Fresh drops of dew hung provocatively off the blades of grass, reflecting the paleness of the crescent shaped moon which shone upon the desolation that was the Marthvode forest.
A lone man trudged on a winding path through the brambles and bluebell bushes. His rough beard was visible, by the flickering light of a burning torch, as the long locks of his unkempt hair parted to the sway of his stumbling gait. His slate gray eyes could be seen intermittently, eyes of steel, which mirrored only his resolution and not the sorrow and anguish he felt.
The coffin made deep troughs in the soft forest earth as he dragged it with the help of a fraying rope attached to a ring at the top of the lid. He was perspiring badly, rivulets of sweat flowed through his face, burning his eyes as he struggled up the unforgiving slope.
The cottage was visible now. He had made the trip without incident. This part of the forest was home to one of the most feared species of wolves mankind had ever known. They were known as the Mortesci. Their attacks were unparalleled in history for both speed and viciousness. They had a distinct way of attack. They usually come alone to the prey's lair and mauled it. Then they used a distinctive cry to call on the rest of the pack to finish it off. It was thought they considered it a sport to kill as they never consumed meat. The baying of the Mortesci was considered the last thing a man ever heard, as there was no one living who knew how it sounds.
He left the coffin at the foot of the rough wooden stairs leading to the door. Suddenly, he felt a cool draft of air at the back of his neck, a feeling of indescribable terror washed over him. He felt a creeping sense of uneasiness which he could not explain, He was alone here in this wilderness with .. with...
He looked down at the coffin. He could not stop the tears from running down his cold cheeks, his eyes closed involuntarily, only yesterday had he loved her, caressed her, ruffled her hair. Life wasn't fair, God did not exist, there was no greater trauma on earth than what he was going through right now. He threw his head up and cursed the heavens, somewhere, a bloodhound bayed.
The knob felt cold to the touch, he carried the rose wood coffin into the cottage and closed the door. The only light came from the torch he carried. He set it in a corner and looked at the room. There was a wooden table along the wall to his right, a window was set on one wall barred by a moth eaten curtain. He went up to the window, drew aside the curtain and pushed it open. It opened with a creak and a gust of cold wind gushed in extinguishing the torch.
The silence was absolute, the only light was the feeble rays of moonlight clawing through the treetops. His feeling of dread returned and beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. His hands fumbled through his coat pockets for a match. He lit one and through its feeble light, he could see the coffin, as he had left it, at the foot of the door. He reignited the torch and closed the window. Then he carried the coffin to the table by the window placed it gingerly.
Slowly he opened it. He willed himself to look at her one last time. He had to. Their ancestral rituals demanded that before the burial two important sacraments had to be carried out. She was wearing a pale green gown encapsulated by a little white belt at her waist. She looked so serene even in death.
Carefully and with infinite tenderness, he lifted up both her hands and placed them on her waist just above the belt. He was now oblivious to the tears that dropped from his eyes onto the floor. He removed a soft white silk lace from a recess in his coat and delicately tied it around both of her hands so that they will not be separated easily. Next he started the second ritual, he slowly picked up a pinch of dust from the hard wood floor of the cottage and sprinkled it in the right corner of the coffin, near her left foot.
He had first heard the sound when closed the door to the cottage. He did not realize its significance then. He now heard it again. It was a low breathing sound, more like a rush of air through leaves. It was definitely not a human sound, it was unearthly, especially in the silence of the forest where even the smallest of sounds get magnified many times.
He silently walked to the wall that was furtherest to the coffin and took the shot gun that hung there. It was his fathers' gun. It was always kept here and kept loaded. He crept to the door and after a longing look at the coffin that held her, opened the door silently.
A sliver of moonlight fell over his forehead as he looked out cautiously, the forest was dark and silent. That in itself was a dangerous sign. The absence of the sounds of the crickets, moths and bats indicated the presence of a predator in the vicinity. He was torn between the necessity to go outside and the longing to stay with the coffin, protecting her.
He then saw it. The darkness at a point in front of the trees was a shade deeper than the background. The dark shape slinked away into the night probably aware that it was spotted. The forest suddenly came to life all around him, crickets, beetles and bugs started their low toned buzzing.
He again stood in front of the coffin, slowly reaching out to close the lid for the last time, when it attacked. He was shocked at the ferociousness of the aggression. The creature had thrown itself with tremendous force at the only window of the cottage, baring its teeth that made a dent on the wood causing it to splinter in many places. He wondered at the intelligence of the beast as it had the ability to choose the weakest point of the whole cottage. The door was made of sturdy oak and the walls were constructed with many layers of bamboo to withstand the cruel winters. The second charge of the animal broke the window in half. the cold breeze again wafted in through the cottage extinguishing the torch and engulfing the room in darkness for the second time that night.
The beast was inside. He could hear that same unearthly sound, feel it in his bones. He knew the legend of the Mortesci, and the blood chilling stories told of it. He also knew that he had foolishly left his shotgun resting against the wall near the door. In the darkness he was completely at a disadvantage, the Mortesci could see in the dark. He tried to creep towards the door when it rushed at him knocking him over. Suddenly he heard a new sound, a patting sound he never had heard before. The beast turned away from him and went towards the open window. He grabbed for the shotgun at the door in one swift lunge and tried to get into position to fire. But before he could loose a shot he was knocked off his feet by the beast with a speed beyond comprehension. He struck his head against the floor and lost orientation. Then something happened which he did not understand, he had fleeting images of the beast near the window, and again of , trying to charge him, when it paused and writhed in agony, he then blacked out with a final glimpse of it vaulting through the open window and running off into the night.
He staggered out of his stupor after a few moments, he was delirious with pain from a gash to his forehead. If folklore were true, he was the first man to have survived an encounter with the Mortesci. He relit the torch and approached the coffin.
She was lying just as peacefully as before, but her hands were free and the silk lace lay to one side as if it had been sliced through. Also there were a few strands of brown hair under her fingernails. Her face looked serene except for her mouth as teeth were clenched together and a clump of brown hair was visible between them....
Legend has it that the Mortesci were animals that roamed the jungles instilling fear, had long curved claws and furry brown hair....
