I was in the middle of a dark forest, my leg was starting to swell and I had no idea how I would be getting back to the Goral Inn, but at least I was alive. I was alive and getting further from the village where people scream at the setting sun.
The blood red glare that ebbed and flowed from the barn where my four legged friends were fighting the bright-clawed creatures was a distant memory once I was deep enough in the wood. The only thing that shone for me were the faint suggestions of stars obscured by the treetops.
But I could still hear the echoes of battle.
The sound of slaughter bounced around the valleys as a constant reminder that I was not safe. The livestock wouldn’t hold off the villagers forever. Eventually they would come looking for me.
The only hope I had that by the time the blood and feathers settled I would be far enough to no longer be worth pursuing.
It was difficult to be optimistic about my prospects of making it through the black forest with nothing but a flashlight. The throbbing pain that was spreading through the place where the creature had stabbed me didn’t help, neither did the shivering mountain wind that was drifting past my bloodstained t-shirt.
But I knew that if I was to survive I couldn’t think about those things.
I had to think about getting back home.
About Prague.
About the Warriors of Perun.
Me and Aneta sat down on a bench outside of the bar at around three AM for a single cigarette. We barely knew each other, it was just meant to be a bit of small talk between two musicians, the whole conversation wasn’t destined to last longer than fifteen minutes. But it lasted much longer.
Our talk bounced through our personal histories, our shared love of music, the guilty pleasure shows that we would watch – we talked about anything and everything as the sun crawled onto the sky from behind the Prague castle and the grumpy morning commuters filled the streets.
We smoked her entire pack of Luckies, once those were done we got another pack and a small bottle of whiskey. We basically had an extended after-party on the city bench and just like any after-party it was difficult to leave. There was just something about her that I couldn’t leave behind, even though I knew I had responsibilities to attend to in the morning, responsibilities that I cared about, I just stayed glued to that bench.
Talking to Aneta was a cathartic experience, even though the two of us had only known each other for a handful of hours those hours oozed with genuine connection. The thrill of being on stage, that religious experience of standing in front of complete strangers and making them bob their heads with nothing but some lifeless strings and my voice chords – verbalizing those ideas felt horribly pompous in front of anyone else, but with Aneta my passion flowed with a confidence I didn’t know I had.
Suddenly all of my neuroticism had morphed itself into an enjoyable personality quirk.
She liked me.
When we hugged goodbye in the glaring morning sun I thought I was in love.
My infatuation lasted for about a week.
When I messaged her about how well our first gig went she sent me a big blue thumbs up. A big blue thumbs up was the response she gave to all of my messages, there was a ‘I’m doing great, how about you?’ thrown in there from time to time but the subtext was pretty clear.
I tried to convince myself she just wasn’t much a texter, that she was just really busy and that one day we would be back to talking until sundown, but that illusion didn’t last long. The completely random meets in jam sessions I had so diligently planned were filled with five word conversations and excuses to go to the bathroom.
That’s just the type of person Aneta was; a social butterfly that would fly through Prague’s indie scene, make heavy, intimate connections with lonely musicians and then let go of the dead weight when it stopped being useful.
I didn’t have what she was looking for.
But you know who did? Gustave.
Months later, as I sat at that bar nursing a flat beer, watching the two of them passionately talk about music projects, I knew Gustave had what she was looking for. The two of them would run away and start their own band.
The Warriors of Perun would-
I forced myself back into the present moment. Even though my fear of the band splitting up had managed to distract me from the fact I was being hunted by sharp clawed monstrosities that screamed at the setting sun, the thoughts of Gustave and Aneta running away together caused me enough discomfort to want to remind myself that there were more pressing shards of stress for my mind to lean on.
As I walked and worried the sounds of slaughter echoing through the woods died down. For a split second I thought I could hear the creatures calling my name again, but I pushed that thought out of my head. I couldn’t see the outcome of the battle but I had to hope for the best. I had to hope the animals of the barn had won the battle for my freedom and that the villagers were no longer a threat.
Even though I believed that the only danger I was in was the danger of dying stranded in the woods, I turned off my flashlight. I had been walking through the darkness for long enough to get used to the topography of the forest floor. My feet made their way through the night, and even though my shin felt painfully bloated and my body was cold and hungry an unusual confidence started to brew in my belly.
My trip to Slovakia had been a last-ditch effort to save the band; I journeyed out into the woods to find something that would inspire me to write more songs so that The Warriors of Perun would have some fresh material to perform. And the trip had been a success. I didn’t have the songs written yet, but I had more than enough material.
The strange girl lying in a bed of moss.
The horrible storm I was caught in.
The battle between the livestock and the villagers.
The village where people scream at the setting sun.
Those stories, those moments, those mysterious slices of life from a cryptic, mystifying land that few had seen would be my muse. I would put together an album filled with terrifying mystery. The Warriors of Perun would be back on stage in no time.
The twigs beneath my feet crackled with a devoted rhythm. The forest was giving me my marching orders. I would make it back to the Goral Inn if I just kept my pace, if I just didn’t give up.
