The Photographer

The Photographer

The shoot went okay, although the local models - the peak of feminine beauty available at short notice - grumbled to each other throughout. 

“Accustomed to the comfort of a studio.” Chrissie rolled her eyes.

I nodded. “Getting outdoors into nature’s gone out of fashion.” 

We’d missed our flight. Chrissie misread the time - the first faux pas to blemish an otherwise faultless couple of weeks since she turned up looking for work right after Pete’s accident. The doctors are keeping him in hospital for at least six weeks. They said he’s lucky to be alive. We visited, donated blood while we were there - Chrissie’s idea, of course. I doubt I’d have bothered if she hadn’t pushed the idea. 

The second mishap - although this time Chrissie placed the blame firmly with the car hire company - was the fact that there was no record of our reservation. We had to take whatever was left and wait an age for the stocky woman, white hair scraped into a ballerina-style bun, to sort out the paperwork. 

“Something - or someone - really doesn’t want me to do this job,” I said, glancing skyward. 

I’d meant it in a light-hearted way, but the clerk threw me a long scowl as though I’d offended her. It unnerved me, but not enough to stop me noticing that, in all the time her hostile gaze was on me rather than her computer screen, there was no let-up in the clatter made by her long, black-polished nails as they moved speedily across the keyboard. 

The typing came to an end with a hard tap on the return key. An old printer on the desk whirred, then chuntered, then spat out the contract. The clerk jabbered in her native tongue as she whipped the printout from the tray and handed it to me, along with a fountain pen. 

“Can’t believe anyone still uses these.” I struggled to scratch my name on the dotted line - there was plenty of ink on the nib but it didn’t flow at all well. It took a few shakes and several attempts, and all the time I was wondering why I’d ever agreed to come to such a backward place. 

“Maybe invest in some biros?” I’d said as I gave her the signed paperwork. 

We were on our way to the vehicle bays when the agency texted. The delay meant we’d lost our bookings - both models and studio. I was ready to get straight back on the next flight home, but Chrissie had got on the phone at once, hired the new models, then suggested we do a shoot in this forest just outside the capital. 

I couldn’t have been happier with what she arranged. I might be young for a pro photographer, but I’m old school. While the magic of computers can transport anyone anywhere, nothing beats real-life dappled shade and sunlight streaming between the trees. The natural scenery had a fantastical feel - a perfect fit for the images I wanted to create. There were issues - heels don’t work on a forest floor, for instance. There was a bunch of what I assumed were Lithuanian expletives when I suggested holding the shoes by their straps and going barefoot. They did it, though. And with convincing smiles. I thought it worked and was optimistic that both they and my client would appreciate the results.

We finished early and, while Chrissie and I packed up, the two women took turns shielding each other while they changed back into their jeans and sneakers. Then, before we’d finished getting everything together, they were stomping their way through the woods back to the vehicles. We had to race after them, sweating, loaded down with heavy bags. 

We were maybe a couple hundred yards behind when the taller of the women pointed ahead. She started yelling, and their fast walk became a sprint. The words she was shouting were unintelligible, but the panic in her voice was clear. 

“Jeeez!” Chrissie let slip her irritation as we were obliged to pick up our pace. “What the hell?”

At the car, the women were pulling on the locked door handles, screaming at them, and then at us.

“Open! Open!”

Dumping her load on the ground with less care than usual, Chrissie slipped the fob from her pocket and unlocked the vehicle. Before the bleep and flashing signals had stopped, the models had thrown themselves into the back of the SUV. They waved at me and Chrissie, beckoning us to get in.

“We go, we go! Now!” They pulled the door shut and stared at us through the window.

“Whatever they saw back there’s got them really spooked,” I said. “I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

Chrissie shook her head. “Load up. I’ll see if I can find out what it is that’s got to them.”

I bundled the last bag into the trunk, then walked to the driver’s side where Chrissie was sitting behind the wheel. Wide-eyed, the models were leaning into the gap between the two front seats, both talking at once. 

“They’re saying there’s danger out here, that we shouldn’t stay any longer.” Chrissie’s eyes were dark with anxiety.  

“Danger? Is there an escaped madman on the loose or something?”

I was about to laugh out loud, thinking it might lift the mood, dissolve the grip that this sudden-onset hysteria had on the two women, but, catching the look of fear on their faces, I buried it in a cough. 

Chrissie glanced over her shoulder at the young women, then back at me. 

“My Lithuanian’s a bit rusty. But it’s something about this particular forest, the time of year and…” She paused for a second, wrinkling her nose up in thought. “I think it was the word for darkness.”

