A Shadow in the Moonlight: A Thirteenth Hour Prequel Read online

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  With dusk's waning light, the hunter found himself pacing the mouth of the cave, anxiously eyeing the cracks in the door. Feeling compelled by a strange force, he finally gave in to the intense need to finish the hunt that had originally brought him to the cave. He donned his quiver, strung his bow, and stepped into the night air, breathing a sigh of relief. All the pent up tension from the day seemed to evaporate. He gripped his bow and bent down, looking for tracks. Logically, the buck he'd seen before should have been long gone by now. But logic had slowly begun to disappear from his mind the moment tension had fled his body.

  To guard against the cold, he'd donned the long, billowing cloak that had been hanging near the door. It had a hood that completely covered his head, making him look even more like a walking, breathing shadow. The night was cool and dry, with a light breeze which rustled the cloak and made it flow out behind him, reminiscent of a floating apparition. The moon shone brightly overhead, blanketing everything in a soft white glow. A perfect moon to accompany all that hunted by night.

  His eyes had no difficulty seeing through the inky blackness, and after a few hours, he spied a familiar set of tracks. Curious, he followed them until standing not fifty yards away, there was the form of a large white buck that seemed to glow an ethereal silver in the moonlight. It must have been the same one - how many albino deer could there be in this forest? It turned its majestic rack of antlers at him, as if to say, "So you've found me once again. Well played, hunter. But can you catch me?" Challenge issued, it turned and dashed into the darkness noiselessly. The hunter continued following until the trail went cold.

  At the first hint of dawn, he felt an odd, anxiety-provoking force pulling him back to the cave. By the time he reached it, sunlight was peeking over the tips of the fir trees, and the hunter was sweating and panting but not from exertion. His chest ached, and his head rang painfully. The minute he stumbled into the cave's cool, dark dankness, a wave of relief flooded over him, and he collapsed on the ground, where he knew nothing for many hours.

  Upon waking, he rose stiffly, recalling the long hunt from the night before. Hints of the dusk's last rays peeked through the cracks in the door, filling him with the same dread and shortness of breath he'd had previously. He retreated to the back of the cave, where it was dark. At least darkness brought some relief, but there was still the suffocating tension of being imprisoned. Night could not come soon enough.

  On his third night out, the hunter picked up the trail of the mysterious buck again. It was grazing in a moonlit clearing, and as the hunter crept forward, the deer once again glowed iridescent silver. He pulled two arrows from his quiver, keeping them in his bow hand.

  The bow was short, less than four feet long for easy maneuverability in the woods. Although he had others, he favored this one for its ability to break into two for ease of carrying and its black leather covering, which did not reflect sunlight.

  Or moonlight, something he was thankful for now. He found himself holding his breath as he inched forward, unable to believe his luck. Twenty yards. He nocked an arrow as quietly as possible, keeping his fingers on the string. Fifteen yards. He sighted intently at his target, eyes on the area of the deer's body that held its most vital organs. Ten yards. He drew the bow in one smooth motion, and despite the draw weight increasing heavily the last few inches, he anchored his fingers firmly at the corner of his mouth. Years of practice meant he could hold the bow at full draw until confident of his aim. When he finally released, the bowstring let out a sharp twang that echoed in the night.

  There really was no way he could miss at this close range, but inexplicably, the arrow passed right through the deer and lodged itself in a tree trunk some distance behind. There it quivered, illuminated in the moonlight, as the buck pranced noiselessly off into the forest, apparently unharmed. There was no sign of blood, neither on the ground nor on the arrow. Shaking his head in confusion, the hunter followed the trail into the woods until he lost all traces of the deer.

  It was four nights before he found the albino deer again, glistening like a silver ghost in the same clearing. As before, he was able to stalk remarkably close for the perfect shot - right up until the arrow again passed through the deer and lost itself somewhere in the underbrush. Once again, the deer dashed off, unperturbed, silent as a whisper.

