The Quite Possibly Near Death of Hurol Davelrish: Part Three in the Narrative of John of Origin

By Ian Kraft

This is part three of the narrative of John of Origin.
When an arrogant stuntman, Hurol Davelrish, has a seizure during of one of his stunts, he finds himself in the kingdom of Scalter, a land in which he is king, but strangely, the land is ruled by a phantasmic man named Viscount Vaunt. Hurol meets a strangely kind man, Grib, in the malevolent world inside his mind who helps him find himself, helps him discover the true nature of his self, helps him remember how much he enjoyed life when he wasn't solely focused on being the best, helps him overcome his pride and defeat the Viscount.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Kraft
• Release date: Jan 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458056481

Ian Kraft

I am a grad student at George Mason University. During my last few years of college, I began writing a great number of full-length novels. The stories are heavily, although tacitly, influenced by my experiences having a brain tumor 8-1/2 years ago. Surreality, word play, use of multiple languages and an overall sense of that which cannot be dominate my stories. I'm more than friendly, so please, if you have the time, friend me on Facebook with a message that you found me through Smashwords! I'd love to hear from anyone and everyone!

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The Quite Possibly Near Death of Hurol Davelrish

Ian Kraft

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Ian Kraft

All of his life, he was falling. But into or onto what, he never had any idea until he was lead deeper into the chamber of light.

Hurol, I shouted, My name is Hurol, pronounced like the words ‘you’re all’ with an ‘h’ in front.

And Davelrish? Hurol Davelrish?

Yes! I replied, shouting over the sound of the rushing air.

Is that foreign? Are you from the Middle East or something?

No, I answered, somewhat angered by the assumption, I was born in Virginia.

Then where’d you get a name like that? he shouted, perhaps trying to cut the tension that was building in anticipation of what was ahead.

I think it was one of my grandparents, I yelled in response.

We’re at about 13,000 feet, he shouted back to me, dropping the subject as he looked to one of the gauges in front of him, You better get ready.

I watched as his cell phone flashed, the screen of the small, light gray device turning green, and knew it was time. Making my way to the door, I unlocked it and slid it open. I looked out to the world beyond, studied the clouds, smelled the air as it whipped across my face, and without turning back, jumped.

I fell from the plane like a current suddenly plunged downwards as it reached a waterfall. A joyful sense of freedom took me over, filled me, and I let myself bask in the sunlight that I was falling away from. But remembering my task, I turned my attention back to the real matter at hand, my feat. I was a stuntman, performing what one might call moronic acts of idiocy, doing things that probably didn’t really need to be done. And yet I did them because I wanted to fascinate people, wanted them to recognize me, to idolize me as one who could muster the courage to do things that they had never dreamed of. I was descending, plummeting towards the Earth below, headed towards the volcano of which I was going to land on the lip, the edge of the hole that led into its fiery belly. It was an active volcano that sat on the outskirts of the Hawaiian Islands and as I descended below the clouds, I heard screams of fearful joy ring out from the landing zone below, the cries of my team. The island sat below me like a golden-framed portrait outlined by the yellow beach. Towards the center of the small, oblong stretch of land, was a vast green jungle defined by thick, emerald trees and in the midst of all this vegetation stood an enormous volcano, a mountainous landform defined by the wide, circular gap that represented all that was visible from my perspective.

Even though I was sure that no one below could see me, I reached out an arm, giving an arrogant thumb’s up to my team below. The air grew more intense as I fell, began to beat my face backwards. The rippling sound of the passing expanse beat through my ears like a whipping drum roll and suddenly, I could hear nothing. I began to swirl back, remember the fear that had once consumed me, recall the pain of not knowing what crashing was like, an injury that I still did not wish to understand. As I drew closer to the ground, I deployed my parachute, being buoyed upwards in a sudden rush of support as the enormous, blue chute spread out and caught the wind, holding me in midair for a second. I began to veer away from the volcano, carried by a fear of falling in, of winding up a meal for the devil that lurked inside of it.

My body continued to plunge earthward. I screamed several profanities to the sky, frustrated at having failed the practice run, and searched for a place to land. The shores of the beach on the island below shimmered like golden coasts of perfection below me, the sand radiating a brilliant yellow light as they were intermittently splashed with waves and I decided to land there. The sky before me was a cobalt blue firmament that almost appeared to be a crystalline wall reflecting the sun’s light in a broken pattern. My eyes felt as though the light was fleeing from them, flitting out like dying bulbs, and I continued to panic, trying only to focus on the task of getting myself to the beach to land.

A bird then flew by me, winging under the cover of the parachute, right by my side. I could distinguish what it looked like out of the corner of my eye other than to say that it was either dark blue or black. It held its wings out on either side of itself in an effortless glide as it moved through the air, its small, dark legs somewhat tucked up under its body as its dark tail feathers extended behind it like a plumed memory. It tweeted and as the high-pitched squeak reached my ears, I was sure that I had heard the word Weak! Again, it chirped out another sound reminiscent of this word, Weak!