“Night falls quickly here - probably there’s some local superstition about it. Tell them not to worry. I’ll be leaving in an hour - two at most. Well before dark, anyway.”

“You sure, Spencer? I mean, they seem like a sensible pair. A bit grumpy, but not unhinged. What if there’s something in it? Maybe you should follow us now, just to be on the safe side.”

“And if it turns out to be nothing?”

Chrissie shrugged. “There’ll be other trees, other forests.” She sounded impatient in a way she never had until that moment. I’d been happy, if surprised, by her acceptance of the foibles that Pete had found exasperating. Chrissie had not only understood but appreciated my creative process. At least, that’s what I’d thought.

“But it would be such a wasted opportunity, when I’m right here, now. Look, I’ll be fine. I’m a big boy.” I smiled, and Chrissie reciprocated. “Go on. I’ll see you later.” 

“Only if you’re certain.”

“One hundred percent,” I said, and stepped back. 

Her window glided closed with a shhhh, we waved at each other, and I watched the car drive away, bumping along the rough ground towards the road.

With a quick glance up at the sun, I grabbed the case containing my macro lens from behind the passenger seat of the Fiat. I reckoned I had an hour left of golden light. 

Serenaded by dozens of unseen birds, I meandered to the spot where we’d finished the photoshoot. I took shots of the crowds of silver birches that dominated, before swapping out the standard lens for the macro to do some close-up work. The creases in the tree bark reminded me of nanna’s wrinkled grey skin. The black knots in the wood looked like the eyes painted on to a pharaoh’s death mask, and there were thousands of them, keeping watch in every direction. 

The further into the forest I went, the closer together the trees grew until I was weaving my way through; side step, forward step, side step, forward step. 

In the branches of one tree, I found a birch besom - a mass of small twigs created by a parasite or fungus; we called them witch’s brooms when I was a kid. I was lifting my camera to focus in on it when something - a movement, perhaps, or a shadow - pulled my attention away. I scanned my surroundings from where I stood, but there was no one, nothing. I was alone. Then my gaze came to rest on one of the wider trees a few yards away. Something had been carved into its trunk.  

The sun was low in the sky as I made my way over, reattaching the wide-angle lens as I went, thinking I’d better get back to the car after this. 

I framed the single visible blot of human intervention on an otherwise unmarred wilderness, snapping photos of it as I approached. I was a few paces away when the letters and numbers became clear.

I let go of the camera. It dangled from its strap, bumped gently on my fast-heaving chest. 

I’d expected a date and initials of an individual - or lovers, perhaps – who’d considered their historical presence here worthy of an inscription. 

What I found was: Spencer Travelyan 19 07 24, 19 04 07

My full name and today’s date.

What. The. Hell? 

Mouth dry, I crept up close, reached out, and traced the letters. Spencer Travelyan isn’t common back home, and I’d guess even less so here in Lithuania. This couldn’t refer to anyone else except me. Could it? And who knew I’d be here, today?

I stared at the other numbers until my eyes watered. The nineteenth of April means nothing. It’s not my birthday, nor that of anyone I know. And in 2007, I was sixteen. It was a lifetime ago, when I was being ravaged by insecurities and angst, like probably every other adolescent. But nothing major happened then, nothing that linked me to this place.

As the shock of the discovery wore off, its place was taken by a resolve to find out who’d carved this, and why? And what was the significance of the second date? I wondered if this was what had made the model freak out and bolt, but decided that we hadn’t walked close enough to be able to read it, or, even if we had, I don’t think she knew my last name.

I stood still, tried to stop myself shaking as I studied the trees around me. There were other names and numbers. To my right, Greaves 6 12 23, 17 05 05, ahead Bullon 6 7 19, 18 11 22 and beyond that I could just make out Takacs 31 5 11, 16 11 12.

In the fading light, I returned my attention to the tree with my name. Looking it up and down, I moved slowly around the trunk, examining it in case there were other markings, or any kind of a clue.

Then I tripped, and fell, and it took longer to hit the ground than it should have. 

***

This hole is deep. In a panic, I scramble, try climbing out, but the soil tumbles down on top of me, loads of it, so I stop, afraid of burying myself. I sit down - there’s room if I bend my knees - and do some deep breathing. But it’s impossible to be calm when all I can think about is my name carved in a tree in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country. Then the circle of sky above me goes black and I lose it, burst into tears. I haven’t felt this afraid since I was a kid and believed in demons living in dark corners, and monsters under the bed. 