Even though it was still dark birds started to chirp in the treetop. They sang songs of a happier tomorrow. The sky was still black but the stars started to fade. Soon it would be morning. Soon I would be back inside of the lodge that smelled of fish.
“Robert! C’est trés bien!” Gustave would say after reading the lyrics.
“Yeah dude! This is some pretty dope writing man!” Thuy-Anh would add.
“Hon! Hon! Hon! Sacré bleu! And to think I wanted to leave the band!”
“I know, right? We were both so dumb.”
“We’re sorry Robert,” They would say. And I would forgive them. I would forgive them because we all make mistakes. But mistakes are temporary, The Warriors of Perun are forever.
I passed by a familiar looking berry bush. My heart skipped a beat. Something rumbled off in the distance, something that sounded like a truck carrying Polish frozen goods. The crackling of the sticks started to pick up its tempo. The birds were singing praises of my return. I was in the final stretch of my journey.
Even though each step I took with my right foot sent pins and needles up my leg, even though I was beyond exhausted and cold, I found myself running. Out of the darkness I saw the outline of the second berry bush. I was close. I was so goddamn close.
Somewhere in one of the non-descript dungeon bars in Prague, beneath the crumbling ceilings and offbeat paintings of aristocrats holding dogs, a crowd would gather. The place would be packed.
They would barely see each other beneath the dim glow of the makeshift light fixtures, but the faces of the people standing next to them wouldn’t matter. Anonymity was a part of the appeal. As strangers they could all let go of their earthly worries and focus on what was truly important.
They could focus on the people that were standing on the stage.
Thuy-Anh would be fiddling on her mandolin, letting lose potent earworms that would stick with the audience for months. She would make it look easy, as if anyone could just pick up her instrument and casually create eternal melodies. But the audience would be smart enough to know that it wasn’t that easy. The audience would know she was just that good.
Gustave would be sitting at his drum set, puffing on a cigarette without a care in the world. Chances are smoking indoors would not be allowed in that particular bar, and chances are that someone from the staff would be thinking about asking him to stop. But if they would ever try to confront him about his smoking, Gustave would balance the cigarette in his mouth and let out beat so savage that the staff would reconsider adhering to the rules. To impede an artist of his tenor would be a bigger crime.
And then I would get on stage.
The crowd would fall into a hushed, electric silence as I would walk over to the microphone.
“Ladies, gentlemen, everything in between and beyond!” I would yell, putting on the skin of someone who didn’t worry about things, “The Warriors of Perun are back!”
A deafening internal scream of joy manifested itself as an audible, happy yelp. I recognized that berry bush. I recognized that slab of moss. This was where I met the strange girl who initiated my journey to find the village.
Another rumble in the distance. Another Polish truck. Civilization was near.
I let out another yelp, louder this time. I was just a couple of minutes away from the Goral Inn. Soon I would be eating, drinking, hell, I’d even snag a cigarette and a shot of pálenka to celebrate the occasion.
For a split second I was happier than I had ever been.
Then, as I moved past that invisible pocket of signal that connected me to the outside world, my phone dinged.
Without thinking I checked my messages.
A freezing, tragic shudder traveled down my spine.
I sat down on the bed of moss to cushion the emotional blow but it didn’t help.
I read the message a dozen times, hoping that somehow what was written in it would change. It didn’t.
THUY-ANH to WARRIORS OF PERUN GROUP CHAT:
“Hey Robert!
Wish we could talk about this in person, but I guess it’s better to just rip the band-aid off. Me and Gustave have been talking and we both think it’s for best to let The Warriors rest in peace.
Gustave is starting up a new creative project with Aneta and I want to take a stab at going solo for a couple of months. I think we should all do our own thing for a bit.
Hope you’re having a nice time in the woods!”
Gustave’s addition to the conversation was what truly broke my heart. He didn’t say a word. He just left a big, blue thumbs-up.
I leaned back on the bed of moss and let the sorrow wash over me.
The Warriors of Perun, my baby, the creative project that I have hitched every moment of my life to for the past two years was dead – murdered without me even being able to properly say goodbye.
I wanted to punch both of them in the eye. I wanted to beg them both to give the band another chance. I wanted to scream and weep and break stuff.
But instead I just spread out like a corpse on the bed of moss and watched the stars shimmer through the treetop. I lay there trying to adjust to a new reality where the promise of being on stage with my band-mates was a lie.
And somehow I did.
If you would have told me a week ago that my band would break up with me through text message and that it would only take me a couple of minutes to go from being a catatonic mess to accepting the loss I would have laughed in your face – Or probably cried in your face, granted that you were describing the greatest tragedy my mind could imagine.
But the woods taught me that sometimes pain is a part of the process, that sometimes we must shed parts of ourselves to move on. The woods have taught me that there are much worse things out there than losing your band.
Don’t get me wrong, I was still sad, but being band-less was not the cataclysmic emotion that I had anticipated. It was just like a good TV show going off of air, or a six-month break-up. I was going to be all right. I was going to do my own thing like Thuy-Anh had suggested.