I turned my head, yelled at the small, dark bird in a wordless shout, watched it fly away, and turned my focus back to the landing that was before me. But as I tried, I found that I couldn’t; my mind was still locked in a fearful bind that seemed to have no source. I felt myself continually fall in and out of consciousness, fall in and out of love with the world around me as it sped by, and in one of these slips from reality, I heard two words The Breshturl.

Pulling my head back up, determined not to lose consciousness, I tried to stabilize my thoughts, tried to convince myself that this was not the end of the world, that everything would go just fine on the day of the actual stunt. My efforts brought me minimal peace of mind.

My feet collided against the soft beach sand as I ran forward, trying to keep my balance and prevent my mind from drifting back to that paralytic purgatory that it had temporarily entered. The parachute landed behind me in a hefty pile of zero-porosity nylon. I slowed my pace as I continued forward and once safely on the ground, I began to feel the extent of my failure. What happened?! called out an angry voice from behind me.

Turning, I saw Dave, my manager, come storming at me in an angry pace.

I don’t know, I responded, Vertigo, I guess.

What’s are you talking about – you’re Hurol Davelrish, the world’s greatest stuntman; you don’t get vertigo, you get a rush; you’re bold; you face death down. Hurol Davelrish isn’t supposed to be afraid of anything; just what I am supposed to say when I introduce you before your jump? That you’re tentatively afraid of death? Naw, that doesn’t cut it for me.

It’ll be fine, I shot back, angry, but utterly unsure of what I was saying.

That’s what they said before they put the Hindenberg up.

Droomdungles, I whispered, walking away.

Don’t walk away from this, Hurol; we’ve got to deal with this!

And what would you have me do? I said, turning around in a frustrated fury, Put on a mask and pretend that this all makes sense to me?

What does that even mean?

It means that no one ever saw anything but what they wanted to believe they saw.

And does that make them wrong?

Perhaps about me, I whispered as I turned away, quietly enough that he couldn’t hear me. It’ll be fine, I reassured him with a yell as I continued away, It’ll be fine.

No, I won’t take that! Dave yelled running forward and grabbing my shoulder, What’s up with you Hurol?

Maybe I’m much more divided than anyone thinks and all of those parts are in conflict.

Pushing his hand off of my shoulder, I continued away. He didn’t say another word to me and in my mind, I went on cursing him.

Chapter 2

I returned home that night by myself, frustrated. I wanted to believe that my anger was directed more at Dave than my failure, but had trouble convincing myself of it. In my mind, I turned over his words again and again, cursing him for his outrage. The walls of my apartment were decorated with framed reminders of my past successes, images of Hurol the Davelrish, the name that Dave had bestowed on me as a stage name. But honestly, I preferred not to be separated like that, was perhaps afraid of such an implication. For in the language that I had invented, the language of Slat Cab, Hurol Davelrish meant ‘daring leader.’

My eyes were drawn to one image in particular, a framed photo of a red hot air balloon, a rope extending from the basket. At the end of the rope was the shape of a person holding on for dear life – that person was me. It had been my first daring feat, I had ridden across the state of Montana, holding onto a rope hanging from a hot air balloon. I had clung to that line for nearly 500 miles as the balloon drifted across the state, 1,250 feet above the earth. At that altitude, for that long, fear becomes a display, a demonstration, a show. That image once more filled me with the terror that had inspired me during that long drift. It was the recollection of fearing that the termination of me was just an unraveling of the hands away.

Next to it was a hook from which hung numerous medals that I had been given over the years for various feats that I had performed. But they all seemed to be vacant stares, emotionless pendants that only spoke to my ability to fold fear and tuck it away. I looked at them more intently, a pile of golden, silver, and bronze medallions hanging from red, white and blue neckbands. They shined with a dead luster, perhaps because no one really knows a man who has to put on such a show; or perhaps it is that they have no desire to know him. I turned away from the sight.

I began to make my way towards my bedroom, knowing that I was alone. A desperate cling to the thought of my loneliness reminded me what I wanted.

As I entered my small bedroom, the walls paned in vertical, dark wooden panels, I moved towards my bed, only removing my shoes and not bothering to change. Filled with a heavy listlessness, I let my body fall towards the bed. But as I did, that same feeling, that same terror, that same vertigo filled me on my way down. My descent towards the mattress in front of me became an endless journey in which I didn’t seem capable of reaching stability. The world before me seemed to be tearing, reality shredding like a tapestry being ripped in half. Again, I heard that word, Breshturl, and suddenly, I landed on a cold, hard, wet ground.

