a fraction. It was enough. I didn’t think the man facing away from me had detected my presence, but he was quick to exploit the distraction I caused. A growl ripped through the air as he launched himself with blinding speed at his three opponents, and I gasped at the swiftness of his attack. His sword moved too fast for me to track but the results were clear. One minute the men were in fighting stance, the next they weren’t. All three men died where they stood, falling to the ground with wet thuds. They hadn’t even had time to cry out. A head rolled slowly away from its owner’s body and the air was suddenly thick with the cloying smell of copper and human waste. I felt sick. The whole episode had taken barely a heartbeat.

I hadn’t had time to react before the
killer whirled to face me, weapon raised, the gleam of the metal dulled by a dripping coating of black. As suddenly as he had moved he halted, the sword inches from my neck. I imagined my head joining the one on the floor and wondered, with a terrified internal giggle, if my brain would die instantaneously or whether I would still be aware and be able to see my body as it crumpled. Eyes staring with fear and limbs shaking uncontrollably, I watched him take a fleeting look behind him. Satisfied that he was in no immediate danger, he turned back to me. His eyes widened slightly and it was his turn to drop his sword, the tip now at my waist. I backed away, one small step, and the blade flashed back to my throat. I froze, unable to take my eyes from his face, trying to read his intention. He stared at me and I stared at him. As terrified as I was, I was able to appreciate his beauty. His skin was extraordinarily pale. His hair appeared black, although it was difficult to tell in the dark, and it shone in the flickering light from the fires, down to his shoulders. He was much taller than my five foot four inches and I guessed him to be at least six foot two. He appeared to me to be taller than Joe, and he reached six foot. He was also better looking than my ex – way better looking. His mouth opened slightly, revealing white teeth and I had a ridiculous urge to touch his lips. With my own.