  The nights turned into weeks, and the hunter began to dread his existence. He tried to sleep through as much of the day as possible, since daylight was unbearable, but wakefulness at night was not much better. It wasn't the cold, the dark, or the endless hunt for the ethereal albino deer that disappeared like a mirage. He didn't even care that the deer could not (or would not) be killed; for all he knew, the damn thing was only a shadow, just like he was. At least it was some vague company, and the hunt gave him a sense of purpose. No, the worst part of an existence as a living shadow was the soul crushing loneliness of being alone in the world, the only one who understood his affliction.

  The only one, that is, except for the wizard. The hunter was surprised to find that he didn't actually harbor ill feelings towards the old man, whose bumbling nature was hard to hate. He was, however, becoming increasingly irritated at the wizard's absence. "Taking his sweet time coming back from that meeting, isn't he," he hunter frequently found himself muttering. During moments of frustration, he made sure to take a few more swigs of the wizard's forbidden hooch, the only thing he'd found to numb his brain when trapped in the cave.

  There was one other accidental discovery that made life bearable. When the hunter jumped, his body became so light that it was almost weightless. With his cloak billowing out, a strong jump would send him soaring high over the treetops for several minutes, and during these times, his dark form appeared ethereal and nearly translucent in the moonlight, truly fulfilling the spell's prophesy of creating a living shadow. And so the hunter often took to the air for his hunts, his shadow flickering momentary darkness over the moonlit tips of the fir trees as he glided past.

  One night, the hunter was out as usual when he heard the sound of footsteps. From a safe distance in the shadows of a giant pine tree, he watched as a figure ran past him into the heart of the forest. It kept looking back over its shoulder, as if pursued. Following silently, he wondered who could possibly be running through the forest at this time of night. Just then, he saw a spot he was well acquainted with - a deep ravine that was difficult to spot in the black of night. Seeing the runner headed right for it, he wanted to call out a warning. But the words stuck in his mouth, and he could only watch helplessly as the lone figure tripped and tumbled into the ravine.

  The hunter may have been a shadow of a man, but he was still a man. He could not leave the helpless runner in the ditch, no matter how much the spell filled him with dread. After his fear had subsided a little, he summoned his courage and approached the ravine cautiously. Climbing down, he was surprised to see the runner was an unconscious young lady sprawled on the ground, covered in dirt and brambles from her tumble. Strangely unable to leave her, he picked her up as gently as he could and climbed out of the ravine. When he was back on level ground, moonlight played over the girl's face.

  The hunter's heart immediately jolted in his chest and began pounding so quickly and forcefully he feared it would shatter his ribcage. Beads of sweat streamed down his face, and his breathing became so labored that he nearly dropped the girl as he bent over in an attempt to regain his wind. As he stopped, doubled over, struggling to hold onto her, he was forced to admit, yet again, that the wizard and his spell books were right - he was deathly afraid to look at people. But I can't leave this girl here. She could be seriously hurt and would surely die in the cold. I don't care what that spell book says, and I don't care how scared I become. Last time I was in trouble there was no one to help. He tried to control his fear as he trudged back to the cave with the girl in his arms, telling himself over and over ag
ain that his body only knew what his mind dictated, as well as other sayings that sounded wise but ultimately helped little.

  When he finally arrived, he set the girl down on a makeshift bed, and in the darkness of the cave, he could finally look at her for short bursts with only slight chest-pounding discomfort. She appeared to be about his own age, but it was difficult to tell since she was utterly filthy. Wherever she had come from, cleanliness had obviously been neither a possibility nor a priority.