Chapter 3

The air that now surrounded me was humid, filled with a clear, thick, smoke-like vapor that wafted across my face and stuck to me like a viscid paste. I rose, pushing myself up off of the unforgiving ground, seeing the tall grass that now encompassed me. I was amidst a random collection of trees that were assembled in a haphazard configuration in a thick, emerald forest. The dark wood of the trees seemed to amplify the steel sky and the vaporous rasp that lingered on the air combated the sweet, nectarous aroma that filled the mist. My trembling body rose, lifted itself to its feet, and I began to survey my surroundings, still utterly baffled by what had just happened. I began to walk forward, make my way towards the forest that extended out around me in all directions, keeping my eyes focused, alert.

I made my way between two thickly trunked aspen trees that seemed to defy their design and I heard a sudden thunderous roar, a monstrous cry that rose like the blasting trumpet call of an elephant with an added vicious, toothed bite to the sound of its outcry. I turned, looking for the source of the noise amidst the tree trunks, but saw nothing but the mist. My eyes were still wild with fear, in disbelief and with the desire for this to suddenly make sense.

I wandered on through the haze, stepping lightly on the muddy ground in hopes of remaining unseen to unseen by whatever beast was lurking nearby, whatever creature had released that vicious roar. The fog only permitted me to see but a few feet in front of me, the sweet aroma that filled it becoming a taunting fragrance that seemed to be trying to deceive my understanding of what was truly happening. My feet continued across the hard, unforgiving ground as I watched for footing that would accommodate my bare feet.

The world around me began to grow darker as I moved and looking up, I saw that the sky in front of me appeared obscured by a great, gray blockade that sat behind all of the trees of the forest while the sky behind me still appeared to be light through the fog. I carried on, pushed ahead, still trembling, still terrified.

At long last, I drew close to the sight of the gray blockade, an enormous stone wall to which the mist clung like an infant to its mother. My gaze was drawn downward, searching for a cave entrance, but all that I seemed capable of finding was a colossal pile of damp, gray boulders that reflected the bleak light of the sun above in a glassy shimmer. With a tremulous pace, I made my way forward, reaching my arm out towards the gigantic stones as I neared them to rest my weight against them for a second. The wet boulder was slippery like amphibious skin. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I tried to stop my panicking heart, tried to convince myself of something to make the moment less fearful, but couldn’t find a suitable lie.

Out of the mist, the monstrous call rose up again, trumpeting its vicious blast out once more. Rapid, thundering paces became audible, nearing me in a galumphing beat; my chest began to tighten; I perceived my vision becoming sharp, tightened, alert. Pressing my back against the rocks, I kept a watch on the forest ahead of me, able to only vaguely distinguish the expanse of land between the forest and the pile of boulders. A thin tree near the tree line began to shake and a moment later, the monstrous cry rose up again Pfeeoww!!!

The form of a monstrous beast split the tree line like the sudden blast of a cannon, roaring once more as it shot forward in a brutal, untamed charge. The monster looked like a tailless rhino with forward-facing, lemur eyes and the paws of a tiger. Its entire body was covered in a sleek, eel-like black skin that amplified its yellow eyes like two full moons amidst the night sky. The horn that extended up from the end of its nose had two points, one curved forward like a bent hook and the other extending straight upwards. Its shoulders rose up into the air like mountainous formations, on top of which sat a strangely humanoid figure. The dark form was thin, his limbs gangly like those of a giraffe, and his body wrapped in a dark cape. His face was pallid, white in a vampiric glow. Yet in spite of his eerie features, there was something familiar about him, something hauntingly recognizable, like the smell of winter on the air, cold and fear-inspiring.

Welcome to an inundation, the dark figure shouted, The flood is beginning.

Who are you? I cried out questioningly.

Viscount Vaunt, king of the suboreal, a hunter of the highest rank, and you have long been my prey, Hurol Davelrish.

I looked into the eyes of the dark figure, saw them glow with a crimson malice that appeared to be teetering, preparing to burst forward at me in a remorseless strike. The black beast suddenly broke into a charge, storming towards me as if it was a jagged black boulder rolling downhill, gaining speed and baring its pitiless, snarling yellowed teeth.

It neared in rapid succession and I was struck by the sensation that my heart had stopped – I could feel nothing, hear nothing, only see the beast charging at me in a timeless rush. I screamed, but was unable to distinguish whether I had produced sound. The blue and gray light that filtered through the bleak air struck my skin and I suddenly became aware of myself being moved. I watched powerlessly as my face hit a rock as I was moved. Turning my head, I found a powerful figure, a man with a short, well-kempt goatee. He was carrying me, lifting me up onto the pile of rocks. The man continued to move, me carried under his arm, making his way towards the top of the enormous pile of boulders.

I tried to look back, tried to see if the black beast was still coming, but couldn’t move enough to get myself in the right position. The man began to descend into a tunnel that led down at an angle from the top of the boulder pile. The passageway was graced by a soft marigold light that shone in from some unseen opening. The man continued down the incline until we came to a point at which the ground leveled off into a flat stretch of stone underpass. He set me down. As my body came to rest on the stone floor, I suddenly began to feel again, a rush of cold wetness from the water on the ground striking my body in a biting realization that I wasn’t dead.

My