I listened to the rumbling of the passing Polish trucks in the distance as my mind searched for a path towards solo stardom. I had the inspiration, now all I needed was a name. It wouldn’t come right away, but eventually I would settle on something that would really capture my soul, a name that would get Spotify plays any day of the week. I let my mind sizzle with the possibilities.
That’s when I realized that it wasn’t Polish trucks that were rumbling in the distance.
“Robert!”
The sound was faint, deniable even, but the louder it got the more certain I became.
“ROBERT!”
Shit.
“ROBEEEEEERRRT!”
The trees lit up in the blood red glow I had learned to fear. The bobbing lights moved towards me like a speeding train. The chorus of screams was sprinting towards me, their claws held out in front of them like careless children with scissors.
I jumped up from the bed of moss and ran. My feet tore through the mud, each bounce of my step sending a flurry of pain up my right leg, shrubs whizzed past me as I dashed in the general direction of the Goral Inn. Every fiber of my being was focused on me getting away, I was a man with a dream, a dream that could only be realized if every muscle of my body would do whatever it could to get me away. The screaming chorus was drowned out with the adrenalin-laced blood gushing through my veins. My eyes were closed, trying to muster up every ounce of energy out the depth of my soul.
My dumb ass tripped.
I hit the ground like a sack of bricks. My right leg scraped up against a rock and started to ooze. I didn’t realize how bloated it was until I was lying there in the mud. It fizzled out whatever horrible liquid had been gathering in the wound and then descended into complete numbness. There was no way I was getting up.
The bushes and trees etched themselves into detail under the hue of the red glow. Those sun-worshiping beasts sprung at me with their claws burning through the twilight.
“ROOOOBEEEEERRRTTTTT!”
The thought came quick, even with a sort of calming acceptance. I wasn’t going to make it out. I was going to die, or worse, end up as some puppet for an unfathomable star-god. Either way, I would never get to make music again.
But at least I had that one night of being true with Aneta.
But at least I got to share the stage with some talented people.
But at least the Warriors of Perun got to sing once.
I closed my eyes and hoped that whatever was coming would be quick.
It wasn’t. It never came.
I opened my eyes.
The chaos of battle raged on in front of me. Something, some mammoth force was tearing its way through the villagers. In the slowly brightening night it was difficult to figure out what was happening. All I could see was that the creature that leaped at my clawed pursuers was a massive chunk of muscle. And it had horns.
I did my best to crawl away from the melee but I couldn’t spare myself the sound of it. Gurgles and snaps and cracks filled the air as the creature behind me stomped its hooves on the villagers it had knocked down and gored the ones that were standing.
Then another sound cut through the fight.
“MOOOO!”
I looked behind me. It was just a simple glimpse, a momentary acknowledgement of my existence before she tore her horns out of the neck of one of the slick skinned monsters, but I could recognize those lava lamp eyes anywhere.
“Olga!” I yelled, as if I had known the cow my whole life.
She continued her slaughter. There were six of the monsters that had tracked me down in the forest but you wouldn’t know that by the time Olga was done with them. She made what I did to Samko look like a friendly tap on the head.
I stayed and watched as she murdered in the rising sun. Partially because my body was exhausted and I couldn’t pull myself any further through the pinecone covered mud and partially because I couldn’t look away.
The beast was covered in sharp, scratched wounds, both old and new, but she moved with the grace of a bovine ballet dancer. Each crushing stomp was perfectly timed, no slash remained unanswered by her horns. She continued her killing dance until well after the creatures had stopped showing any signs of resistance, or life.
When she was finally done, when the only sounds that could be heard were her pained breathing, she lumbered over to me.
“Thank you for saving my life,” I whispered, hoping that her hooves would steer clear of my skull.
She assured me with a gentle lick and then grabbed me by the scruff of my t-shirt.
Olga helped me get back to the Goral Inn.
Every Tuesday I go over to the Mesiarik University clinic to get my leg drained. I’m in there often enough to know all the receptionists by name.
The doctors say that it’s some sort of a nasty infection that just won’t go away, but I have my doubts. At first I feared that the swelling would spread, that I would wake up one morning with claws tearing their way through my fingers or with a sudden need to scream at the sun. But nothing like that has happened.
Getting those horrible syringes under my skin every Tuesday has become a minor inconvenience. It’s just another price I had to pay in order to find my muses.
After I came back from Slovakia I went back to making music. I’m still making music, in fact. This time around, though, I try to commune with the muses without asking questions that are not meant to be asked. One experience with a forbidden community that almost stole my soul is quite enough for me.
You’ve probably never heard of my new band, but you’ve probably never heard of The Warriors of Perun before listening to my story, so I guess things are just about even. We play our shows and we get along but sometimes, when the three in the morning jams get a bit drunker than they should, I still miss The Warriors.
And as for what happened to the cow? Honestly, I have no idea. She was with me all the way until we got to the Goral Inn but as soon as she saw that I was safe she gave me one last lick and went off on her own path. The last that I saw of Olga she was walking down the break-down lane towards the town of Dolné Kravany, confusing Polish truck drivers.
I’ve been to the village where they worship the sun,
They’ve almost had me, I couldn’t run,
But baby, Olga, it’s gotta be fate,
After tonight, I'll never eat steak,