  Boiling large tureens of water and preparing strips of cloth to use as bandages, the hunter set about the laborious task of cleaning her wounds. The wizard's stash held a certain pain medicine which the hunter had tried himself a few nights before. Though it worked well, it induced slumber, and the hunter utilized that side effect, administering the medicine to the girl when she briefly roused. She soon fell asleep, and the hunter did his best to clean her hair, but it was so hopelessly matted and tangled, he soon gave up. The back of her head had an ugly cut that had bled profusely down her back, but, when cleaned, was not deep. He bandaged the wound as best he could, though he suspected she'd have a goose egg there for a while. Her left leg was a different matter - it looked bent askew slightly below the knee, like a bow that had been left strung too long. He guessed it was broken. The skin was not punctured, but there was already a large amount of swelling and a purplish tinge to the affected area. Glad for her slumber, he did his best to pull the bones back into alignment, fearing that if he did not get this part right, the girl might never walk again.

  He'd only had one previous experience doing something similar, on a fellow hunter's dog whose leg had been caught in a trap. The animal had been so agitated that it had taken four grown men holding it down for someone to pry open the trap, attempt to dress the wound, and set the bones. That 'someone' had been him, and he'd done so not because he was trained in any kind of medicine, but simply because there had been no other free hands. One of the hunters holding the dog down, a man with graying hair who'd served with the Imperial Army, guided him through the process. Finally, the painful, bloody thing was done, and the dog had been taken away while the young hunter could only stare down at his trembling hands, the pained cries of the animal reverberating in his ears. But the dog, remembering who had saved it, had taken to following the hunter for the rest of its days. It had eventually even learned to run about as well as it could prior to the injury, though it always did so with a bit of a limp.

  So now, he did the same for the girl, working to pull the bones back into place, running his fingers down her shin and the outer aspect of her leg to check for alignment. When it was done, he said a silent prayer and began carving a splint to immobilize the leg, using his keen night vision to work in darkness to prevent another attack. He discovered that if he put out all of the torches and placed a blanket over the door to block any moonlight from coming through the cracks, he could look directly at the young lady without the sharp bolts of fear that the spell aroused. Even so, it took so much out of him that once her wounds had been fully cleaned and dressed, he had to retreat for several hours of solitude to recover.

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  Lavinia awoke, unsure of what had happened to her. The back of her head throbbed, as did her left leg, which was incredibly painful to move. She recalled that she had stayed up several nights in a row, planning her escape, memorizing the timing that the orphanage staff used while doing their nightly rounds, and going on practice runs - an exhausting effort that had paid off when she'd capitalized on a moment of limited supervision. She'd followed the path she'd planned out, had hidden in the woods until nightfall, and then, when she'd been sure she was not being followed, had progressed deeper into uncharted forest territory and a new life. But she hadn't counted on being spooked by the forest sounds. Fearing that she'd been pursued, she had taken off running. Then ? her memory became fuzzy. She recalled falling into nothingness and no more.

  Shortly before slipping back into fitful slumber, Lavinia had a vague recollection of a shadowy figure spooning some bitter medicine into her mouth. She thought she'd seen the figure trying to comb her hair and wash her face with a damp cloth. For some reason, she'd felt comforted and safe alongside the shadow's presence, as if all the wrongs in the world had become right.

  Some days later, she awoke, lucid, to find herself at the mouth of a cave, lying on a mattress with a pair of crutches beside her. Close by, there was a little table with some food set on it, including a (now cold) bowl of soup, some fruit, bread, a jug of some bitter smelling liquid, and a number of other provisions. On the floor was a washing basin, a large bucket of water, a rough washcloth, and a bar of pine soap. The cave, which was clearly inhabited, stretched further back into the darkness. She remembered the shadowy figure from her dreams - perhaps the figure lived here.

  Now, many people in Lavinia's situation probably would have been frightened. It's not every day that you get the chance to escape from a life of oppression only to have your attempt foiled by falling, hitting your head, breaking your leg, and then waking up after a period of unconsciousness to find that your wounds have been cleaned, your leg braced, and your body fed food and medicine by some mysterious stranger in a dark and dank cave.

  But Lavinia was not particularly experienced in the ways of the world. She did, however, know loneliness, sadness, worry, and rejection - all of which she had learned so well in the orphanage. She had also learned enough about her lot in life to know that after a childhood of every prospective family passing her by on adoption days, it was pointless to keeping hoping for things to get better. So it was with some skepticism that she viewed her current situation. In her world, it was virtually unheard of to garner someone's assistance without the expectation of some form of payment in return, and now that someone had helped her, she began to wonder, with growing dread, what it would cost.

