#15 Ravens Castle

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Fern shivered as she looked up at Ravens somber bog castle, the rain hammering onto the roof, splashing onto the lower shadowed balcony and spilling onto the wet slippery rocks below. The ground was littered with fallen roof shakes.  She looked up at the charcoal grey clouds, heavy drops splattering onto her face as the clouds let loose their fury of rain. The sullen archway was in deep shadow; an uninviting mist streaming into its opening, the door hanging open, creaking on its squeaky hinges.  The place smelt of despair.  Where was she? She knew that Raven was away on the search, but where was Phlox?

The odour was dank with lichen and algae slowly creeping up the sides of the tall house.  Driftwood embellishments looked more as if the tides had thrown them against the tower in a rage, rather than having been part of a plan.  Drip, drop, drip, drop, from the roof onto the dark rocky beach, water slithering through the grey rocks and beach debris, back to the ocean with its rolling, thundering waves.  His nets hung loosely from the barnacle encrusted rack; algae, seaweed, and black lichen, like tufts of Ravens hair hung from the nets.  Among them, small sea creatures sucked desperately for salt water to feed their starving gills. Their past fellow inhabitants exuding a rotting, nauseous odour over the whole neglected façade. His ship lay tied securely to the saplings around his house, well up on the hard, above the high tide line; well maintained and safe as if it was the only thing of importance to him.

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 Fern fought down a swell of anger at the disrepair Raven had allowed his and Phlox’ home.  How was a woman to live in such a relic?  She straightened her shoulders, clamped down on her jaw and knocked on wood next to the open door with some trepidation, the sound of her knocks echoing through the inner mists of the tall structure. There was no answer.  Fern pushed and the massive door yawned open, the leather hinges squeaking with the wet. She called out for Phlox, not expecting a response.  All she heard was hopeless echoes of her own voice. She ventured in.

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She was first met with the staircase in disrepair; treads missing, others precariously loose. The rail shivered in her hand.  The odour of negligence and rotting wood filled the house.  Perhaps Phlox really had fallen down the stairs when she had come to the healing hut, battered and bruised last time.  How could she endure the grey days in this place, out here alone, away from the village?  Only the sound of the waves and the crashing undertow cut the dank silence of the house.

Fern left feeling the helplessness Phlox must have felt.  She left through the gaping door and headed back to the village.