Chapter 1
Leif
Stopping on the top of the hill, I let my eyes wander over the beautiful landscape that lay before me. Rugged heath and marsh stretched as far as the eye could see.
Here and there, the sun reflected from the pristine blue sky in the depths of hidden waterholes, indicating that this land wasn't as peaceful and harmless as it seemed at first glance.
Still, the flowers growing in a delicate purple, accented here and there by darker purples, reds, or yellows, gave this moorland a serene and calm presence that touched my restless spirit.
So far, the sabbatical I had taken from my hectic life hadn't helped me find what I was looking for, and I was beginning to doubt that I ever would.
Karma was a bitch and smacked you in the face.
In my case, not in the next life, but in this one.
I put down the heavy backpack, which I had named "Beast" because it was the beast of burden, and stretched out my back, closing my eyes and letting my mind travel back to the day that had made the change.
Yes, it had been dramatic, dramatic to the point of soap opera cliché, and yet it had happened, and I would never live it down.
Was walking across Europe a punishment of choice? As friends and family, including my ex-fiancée, had called it?
Sure it was, but it was also something that brought me back to the basics I had never known.
Born into money, I never lacked for anything, except a caring mother and a father who cared about something other than business. Even as a young boy, I knew I was only there because my parents expected me to produce an heir.
I was that heir.
Oh, I never lacked anything, not physically. I had more than enough to eat, to play with, to dress, and the best education money could buy. In school and out.
Yet I never felt satisfied.
When I was young, I had learned to throw tantrums to get whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. I had become a real asshole kid.
But even though my view of my past was different now, I still blamed my parents.
If they had shown love and affection to their child, their only son, as they should have, I would never have become the ruthless asshole I was until that day.
That day had changed everything and awakened me from my self-created and imprinted nightmare.
Wincing, I closed my eyes tightly, as if that would make the memory go away.
My hands clenched into fists, and I became still, my body stiffening as I felt the ice-cold hand clasping my heart while my stomach burned with acid.
Here in the middle of nowhere, I allowed myself to whimper and fell to my knees, my hands touching the ground beneath me for stability.
I pulled my head to my chest and took a deep breath like the doctor had taught me to fight the fear.
No one knew. No one would have understood.
Something happens?
You get up, dust yourself off, and go on as before. That was the credo in my world.
And not just mine.
I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life like that.
I thought I could stay the asshole I had become, but that wasn’t who I was anymore.
My hands dug into the ground, clawing at it, increasing the effect the untouched nature had on me.
I closed my eyes and began to breathe as deeply as I could, the fear tightening in my chest like a ton of bricks on top of me.
But eventually I felt the effect wear off and began to breathe more regularly and normally.
A sound and a sudden movement made me jerk up and fall backwards onto my butt, and I could have sworn I saw something huge flying away.
Really huge, and I blinked.
There were no bears or wolves in Scotland; the first had disappeared a good 1000 years ago, and the last wolf had been killed around 1750, and we were in the twenty-first century.
So I shook my head, fighting the sudden fear with logic, while my eyes remained glued to the spot where I could have sworn I’d seen something.
Or had I not?
Running my now dirty hands over my face, I grimaced as I realized I had just covered my face with the camouflage of heavy earth.
Picking myself up, I brushed my hands down my cargo pants, which had not been clean for a long time, and reached for my backpack, shouldering it with practiced ease, though it was huge and heavy.
It has contained my life for the last 300 days.
And it showed me that there are far more important things than designer clothes, jewelry, and who knows who. I was reduced to the simple things.
Granted, they were the best money could buy, but still. Two complete sets of clothes and warm socks, which were absolutely essential; nothing is worse than cold, wet feet. Good boots, a decent jacket, a small tent and a wonderful sleeping bag, an air mattress, and some smaller items like a firestone and steel to make sparks, a sharp knife, a first aid kit, and a kettle set.
You learn to go back to basics and maintain a minimum level of hygiene. But I didn’t give up on two things: paper and some disinfectant.
Very important, both.
When you were hanging out in areas where you didn’t see a soul for days, you had to be able to keep scratches clean and take care of small injuries yourself.
The paper explained itself.
I settled into the shoulder straps of my backpack and looked across the swamp and up into the sky before cursing softly.