Whether because of the forest, or the pit, there’s no signal - no chance of calling Chrissie, or anyone. I take more shaky breaths and try to think rationally. At some point, she’ll realise I didn’t get back and she’ll come get me. All I have to do is wait, and hope it doesn’t get too cold out here at night. 

I tune into my surroundings, trying to clear my aching mind. The silence is as profound as the darkness. The birdsong’s gone and there’s nothing; no soft beating of wings, not a hoot, squeak, scratch, grunt, or growl. 

With my eyes closed, I turn the camera on. My heart skips as I entertain the notion that I might’ve imagined it all. But when I look, there’s the image of my name and that date, sharp and clear. I zoom in and examine each letter and number minutely. There’s nothing worth noting except for the fact that they’re all neatly, expertly, carved out. I swipe back to the picture taken from further away. And see someone hiding among the trees. 

My chest tightens and I nearly drop the camera. I wipe my hands on my jeans, one at a time, then concentrate on holding it steady. 

I stare hard at the blurry figure. Her features are indistinct - there’s just a white face with black holes for eyes - and she’s a small figure in the distance, on a tiny screen - but I know it’s her, the car hire woman. Her arms hang straight by her sides and her hands are all out of proportion - way too big, with fingernails that are way too long. My gaze drifts upwards by a fraction, and I catch sight of the timestamp. 

19:04:07

The air leaves my lungs. 

I have to force myself to take a breath.

Not a date, then, but the exact time I snapped this photo of my carved-out name. What kind of trickery is this?

I lean my head back against the dirt wall. Keeping my eyes closed, I swipe through the photos until I’m sure I’ve gone back far enough. When I look down, I’ve landed on the shot with the two young women holding hands as they gaze up at the sky through the trees. Their light, flowing dresses are as I remember, but the women in them are not. Where lithe, smooth-skinned beauties should be, there are two husks, grey and shrivelled with age. They’re hunched over, with mouths open in wide grins, flaunting black stumps in place of shiny white teeth. 

I must be going mad; the camera never lies.

I scroll through all the photos I took during the shoot. There are no beautiful models - only these wizened hags.

“Spencer.” Chrissie’s voice.

“Thank God!” I jump to my feet. “I knew you’d work it out. Something really weird’s going on. And that car hire clerk? She’s involved. Help me out of here, I’ll show you…”

A low chanting comes from above. I don’t understand a word, but its dissonant, droning tones fire up the panic in my belly.  

I fumble for my phone, turn on the torch, point it upwards.

Four pairs of black eyes are staring down at me. 

The clerk’s there - I recognise the hairdo - but her face is now a skull covered by skin stretched so thin it’s translucent. Beside her are the ancient models, and a hideous old crone wearing Chrissie’s clothes. 

“We gave you the chance to leave.” It speaks with Chrissie’s voice. “As the ritual decrees.”

“Ritual? What… who are you? What’s going on?”

“I’ll translate the words that my sisters are singing,” says ‘Chrissie.’ “‘Your blood restores our youth.’”  

“My blood? What the hell are you talking about?” 

I’m screaming now, but ‘Chrissie’ remains unmoved, carries on translating. 

“‘One willing sacrifice for one more year.’”

They leap into the air and land in front of me. I press myself into the earth behind me but there’s no room to move, to get away. 

“No, no, no! You can’t do this. I’m not willing…”

The clerk holds a sheet of paper up in front of my face. I blink away a stinging drop of sweat and look at the ragged version of my signature at the bottom.

“That’s not fair! I can’t read Lithuanian.” 

She tips her head to one side. “Life’s not fair. And you should never, ever, sign anything you don’t understand.”

“But…”

“Shhh.” She pushes a forefinger against my lips. It smells like an overflowing bin in a heatwave. I suppress a gag - it would be an insult that could blow my chances of getting out of this alive. With that thought I realise the danger I’m in. Another scream forms in my throat, but shrivels away when the chanting starts up again. Chrissie’’s speaking. I need to hear what she’s saying.

“You’ve been outwitted, Spence,” she says. “That’s all.”

The clerk moves her nail downwards, presses it against the flesh beneath my Adam’s apple. 

‘Chrissie’’s gaze is on me, her eyes shining from deep inside their sockets. 

“Sorry,” she says, and I feel a punch to my throat.  

Blood runs warm on my skin. I’m trembling all over and can’t control it. When my legs give way, the clerk catches me in her giant hands, stops me hitting the ground, and cradles me in her long arms. 

Now they’re all around me and I can’t move, or do anything but listen to Chrissie’s voice.

 “As it is written, so it shall be.”