The Great Hunt
Buildings, tall and dark, towered above him; graphitized messages screamed at him, glowing in the night. Sam’s breath misted in the air and he clutched thin arms around his small chest, shivering. The harsh glare of the moon shone down on him, turning his tousled blonde hair a silvery white. The houses, empty and broken, watched him through shattered windows. His bare feet nimbly avoided the shards of glass that littered the ground, touching upon slimy metal pipes and grilles. The alley tapered to a tight point further up, and through it, in the middle of a field of light, stood the dark spectre of a man.
The man’s back was to him, his head glancing down from the side, a picture of melancholy. Sam felt no fear, only a mild curiosity; he’d had this dream several nights running. Always, it would stop before he reached the man, and he would awaken, feeling vaguely unsatisfied. As he continued to approach the figure, the buildings around him shuffled back, clearing a path and Sam realized then that this dream was not going to be like the others. His pulse increased with his excitement and he quickened his pace, eager to see the man and know what ailed him.
There was a flutter above him and he jumped, glancing up, fearful of some shadowy monster; but there was nothing there. He could feel his face heat up with shame and he knew if his brother Tory was here, he’d have been mocked and called names for a whole day and night. Sam straightened up, determined to be brave. Nonetheless, his fear increased as he slowly inched his way closer. A warm breeze blew past him and he noticed then, that the air about him was getting increasingly hot and steam rose from the ground. Wincing, he had to shade his eyes to try and make out the now hazy figure.
So it was that he arrived at the border of light and darkness and he stared fearfully at the man, who remained as still as a statue, noting now the dancing lights that swarmed about him. Heart thudding painfully, he lifted one pyjama clad white leg, and placed it gently in the light.
Instantly, the man’s head snapped around and Sam froze. A gold mask, cruel and angular, glinted and gleamed in place of a face; out of it, two red rubies glared at the intruder.
A high, musical voice lilted in the suddenly fraught silence; ‘Welcome,’ it said, ‘to Nightmare.’
There was a rush of wind that ripped and tore, while around them the field of light suddenly fragmented and began to break apart. Great cracks clove through the ground, plumes of flame and steam shot into the air, and the man remained still. Sam, frozen by fear and shock, suddenly realized the danger he was in and retreated quickly back into the comforting shadows.
There was a roar, and unthinking, he ran; little legs pumping as much as they could, heart pounding madly. He didn’t look back, plunging without thought into the warren of alleys and dilapidated buildings. He could hear a panting, breathless laugh, and the skitter of claws on cement as they sped past corners full tilt. Sam could feel a scream building up inside and he glanced back, though he knew he shouldn’t, but saw only shifting shadows. It was with a sudden, dull smack that he slammed into a wall. Dazed and confused, with darkness swimming around him, he kicked out feebly in front of him, hoping to catch his attacker.
There was a light patter behind him.
‘I’m right here, little boy,’ an amused voice said, from behind. A thick arm snapped around him, covering his mouth and muffling his screams. Cold steel brushed against a chubby cheek of innocence. ‘But this is no fun,’ the voice taunted, ‘It was far too easy. And intruders should be made to pay.’ The man giggled then, and the vibrations shook Sam’s body. He leaned forward, taking a deep lick of the boy’s sweat soaked neck and head; fear was a delicacy and he was the connoisseur.
'You’ve been a very naughty boy; creeping up on me during such a private moment,’ he said, clucking in reproof.
‘No, please,’ Sam gasped, as the hand lifted briefly, ‘it was an accident; I’m sorry!’
‘Ah, but this shall not do, no, and not at all,’ he said, voice suddenly low and hissing, ‘First you sneak upon me, and then you lie. To me. In my kingdom.’
The situation was getting worse by the second and Sam gasped as the heat of the person holding him increased tenfold. He tried desperately to salvage it, ‘Sir, please, you’re wrong –‘
He stopped suddenly as the hand –pearly white, and perfect in form, despite the ends being mangled by anxious teeth –slammed onto his chest, searing him. ‘The effrontery of you!’ the creature screeched (for it could be no man, Sam was sure now) ‘To name me liar! How dare you!’
Sam could say nothing to this, lips flapping uselessly in terror.
