The Companion

1 EXT. HILLSIDE, NIGHT
A squat, hulking shape is silhouetted by silver moonlight.
MARK (V/O, RECITING)
’Oh spare a thought for those who
dwell, upon the meadow moor and
dell...’


2 EXT. BURIAL MOUND, NIGHT
A rough, stone-clad entrance is cut into the flank of the
mound. The wind whistles through the branches of bare trees.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
’...The wanderer who, shunning
home, traverses empty fields
alone...’


3 INT. BURIAL MOUND, NIGHT
Mark rests his head against his worn canvas pack, sheltering
from the elements. Still a young man, but careworn.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
’...For there beneath the West’ring
sun, the shadows lengthen, growing
one...’
Mark unlaces his boots and arranges his ground mat and
sleeping bag with practiced ease.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
’...The traveler begins to see he
will not want for company.’


4 EXT. HILLSIDE, DAY
Mark emerges from the burial mound, stretches. Squints
against the mid morning sun.
Perplexed, Mark looks at his battered wristwatch before
turning to swiftly and efficiently repack his sleeping
items.
Mark pauses in his actions, turns, listens.
Silence.
There is no birdsong.
He redoubles his efforts to make up for his unaccustomed
lie-in.
Hefting his old pack onto his shoulders, he notices a
standing stone bearing an unusual inscription. Kneels down,
wipes away the dirt with his palm.
Mark struggles with the unfamiliar words.
MARK (ECHOING)
’Caveo singularis viator, questio
Amicus...’
Reaching into his pack, Mark retrieves a dog-eared map and a
stub of pencil. He flips the map, copying the inscription
onto the blank reverse side.
This done, Mark re-shoulders his pack and leaves the mound
behind him.


5 EXT. WOODLAND, DAY
The trunks of great moss-covered oaks loom imperiously
above.
MARK (V/O)
What a glorious morning. With each
passing day I grow more confident
of my convictions; you’d love it
here.
Mark deftly rinses his laundry in a broad, fast-flowing
river.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
The landscape of this great country
has captivated me as it once did
the romantic poets.
Far from the hilltop burial site, the woods are full of
activity; birds clatter and call from the treetops.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
The humdrum of the real world seems
like a million miles away to me
now.
Mark beats his clothes dry against a large, flat rock.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
Perhaps one day you can join me in
this remarkable place. Eternally
yours, Mark.
Gathers some dry firewood from the clearing. He secures this
in a neatly wrapped bundle which he ties to his pack.


6 EXT. COUNTRY ROAD, EVENING
A narrow country road wends its way across a hillside as the
light bleeds from the day.
The interlocking branches of leafless trees form a tunnel
over the road, down which Mark advances, the firewood at his
back providing a staccato accompaniment to his footfalls.
Light floods the road, causing the wiry trees to stand out
in stark relief. Mark turns his head to see a blue hatchback
approaching from behind.
The car begins to slow as if to offer a lift but mark ushers
the driver on with a hand gesture.
Resettling his pack, Mark continues on his way.


7 EXT. COUNTRY ROAD, NIGHT
Night brings a new perspective to the roadside; the absence
of traffic creating an air of hushed expectancy.
Mark’s shadow skitters across the trunks of trees at the
roadside.
Silence save for his sturdy boots against the asphalt and
the rustling of the firewood at his back.
Mark hears another pair of footsteps besides his own.
Turning his head, he peers into the darkness.
No-one.
Mark turns back towards his path and immediately the mirror
footfalls return, walking almost in step with his own.
Anxious now, Mark redoubles his pace.
His pursuer does likewise.
Mark turns abruptly about, hoping to catch the unknown
follower unawares.
A shadow melts into the treeline by the roadside.
Cautiously, Mark makes his way back along the road to where
the figure disappeared.
MARK
Hello?
He approaches the trunk of a large oak, the branches,
stripped of their foliage, reaching down like arthritic
fingers.
MARK
Is anyone there?
Mark rounds the trunk of the tree.
Nothing.
He circles the entire oak, placing his hand against the
trunk and staring up into the branches.
Nothing.
Mark continues on his way down the road, occasionally
glancing over his shoulder.
Silence.


8 EXT. MEADOW, NIGHT
A dark, open meadow, shrouded in mist.
MARK (V/O)
It’s as if a great weight has been
lifted from my shoulders. The
baggage a person accumulates over
the course of an average lifetime
just falls away if you let it.
Mark sits at the entrance to his tent, warming his hands.
Dries his clothes on a small fire.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
I have no-one to answer to but
myself; no questions, no commands,
no expectations.
Mark gets up and extinguishes the fire with a bucket of
rainwater, smoke and steam rising up into the still, silent
night.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
This could be just what we need.
Catharsis. A fresh start. Always,
Mark.
The clearing is now completely dark. Mark unzips his tent
before settling down to sleep.


