The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

confirmed by the dense crowd ahead of him. Yet it was a Wednesday in early February. Frank was mystified as to what possible significance such a day in the calendar could have to attract so many pilgrims to this path.

He slowed his walk to an amble and let the pilgrims move on ahead, stopping now and then to appreciate the setting until they had vanished out of sight and sound around the corner. About halfway up the hill, the castle ruins were now barely visible above the trees and seemed further away than ever. He grew impatient and decided to strike out across the fields. The castle stood on French soil, but there was no clear border to announce the fact, unless the thick undergrowth of the woods could be regarded as a boundary. Even in its state of undress, this belt of forest was forbidding enough with its clinging creepers, brambles and bushes to slow him down. And he began to regret his short-cut. He realised too that the path he had taken was not only much slower, but could also be utterly counterproductive, since he might easily miss Achim by coming this way.

He struggled on as fast as the thicket would allow, cursing his impatience and wishing he had found a corner in the restaurant and waited there. But as soon as he reached the ruins and clambered up through the darkness of what must once have been the keep, his impatience instantly vanished. The moment he came out on top of the castle, and the vista opened around him, he felt the heaviness of his heart begin to lift. It was as if the city that held his memories in its oppressive grip had released him for a brief reprieve. To the north-east in the far distance over the hills of the Black Forest hung an ominous scythe of dark cloud. Other than this, the clarity of the air was magical. The view breath-taking. Aside from the distant dark cloud, everything appeared deceptively peaceful. Frank was almost taken in by its idyllic beauty.

He had often wondered what it was that fascinated him about the lofty views of the world offered by so many of history’s building projects. It was a spell that had been cast in early childhood from his very first climb up the steps of Cologne Cathedral during his school holidays, when his mother shipped him north each summer to stay with his aunt. It was an adventure to which he became so addicted that he was soon intimately familiar with the profile of every step. Once at the top, he would happily spend an hour or two transfixed by the miniaturised life displayed below. It all seemed so insignificant. And yet it impressed him deeply. At times he felt such a pull that he was almost compelled to let himself fall into its midst, to plummet headfirst smack into the ground where it traded in its bewitching insignificance.

These castle ruins where he now stood had little to compare with the grandeur of Cologne Cathedral. But the view was still magnificent – and the sense of altitude had the same magical effect, luring him precipitously close to the edge. But on this occasion, when he peered down to the rocks and pathway below, he felt an unaccustomed dizziness surge through his head. Aware of the danger, he quickly stepped back to avoid toppling over. As he stood there holding his head in both hands, his eyes shut tight, the dizziness gave way to a flash of lights and a splitting pain. An ache the like of which he had never experienced in his life before. His skull felt as though it was cracking in two. And from the fissure that seemed to open up in his head, he sensed a peculiar otherness emerge. At that strangest, most alienating moment the headache started to ease, and he sensed this otherness at his side. Only for a brief instant, but very intensely. Just over his shoulder.

Then, all at once, the air was rent by a thunderous roar that had him almost reeling in pain again. A jet airliner soared up in the sky on its take-off path over the Jura hills. It was a BEA plane. With the giveaway T tail of a Trident. The same aircraft he had arrived on. Frank buried his dazed and bewildered head in his hands. What was going on? His mind seemed to be spinning out of control. The sense of otherness had long since evaporated. All he knew was the harrowing roar in his head.

It was some time before he felt able to let his eyes open. The relief to see the landscape around him at peace again, the wooded hills still standing, everything untouched by the thunderous roar, was more immense even than the open sky above him. He took in a vast vital breath of that clean air and stepped over to the edge again to celebrate the release. And there in the distance, on the road leading out beyond the hamlet at the foot of the castle ruins, he saw two people, a man and a woman, each carrying what appeared to be a child in their arms. They were far enough away to enjoy a curious kind of anonymity. Yet despite the distance, Frank’s heart leapt with excitement. Though little more than a speck on the landscape, the man was unmistakably known to him. Even with a child in his arms, that gait – with its incongruous coordination of spring-heeled confidence and hunched introversion – could belong to no one else.

“Achim!” he shouted. “Achim!” Again and again at the top of his voice. But the couple were too far off. They continued on their way, over the open unwatched border, completely oblivious to Frank. Charged with a frustrated sense of elation, he swung round, almost slipping over as he went. His flailing foot dislodged a piece of masonry. But the crack that reverberated around the valley