‘Still,’ it continued, calming down. ‘You are the first to reach me, and it has been ever so long. So I shall make this interesting for you and we shall play a little game. It’s called the Great Hunt; you’ll be the hare and I’ll be the fox. You get ten minutes head start and one piece of advice: dreams are what you make of them,’ said the fox.
The hands dropped away and Sam stumbled forward, coughing. He stared back in horror at the giant red fox that sat, calmly licking its paws. It looked up, grinned, and said, ‘Run.’
Sam bolted; a white flash against the dark green of the forest which had suddenly sprung up about them. He pelted forth, leaping and twisting, fear eating at him. He was quick and desperate, and he covered much ground, but the scenery never changed and the hare felt a rising sense of dismay. It stood, quivering, on the verge of hysteria, in a small clearing, little nose twitching. He didn’t know which way to go, didn’t know how long he had left before the fox came after him. There was a rustling behind him and he dashed forward, squeaking, blind panic kicking in.
Leaves and twigs brushed past and snapped on his face, or else flew up in small plumes from the impact of the leaping bunny. Sweat coated his flanks, and exhaustion pulled at him. The fox was cunning and devious and had anticipated this, had in fact, planned on it. So it was a very relaxed looking fox that bounded into the clearing in which the boy-hare had collapsed.
It circled him, the gleam of triumph clear in its luminous eyes.
There was a horrible moment then, as Sam felt the certainty of death loom. His lungs were constricting painfully, crying out for the relief of his inhaler. Eyes watering, the lilting words came back to him; Dreams are what you make of them. Could that mean…? Hardly daring to hope it would work, he closed his eyes and imagined himself as something small, incredibly quick, something that knew how to hide…
Shift.
At that moment, the fox ceased to circle and lunged, expecting to rip into the soft, furry white throat; to delight in the hot, metallic blood and gurgle in victory. But it was an outraged yowl that split the night air as its snout hit nothing but dirt. A small, brown mouse was already speeding away, tunneling beneath leaves and roots. Not to be outdone, a dark grey cat was hot in pursuit, red eyes burning, and steadily gaining. The world had faded to blacks and grays and the mouse found it was not immune to terror in this form, and that exhaustion had not faded.
Sprinting, the cat ran up a slightly raised monstrous root, launching itself into the air. Midway, its form shifted and blurred, becoming a swooping falcon that swiftly caught the mouse, breaking its back in its cruel claws. A harsh hunting cry pronounced its victory to the world, before it dropped the pathetic bundle of bone and fur. Curled on the floor now, covered in sweat, lay the boy. Groaning, he got up, aching.
The golden mask swooped down, close enough that fetid breath covered Sam’s face, to ask in a querulous tone, ‘Are you okay?’ His parody of concern was twisted to behold and the boy felt hatred, black and boiling rise to the surface. This was far worse than anything his brother could conjure he thought belatedly.
This close, Sam could see that what he’d taken for a mask was in fact welded to the man’s skull. Even now the golden lips curled in a smile; wild black hair encrusted in filth and leaves fell around his shoulders. ‘In the Trial of Cunning, you have been defeated. Now, stand and face me in the Match of Arms.’
A thousand questions swirled in Sam’s mind, dulled as it was by fatigue, but his lips were already moving and the question asked, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am the lord and master of this realm,’ the creature promptly replied.
‘What’s –‘
‘Uh-uh,’ he said, ‘one question per round I’m afraid.’
‘But I didn’t know—‘
‘Enough! Stand up.’
And he stood, limbs moving of their own accord. He felt himself changing then; his fear had subsided and the logical part of his mind kicked into gear: this was a game, he realized, and he was good at games. The forest bled away, the buzz and chirp of insects and birds replaced suddenly by a cool silence but for the whisper of air that breezed past the tall, swaying grass. His limbs were encased in armour, and a massive charger, flanks heaving, stood beside him.
‘This will be a competition of three jousts,’ said the already mounted golden knight. ‘Mount your steed.’
He had never ridden a horse before, but he found himself mounting it easily, jousting stick suddenly at hand.
‘You shall have a one point lead. And one piece of advice; dance without strings.’
