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Ravanill of Trainrill
On crystal, starlit nights, the rabbit in the moon leaned close to listen. Whispers snaked like a liquid vine through the town of Trainrill and collected in its Amberglass Theater. Rumor held that Ravanill would perform again.
The players danced nightly upon the wooden stage, but it was only on full moon nights that they shuffled around and became a cast anew. It used to be that they would draw fresh members from interested parties in the audience, but the practice fell into decline when - ten years ago - a red-haired boy, thrilled to participate in the show, danced until he was out of breath, and being in dangerously ill health, he died. His name was Ravanill.
The children knew his story and enjoyed taunting one another with frights. “Ravanill will rise again and eat your head!” said a boy no older than five. His sister, aged 6, responded with giggles and made a chomping noise with her teeth.
Suddenly, from the wood behind their tiny house came a snap! Startled, the siblings glanced around themselves but saw nothing worth worrying about. The long, narrow trees hovered over their heads, rustling in the tranquil quiet. There were no mewing cats or yapping dogs to give the illusion of spring, and all the leaves had long since turned brown and covered the muddled floor.
“It’s nothing,” Pricilla said, unsure of the fact herself. “Let’s go inside.”
And they went into the house, welcomed by the aroma of autumn cooking: pumpkin spiced with cinnamon wafted through the air, and apple cider sat in a ceramic jug on the kitchen table. The children scrambled to the table and sat. Their parents oddly were not home, so they helped themselves to treats. After a mouthful of pumpkin pie, Pricilla noticed through the window a distant figure crunching through layers of leaves. It was not their mother. Not their father. Who was it?
Toby turned to face his sister, but his face was not his. Pricilla jumped back. “Who are you?!” Not waiting for an answer, she ran to the back of the house and locked herself in their shared room. From outside there came the sound of crunching.
“Who are you?” a boy’s voice whispered – Toby’s but not Toby’s. That was an odd question.
“Who am I? Who are you?”
The voice ignored her hysterical cry and asked again, “Who are you?”
She had a thought.
“Are you Ravanill?” she asked the voice who approached the still-locked door.
“Yes,” he replied.
There was a sudden whine, like the sound of a baby crying, and the footsteps that traipsed through the wood finally entered the small cabin, the thumping of boots on floor growing louder as it approached.
Pricilla looked around the room, but there was nowhere to escape, except – the window could open. Moonlight shone through the misty glass, eclipsing the fear lunging into her body. It would have been very peaceful.
After a moment, she decided to escape from the house. Despite her small body, she could reach the lock on the window, and soon, she opened it to feel the splash of an evening breeze. She climbed onto a chair and pulled her body through the wooden frame.
The footsteps had stopped, and she had to wonder. Was it in the woods again, behind her?
Her heartbeats thrashed inside her chest. She sprinted away from the house and into the wooded land.
There, she found pieces of candy caught in the brush. Curious, she followed the trail to the main road, where horse-drawn carts often passed. The road was empty at this time of night. All was silent.
Except – the drumbeat of her heart. She slowly started walking. Any place was better than where she had just left. The main road stretched beside the wood for a mile, then curved and branched into several smaller paths. One of these led to the Amberglass Theater; others to the rest of the town.
As she strode down the familiar path toward the neighboring hotel, she heard birds calling. It was not morning. Why were there birds calling?
The road did not wind the way she wanted it to go. It twisted unexpectedly and turned where it was not supposed to turn. She saw the Amberglass Theater in the vicinity and stifled a scream. All paths led there.
She hesitantly approached the building. Her hand hovered over the doorknob for a fraction of a second before opening the door with an audible squeak.
As expected, it was dark inside. The theater was closed, after all. No, no, no! The theater should not be closed! The players should be dancing, and the lights should be on. The audience should be applauding at any minute, and the cheers – yes, cheers! – should be ringing through the halls.
Pricilla stepped forth. It was quiet, and the shadows swallowed her form so that even darkness did not see her as a stranger.
A familiar song sprung from the silence.
Ba-da-dum. Ba-da-dum. Ba-da-dum-dum. She felt her arms and legs stretch toward the ceiling. She spun in circles, then landed with her butt planted on the floor, then leaped up and started dancing again.
Another pair of dancing feet joined her. She could not see through the darkness. Who was it?
“Who are you?” she asked the darkness.
“You,” said the darkness.
The voice was the same as the voice from before; it sounded like her brother, yet it was not. Strangely enough, she had forgotten that she should run. Instinct blared in her mind, and she ran back into the light, weaving her way to the door.
But someone was there.
From afar, it looked like the figure going crunch crunch crunch. “What do you want?” she asked. “Why are you following me?”
A pause hung in the cool hallway. The figure seemed to consider before answering. “I am here to take you home,” it said. It had been in her home. She had already been at home, before it came. What was it doing in her home? And now it is taking her home? Liar! Liar!
“Liar!” she shouted. She ran toward the door regardless of the figure standing in the doorway. She intended to headbutt it. She rammed into it headfirst and was met with the sensation of nothing, except the chill that spread through her body. She looked back and saw that there was no figure anymore.
Was she imagining things? Was this real, or was it all a dream? She wondered if she could return to the home she remembered with longing: the steady fireplace with warm slices of pumpkin pie and apple sider waiting for her, her parents sitting by the fire, reading or talking, and her brother - as he always was – beside her.
She started walking back up the road, fatigue now heavily leaning on her shoulder. Her eyes drooped sleepily, and she yawned widely. She was ready to sleep. She returned home with the hope that everything would be alright in the morning.
The house was empty of people. Neither her brother nor her parents were there. She sat down and took another bite of pie, simultaneously worried for their safety and eager to go to bed. She glanced out the window. No figure.
There was a mug with lukewarm cider at the seat her brother had occupied several minutes before. The chair was still warm.
She stumbled to her room but found the door locked. “Ah, I forgot,” she mumbled. She went outside, went back in through the open window, and secured the window lock. The deep ruffles of blanket beckoned to her. She surrendered.
Tucked in bed, she could not tell if she had a dream or if the reality continued. There was silence in the air, and then a muffled crunching of boots against leaves. As if to taunt her, it stopped just outside her window.
Somehow, there was the sound of babies crying. There was a rumbling murmur. Suddenly, a scream.
The figure knocked at her window like a mailman knocking at the door. She hid beneath the covers and pretended she did not hear it.
Go away, go away! But the rapping continued. The choir of babies, murmuring, screaming, and gasps permeated the atmosphere. Something started nagging at the back of her mind. Something like de ja vu.
Dare she open the door?
Go away, she thought. But the rapping grew louder. It thrummed in her mind like cannon fire. Finally, she relented and strode across the wooden floor to the secured window. She unlocked it. The face of the figure stared back at her. It had red hair and green eyes, and it was shorter than she had expected.
“What do you want? Who are you?” she asked in quick succession.
“I am you,” the figure said, “come to take you home.”
“I am home,” she retorted but knew it was untrue. Whose house was this? Who was she?
And she realized - “My name is Ravanill.”
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