My plan had been to cross the swamp during the day, taking as much time as I needed. Now the damn panic attack had sucked up a lot of daylight, as a glance at my expensive watch told me. It was the only thing I had left from my old life.
Just because it was practical, I kept telling myself.
It had a compass, was shatterproof and waterproof, didn’t need batteries, and didn’t look expensive.
Oh well, either waste the remaining daylight or take long strides across the swamp.
Right on!
I started with firm steps, still trying to avoid puddles and deeper water holes; the thought of falling into a mud hole was not a pleasant one.
I stopped every once in a while to check my compass and the surroundings, and I realized that I had completely underestimated the size of the swamp. It was getting dark, and I was still in the middle of it. Without the compass, I knew I would be walking in circles.
The smell coming from the mud was intoxicating, but I kept going.
What else was there to do, right?
Muttering to myself what an idiot I was, I yelled, “FUCK!” as my left leg went into a pot of mud and I fell to the side. Cursing like a madman, angry at myself, I pulled myself out of the mud I had sunk into and changed tactics, trying to find a dry spot to set up camp.
Continuing would be idiotic.
I mean, literally.
“Dry land, come on,” I muttered, turning around once and sighing with relief when I spotted a small hill. Hill means dry, right? Well, as dry as it gets around here.
Making sure I didn’t walk into the next hole, I reached the small hill, which rose maybe a meter above the swampy ground, and I was grateful for its solid and dry structure.
It wasn’t big enough for the tent and a fire, so I chose the fire to heat some soup, as it didn’t look like rain.
Having said that, I grabbed everything I needed from the “beast” while it was still light enough and made sure my fire didn’t set fire to the dry undergrowth by removing it entirely for a clean patch of black earth.
Soon I was set up, and by now it had gone completely dark around me. I felt like the last survivor of an apocalypse.
It was easy to understand how people out here in the middle of nowhere, with no internet and definitely no telephone poles, were completely oblivious to the rest of the world.
Sighing contentedly, I sipped my soup and enjoyed the peace of mind.
When I woke up, it must have been around noon, and I felt thirsty.
Lying on the hill, my backpack behind me, the extinguished fire in front of me, half wrapped in my sleeping bag, alone as I was the day before, I sat up, slightly dizzy, and my hand went to my head, where I felt a huge bump.
“Wow,” I mumbled, feeling the size of the bump and looking around in confusion.
“Just where and how...” Out of habit, I reached for the knife I’d learned to sleep with nearby and found it wasn’t there. The sheath on my belt was empty, and I was even more confused.
Freeing myself from the sleeping bag that was wrapped around me, instead of me being in it, I discovered that I was dirty, stank like hell, and the sleeve of my shirt was torn off.
Frowning, I reached again for the lump on the side of my head. In New York or L.A., I would have said this was a good party. No, my old self would have said it was a good party.
My new self didn’t drink much anymore, had sworn off all drugs, and even avoided all kinds of places where the two were combined, like nightclubs and parties of so-called influencers and other trendy people.
So what the hell had happened?
I remembered setting up camp after landing knee-deep in a puddle of mud and grimaced at the memory of that disgusting feeling.
But where was my knife?
Where did that bump come from?
The torn, dirty clothes, the fact that I wasn’t in the sleeping bag but had it wrapped around me?
Shaking my head, I winced and reached for the bump again.
Obviously, I had fallen and hit my head, but if I had done that before I had set up camp properly, how had I gotten into the sleeping bag?
“Oh, what the hell.”
I muttered angrily and started packing. I had to get out of these swamps.
I needed a bath, a place to mend my clothes, and maybe get a new... Oh, there was my knife, right next to a puddle.
Woah, no, not a puddle. I was wary; something about the black surface of the water sent shudders down my spine, and not the good kind of shudders.
I moved cautiously toward the visible water, only just avoiding sinking in, proving once again how stupid I was to try to make it across the swamp in a few hours.
Arrogance wouldn’t have gotten the better of me for the first time.
More cautiously now, I approached the mirror like water and stopped dead when I saw the disturbed earth around it. Then I looked down at myself, at the area around the water, and felt the color leave my face as I saw huge paw prints and, kneeling carefully, that of a slender human foot.
Suddenly I felt ice-cold, just grabbed the knife, gripped it tightly, and rose cautiously, retreating from the water back to my backpack as the memories of last night came back with a vengeance.
