A Light in the Dark (Post Eight)

[B][FONT="Book Antiqua"][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY] He left the city behind by way of Atkins Drive, a wide street that gradually turned to packed earth, and small, stiff weeds started dotting the landscape. The weeds were quickly joined by bristly grass, tall and untended, and trees, their branches slightly bare, harshly jutting up to the sky. Some contained heavy flowers, their petals dark blue and purple, dripping a sappy crimson liquid. The leaves appeared burnt in their green tone, hard to bend and heavy, like the flowers. But in the slight breeze that started to pick up as Vincent left the city for the River of the Dead, the leaves brushed against one another, producing a dry noise like the rustling feathers of a giant bird.

The wind churned the clouds that crowded the sky above. Vincent stepped over a fallen tree, its flowers withered. The sound of slowly-flowing water met his ears, along with the smell of something rotting mixed with an oddly-inviting scent of peace and quiet. The feelings it invoked were made to lure the unsuspecting living toward its dark black waters. The river was wide, massively so, to the point where Vincent could only just see the other shore. Swirling atop the steady water was an oily substance, something no one alive could identify. Its immediate smell was that of rot.

Bending down, Vincent looked into the water. It was too murky to see more than several inches beyond the surface. Most city-dwellers avoided the place as though it carried a deadly and contagious illness, but all it really carried was the boat that shepherded the dead to their final resting place. If they didn’t go to Hell instead. Running one’s hand through the water was usually a very bad idea, but Vincent was one of those who could. With a demon’s blood in his veins, Vincent could easily touch the water and whatever else floated in it without many negative affects. When he did, though, his entire body became cold. The water’s properties were strange, ethereal, and left a sticky black film on Vincent’s fingers when he drew back, something like tar.

He sat back, on the hard-packed ground, watching the river move. On his way to his destination, he had been wondering why he even came. When the first few bubbles floated to the surface, the answer was a clear one. Wiping the tarry, oily substance from his hand, Vincent stood and backed away from the shoreline until he hit the fallen tree. The water was gurgling, bubbles popping, creating a grayish foam that was washed away by the sluggish rush. As though in response to the disturbance Vincent created in the river’s flow, something was moving below the surface.

A hand was the first to appear, groping for solid land, pale, mottled-green skin appearing to move without help from the hand. It grasped a protruding tree root that had wormed its way into the river, pulling itself up and out of the water. With a pained, hopeless moan, the figure fought, and fell onto the pathway. A man, stout in body, shivered and looked up to Vincent.

His eyes were very sunken, white, and the skin of his face seemed to be sagging. His clothes were nothing but rags, a black shirt and pants, but with no shoes. His hair was saturated with the same tar-like substance that covered his clothes and some of his skin. When he stood, he came to be almost a foot taller than Vincent, who had pushed away from the tree to join the man who had dragged himself from the depths of the River of the Dead.[/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/FONT][/B]