  Yet ? it was also then that she realized that with her old life behind her, things might be different now. She had a sense that not everyone lived like she had. Maybe it was finally time to start recultivating the hope she'd lost long ago. But old habits died hard.

  Once upon a time, when she had been very young, she'd hoped her life would change. "Say it enough times, and I'll believe it, and then maybe it will happen," she'd told herself, but these magic words hadn't really changed anything. She'd tried praying as well, until a girl from the orphanage who had prayed alongside her, night after night, came back one day after having been taken in by a foster family some months prior. The girl had been painfully thin and covered in bruises, her body a testament to the maltreatment and malnourishment she had suffered from parents too indigent and intoxicated to properly mind their many children. As with all foster parents, the town had provided them with a small stipend to help care for each child they adopted, but after seven children, there had been too many mouths to feed and too little money to do it with. Finally, the town had said 'No more!' and away went the girl's stipend. She had been sent back to the orphanage, bruised, battered, and looking much the worse for wear.

  After seeing what had happened to her, Lavinia had stopped praying. And that had been a shame, because the prayers had calmed her, fought back those dark memories churning in her soul. The nights had always been the hardest - all alone, with nothing but the moaning wind and the storm of her raging thoughts for company. And now in the cave, with the shadows playing over the craggy gray walls and the harsh winds moaning outside, the terrible memories that were never very far away came back.

  Instead of giving in to them, Lavinia turned to the water and soap. She'd forgotten the last time she'd had a proper wash. There had been washing facilities at the orphanage, of course, but at some point, Lavinia had stopped caring. She knew the smell kept others away, and that made things easier, in a way. But that had been her old life. Now, maybe it was time for something new.

  She reached for the bar of soap, sniffing it. It smelled of pine, of the earth, fresh
and new. A new beginning. And so she began cleaning herself, going through several washings before the layers of grime came off. When she was dry and had eaten some of the food set out for her, she wrapped a blanket around her body and hobbled back to where her clothes were soaking in a bucket now filled with inky black water.

  She managed to drag it outside into the sun, where it was warmer and she could see better. Under the midday rays, wrapped in the blanket, stomach full, she not only felt warm, but ? what was this new feeling? Contentment? Happiness? Whatever it was, she bathed in this sensation the rest of the afternoon as she worked on her clothes, scrubbing, rescrubbing, drying, and finally simply resting as she gazed out onto the forest.

  That night, as she was drifting off to sleep, she dimly heard soft footsteps coming from the back of the cave. She thought she saw a shadow slowly pass her bed, but she was in that state between real sleep and full consciousness, where twilight starts and reality ends.

  From then on, the days passed with the same rhythm. There were meals laid out for her when she woke up in the morning, along with fresh bandages and water for washing. Each day, she practiced with the crutches until she was able to make her way farther and farther. She could never get as far as she wished before her leg started to throb; she suspected the injury to her head also gave her headaches and made her feel nauseous, which slowed her progress. But every night after a tiring, painful day of self-imposed rehabilitation, without fail, Lavinia always thought she heard soft footsteps from the cave's rear. Sometimes, she thought she saw the shadowy figure pass by as well.

  One night, she decided that she would pretend to be asleep in order to get a good look at the mysterious shadow. Once again, she heard the footsteps, and although it was difficult to see clearly, she saw a tall figure she took for a man dressed in a long, flowing cloak. As he opened the door, moonlight shone in, casting a faint glow on his face. The mirror on the side wall captured the image for a brief second, and then he pulled the hood over his head and was gone. Lavinia thought it seemed like a kind face, not severe like that of the orphanage headmaster, but careworn, with dark eyes that looked weary. She had always been afraid of darkness, shadows, and night, but for some reason, when she looked at this face, she felt no fear.