9 INT. TENT, NIGHT
A cryptlike stillness permeates Mark’s tent, punctuated only
by his shallow breathing.
Mark is lain on his left side, facing the canvas wall of his
tent.
The silence of the night is broken by a dry, rasping breath
which joins Mark’s own, rousing him from sleep.
Mark turns over.
A figure, swaddled in an ancient filthy canvas shroud,
spread out beside him.
The breath catches in his throat.
Scrambling for his lighter; the small, flickering flame
casts dancing shadows.
Nothing; only the gaping entrance to the tent flapping in
the wind.
Mark sits rigid, lighter in hand, panting in shock until the
heat of the flame on his thumb causes him to extinguish the
light.


10 EXT. MEADOW, DAWN
Mark jerks with first light, his shock from the night before
writ large across his tired features and underlined by his
harried movements.
MARK (V/O)
I dreamt of you last night; I
dreamt I was falling and you caught
me. When I woke up I thought
that... it’s strange.
The meadow glows wetly in the thin light of early morning as
Mark crams his sleeping bag into its pouch without his
customary care and diligence, desperate to distance himself
from the events of the night before.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
I must be getting confused. Perhaps
it’s time I... I think I need to
see you. As ever, Mark.
Mark begins walking with reckless pace, occasionally
catching his feet in divots and roots.


11 EXT. RESERVOIR, DAY
Mark treks along a reservoir skirted by dense pine trees,
his reflection dancing across the surface of the still,
ebony water.


12 EXT. COUNTRY ROAD, DUSK
Mark wearily makes his way along a winding country road. No
cars disturb the silence, only the birds calling in the
trees as evening draws in.
Pausing for a moment, Mark reaches into his pack to retrieve
his tattered, faded map.
Mark holds the map up to the setting sun, the light turning
the paper translucent.
Silhouetted on the blank rear portion of the map, where he
had made note of the inscription from the burial mound, a
single phrase is repeated again and again, the words pressed
deep into the thick paper as if scrawled with great force.


Accersitus Sequor
Accersitus Sequor
Accersitus Sequor
Accersitus Sequor


Mark catches his breath in horror and instinctively casts
the desecrated map away from him.
Taking a moment to compose himself, Mark kneels down and
sets light to the flimsy document, which burns quickly by
the roadside. Flaming scraps drift skywards as the map is
consumed.
Regaining his feet, Mark glances to his right.
A wiry, featureless figure silhouetted against the darkening
sky.
The colour drains from his face and the breath catches in
his throat.
Realises the motionless creature is nothing more than an old
weather-beaten scarecrow.
Mark continues on his way, feeling hunted.


13 EXT. WOODLAND, NIGHT
Mark is setting up his camp in a natural woodland clearing,
the forest closing in around him.
It is full dark as Mark unsteadily raises his tent. He does
so by moonlight, exhausted and visibly shaking.
Mark’s imagination begins to run away with him, causing him
to whip his head around at the sound of rustling
undergrowth.
He rises, peering into a dense and shadowy thicket.
Nothing.
Finally, the camp set for the night, Mark climbs inside his
tent and prepares for a fitful slumber.


14 INT. TENT, NIGHT
Inside the tent, Mark is sleeping lightly. Condensation
beads against the walls of the tent as he gently respires.
The woods are silent, so the sound of stealthy footfalls
brings Mark awake with a jolt.
Mark holds his breath, leaning back on his elbows and
staring into the darkness at the foot of his tent.
The footsteps approach from behind, accompanied by ragged
breaths.
Mark flicks his lighter on just as a hand gently brushes the
canvas of his tent, causing him to utter a strangled moan.
The footsteps move around to the front of the tent and the
zip begins to incrementally make its way to the top.
MARK
Leave me alone!
As Mark shouts into the void, the flame of his lighter
extinguishes, leaving the tent in total darkness. At that
moment, the zip reaches the top, leaving the flap completely
open.
Mark lies there propped on his elbows, awaiting a
confrontation that never arrives.


15 EXT. STREET, EVENING
Mark stares blankly ahead, a haunted look in his eyes.
MARK (V/O)
Have you ever caught sight of your
reflection in a pool of water, or a
shop window perhaps, and failed to
recognise yourself?
His hair is bedraggled and unwashed, his face unshaven.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
If only for a moment, like a
fleeting glimpse of a
half-forgotten acquaintance before
habit and memory pulls you back
into your body.
He is sat on his sleeping bag, propped against a shop front.
His travel-worn tin mug is at his feet, a small amount of
change at the bottom.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
I’ve written these words before; I
know not where.
The feet of dozens of heedless shoppers march past as Mark
stares idly and sightlessly at the passing throng, his mind
forever elsewhere.
MARK (V/O, RECITING)
I’ve written these words before; I
know not where. ‘Beware Lonely
Traveller, Seeking Friend.’ Forever
yours, Mark.