And he spurred his horse forward, an eerie shriek emitting from his visor as he did so. Unwilling, Sam found himself hurtling towards his opponent, bouncing awkwardly in his saddle. It lasted an eternity and was over in a moment; the thunder of hooves continued, but Sam was no longer connected to it. There was a searing pain in his shoulder, and an awful absence beneath him that even now rushed up to meet him. With an awfully noisy crash, he fell to the floor.
Still, his legs rose to the task, and he found himself standing. He could only stare at the knight in confused pain. Logically, he shouldn’t be able to continue. Perhaps sensing Sam’s puzzlement, the figure spoke, ‘No mortal ailment can stop you now, for the rules bind you as much as they do me. Even dead, you would walk and talk until all was said and done.’
Sam wondered briefly, as he mounted his steed, if it mattered that he didn’t know the rules. It occurred to him then, that he could never win—gone now was the previous conviction, for it was obvious the game was being dictated and that he, here, was nothing more than a puppet. But could he defy the strange entity across from him? He knew that somewhere beneath that human shape, a monster of terrifying cut and hew lay waiting.
The words, spoken so softly before, through a swirl of confusion and pain, swam back into his focus: Dance without strings. So it was, when the word, ‘Go!’ was spoken, he screwed up his courage and charged.
But not forward.
Instead, he spurred the horse out and away from his opponent, fleeing with all his might. A terrible scream of fury ripped into the night then—‘Coward!’—seeming to nip and bite at the heels of Sam’s horse. It reared, whinnying with fear, then shot forward madly, leaving Sam to hold on as best he could. The thunder of pounding hooves gradually gained on them, and Sam urged it onward but the tired beast couldn’t go any faster and eventually, couldn’t move at all, slowing to a trot then a walk.
He slipped off it, panting, the rush of adrenaline fading to leave him feeling wretched. He stood, resignation cloaking him, facing the burnished knight that rode toward him, lightning sparking at the hooves of his terrible beast. He had thought by now that he’d be too tired to care, too exhausted to be afraid, but the opposite was true: he felt fresh waves of terror engulf him, and he wished for nothing more than to live…to escape… And something surged inside him. His superhuman effort failed, however, sputtering to a halt. He had no energy left.
Shift.
Two arms punched through the air beside him, even as sure death rode closer, grabbed him and tore him away.
The scene blurred, and he spun, delighted to find his home street facing him. The enraged sound of horse and master shrilled as their quarry escaped. He had hardly taken two tottering, disbelieving steps before something small and hard slammed into him and he was rolling, a flurry of limbs and yells as he attempted to escape this new foe. A distant, observant part of him noted that his opponent was distinctly feminine.
Finally, his head was cracked against the pavement, and the girl was able to get up. ‘Would you stop?!’ she panted, ‘I’m trying to save your life!’
He groaned. Every part of him ached and throbbed, angry remnants of tears still glimmered in his sky blue eyes. But he managed to summon some spirit, ‘How?’ he spat back, ‘By killing me?’
Lora tossed her short, dark hair dismissively. ‘Get lost, it wasn’t that bad.’ She appraised him briefly, as if finding bewildered, dirty twelve year old boys in the middle of the night was an everyday occurrence. Sniffing, she extended an arm, which he took gratefully and raised him to his feet. ‘We have to hurry,’ she urged, ‘there’s not much time left.’
She took off, dragging the reluctant boy behind her. As they ran, she told him her name, explaining that she had come to rescue him. He said nothing, trying to concentrate on not collapsing as they leapt fences and crept past dark windows. Finally, as they peered fearfully out at the street from the shadows, he grabbed her shoulder, twisting her to face him.
‘Just tell me what’s going on, ?’ he said, a plea for understanding in his eyes.
She sighed. ‘It’s much worse then I feared. You’ve lost two Trials—‘
‘Hey!’ he protested, ‘I only lost once—‘
‘And you forfeited the other,’ she finished grimly. ‘It’s not fair, but we don’t make the rules. As it stands, one Trial and one question remain open to you.’
A thought came to him then and he felt a chill. ‘What happens if I lose?’
She stared at him for a long moment. When she finally did speak, it was in a fierce whisper. ‘That’s not an option. If he takes another…,’ she looked away then, voice rough.
‘Who is ‘he’?’ he whispered back, just as quietly.
‘The Sandman,’ she said. And in her mind, she added, Father.
I said I would give an "in-depth" critique, so I thought breaking it up would help accomplish that:
