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Dooley Simple ducked behind a big fir tree and pressed his tall, thin frame against its rough bark, desperately wishing that he could change himself into a tree, like some of the People could. His lungs ached for air, but he was so filled with fear that he had to force himself to breathe, slow and shallow. There was nothing he could do to quiet his pounding heart. A big tear slid down his cheek, joining drops of cold sweat, as his mind desperately spun. What could he do? He was exhausted and terrified. He had been fleeing from his pursuer for several hours now, to no avail.
He couldn't hear it, but he could tell that it was closer than before and steadily becoming ever closer, moving even more silently and swiftly through the forest than he could, straight towards him, something monstrously evil and terrible.
Dooley had laughed when he first sensed it, moving along the forest path behind him, the chaotic evil of it immediately apparent to his Tribe-taught, heightened senses. He thought for sure it was Skunk, old Fenster's bullying nephew, trying once again to catch him and learn Tribe secrets from him, and he looked forward to leading Skunk and his motor-cycle gang of toughs another merry chase through the forest. The prospect of showing up Skunk again amused Dooley. Skunk didn't have a chance. These were his paths and forest.
Dooley's paths wound around town and all the way to the Reservation, running between small patches of remaining forest like a connect-the-dots game. Although most areas had been clear-cut by Fenster's loggers and their predecessors, there were still small mountainous stretches scattered here and there that hadn't been cost effective to log.
Since he was a young boy that is where Dooley spent most of his time. He was as good at making his way undetected through forest as any member of the Tribe; almost as good as one of the People, and using his long gangly legs he could run swiftly for hours.
Initially he was in one of the larger patches of remaining forest when he first sensed that he was being approached. The prospect of Skunk clumsily stalking him here was so hilarious that he fought back a fit of giggles, and couldn't help sporting a gap-toothed grin.
When he quickly realized how strong and swift and truly evil his pursuer was, he knew that it could not be Skunk; it was not even human. Dooley shifted to high gear and tried every trick he knew to get away from it. He left his well-worn trails and changed directions, backtracked, waded streams, climbed over bare rock and fallen trees, and squeezed through tangled bush and thick fern forests that hid him well. As he did this he chanted the few words of Power that he knew, even though he had never successfully used them before.
Nothing he did made any difference. His pursuer could apparently sense him as easily as he sensed it, no matter what he did.
It was also inhumanly fast. Several times it literally ran rings around him, playing with him, driving him this way and that, but eventually moving him ever further from town. It was smart too, Dooley suspected, probably a lot smarter than he was.
After a while Dooley realized that his pursuer was purposely driving him towards Goth Mountain and the Reservation. Well, he would have no more of that; he wouldn't lead this evil thing to his friends, no way! Besides, on foot it would take until tomorrow to get to the Reservation. Did this thing plan to chase him all that way? Could he put up with that?
No, two hours had been enough. In a little stand of old-growth trees Dooley at last stopped running, and stood his ground, and the thing that chased him was now apparently moving in. For the kill, probably.
He had caught a few brief glimpses of it already, a vaguely human shaped black shadow of a thing, moving too fast for a good look, its legs a blur as it took impossibly long strides. It was much too fast to be merely human. By the feel of its aura as well, it wasn't human or animal; nor did it seem to be one of the People. Dooley knew what the auras of all the People that visited Goth Mountain felt like; usually like nothing much, or if they did have much of a feel about them it was usually good, like the call of a songbird, the warmth of the Sun, or the smell of Spring flowers.
Evil involved hateful discordance with other life, without a glimmer of joy, longing, or wonder. But even quite evil people like Skunk and Skunk’s uncle felt only vaguely repugnant, simply from having unsettled thoughts. The thing that now chased him felt very different, like a cold blackness that was less than nothing at times, at other times it reeked foul like the putrid stench of death, but a hundred times worse than any rabid or dead beast that young Dooley had ever encountered.
Two Bears had warned him once about evil things of power, things that fed on the flesh and spirits of others, things that sometimes could disguise themselves as normal people or animals. This had to be one of them, Dooley instinctively knew, an enemy of life in general and perhaps the Tribe and the People in particular. Certainly it was no friend to Dooley Simple.
As he stood terrified with his back against a tree, feeling the evil thing coming for him, he forced himself to remember the lessons of Two Bears. Thinking about something else helped him to begin to forget his fear, and let him recall what he had learned more clearly. "The forest has strength to ward against evil, if you become part of it," Great Two Bears had explained. Could Dooley do such a thing? Could he become a part of the forest? Two Bears said that he could. Many years ago Two Bears had even chosen Dooley’s Tribal name to be ‘Tree Talker’ after the youngster caused faces to appear in the bark of trees along the Goth driveway. Dooley had to try; not only to save himself but to protect his friends on Goth Mountain.
"I am One with the tree," Dooley whispered. "I am One with the forest." A strange calmness came over him. He had tried this sort of thing before, but hadn't been able to manage the concentration required; thoughts of raspberry pie or going fishing would always intercede. Now all thoughts of simple pleasures and other trivia had been driven from him, fear stripping him of all but his essence.
As Two Bears had shown him, he closed his eyes and felt the tree at his back, felt it with his inner self, and slowly he understood, more clearly than he ever had before, how things in the forest all fit together. "I am One with the tree." Trunk and branches reaching skyward, green needles breathing air and drinking in the power of the Sun and wind caressing bark; sap slowly flowing, roots reaching deep into the rich, living Earth, drawing in nourishment.
"I am One with the forest." He felt roots linking the tree to the Earth Powers. Fresh new strength made in the tree fed back to the soil, adding strength to the ageless forest; strength feeding strength, linking current time with all eternity, and life with life beyond life.
His senses enlarged and altered along with his notion of self. He felt and mingled with the Powers of Earth, forest, and air, heard their countless voices … laughing, singing, weeping, whispering; voices without sound, meaning without words. He couldn't understand them much, but he joined with them anyway. Intellectual understanding didn't seem to be necessary for joining.
"I am One with the forest," he thought, over and over, but being it now instead of just thinking it. As part of himself he could feel the wind and the sun and the Earth, feel strength flowing, but he could no longer sense the evil thing that had worried him, or remember it, or even himself. Conscious thought gave way to the essence of being part of the tree and forest. He had become nameless, ageless.
Time was without the swift measure of a human beating heart, it ebbed along with the slow swaying of treetop branches, with periods of sun and cloud induced shade, and with the slow movement of sap. Gradually as the sun began to set and the tidal flow of tree energies waned, the many linked forest voices faded, and Dooley's linkage to the tree and forest weakened. His inner self returned from where it had spread itself among the others of the forest. In the failing light of sunset Dooley woke up sitting with his back against the tree, feeling chilled but rested and strengthened.
The stalking terror creature had disappeared; there was no sign of the evil pursuer. Had Dooley dozed off and simply dreamed it all? He didn't know. He felt confused, as thoug
h he had awoken from a dream. Two dreams perhaps, a nightmare first, followed by a wonderful dream. Anxious due to memories of the nightmare but elated due to his successful joining with the forest, he rushed towards home, at first determined to be out most of the way home before total darkness, but he slowed his pace when he realized that the Moon was already nearly full.
He had been dreaming, and gotten a little confused, that was all, he told himself, after a while. He was all right now. He was safe here in his own woods, on his own well-worn path. Calmness returned again as he steadily worked his way towards home.
An hour after dusk he entered the town of Lathem through backyards and alleyways, skirting away from lampposts, traffic, and most human voices. Thin as a rail but nearly two meters tall, with tangled, shoulder length hair, full beard, and ragged clothes, he should have been hard to miss, but few people noticed him moving quietly among the shadows. Most who did barely noted his passage; he was a familiar fixture: poor, dumb, crazy, but harmless Dooley, out on one of his walkabouts again.
With selected people he made sure that he exchanged warm greetings. Poor in terms of money, yes, not very intelligent perhaps, crazy maybe, but Dooley Simple was the best-loved young man in Lathem, for when he wasn't busy in the forest, nobody was more warm and giving.
Can't find a baby sitter? Get Dooley. Can't get to the drugstore to fill your prescription? Dooley would do it. Lost pet? Dooley would find them. Need someone to fill in at the counter? Dooley was your man. Sick or injured or depressed? Don't even bother to look for Dooley, for somehow he knew already and would soon be on your doorstep, asking to help, and asking nothing in return except friendship.
"That wouldn't be right," he always said, when offered something material in return for his troubles. "T’weren't work, t’were helping out a friend."
But his endearing, growing circle of friends still found ways to in part pay Dooley back. "I got me some extra burgers here today, you happen to be hungry?" they'd ask him, or, "I was figuring to throw out some clothes that might be about your size; you'd be doing me a big favor if you could take them off my hands." He often found bags of canned goods and other supplies outside his apartment door.
Usually giving gifts to Dooley would backfire, since he passed on most of what was intended for him to other folks in town that were also in need. "I don't need much for myself," he'd explain. However, many townspeople found that Dooley did have a special weakness for fresh berry pie. "I better eat this here pie before the flies get at it," he’d say, as he consumed piece after piece.
Dooley was almost as famous for his practical jokes as he was for his generosity. Particularly if someone was pompous or bullying or selfish, they’d suffer from tied together shoe-laces, shampoo that dyed hair an odd color, shopping carts that moved to the other side of the store while not being watched, or socks with the toes cut out of them. None of it was too terribly mean, but it was enough to get the attention of the victim and make them think about mending their ways. And sometimes they did.
When he wasn't roughing it in the forest, Dooley lived in a tiny apartment over his Pop's old curiosity shop, but he didn't have much to do with the business. Old Mrs. Milligan kept the shop open for a few hours each afternoon, barely making enough to pay herself, the taxes and the utilities for the shop and the over-shop apartment.
Pop himself was almost always on the road, pursuing one outlandish scheme or another somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, usually someplace other than Lathem. Once in a great while he'd land a real job, but somehow he was never able to keep it for very long. Next to his bed, wrapped in a big rubber band, Dooley kept a tall stack of postcards that Pop had sent to him over the months and years, telling him where he was and what he was doing. When he was lonely and missed Pop, Dooley would get them out and read them, stumbling over the harder words, but usually getting at the gist of things well enough.
"I'm too much ahead of them all," his father would explain to Dooley when he was home. "It would be a waste of my talents to do menial work of course, my real calling is the use of my intellect." Smiling, he'd pull the worn copy of his PhD diploma from his wallet and show it again to Dooley. "See son? Doctor Fred R. Simple, PhD in Ancient Studies. By rights I should be a full professor at a big university by now."
Indeed, he preferred being called 'Professor' by everyone, or simply ‘Doc’. At this point his Pop's smile would always be replaced by a wistful look. "At all the colleges and universities, they only want folks that march to the same old music. Because I'm such an independent thinker, I don't fit in. Sort of like you and high school, Son. I'll make my mark soon though, work some things out that nobody else ever even dreamed of, maybe even finish another book. They'll change their tune then, Son, and we'll have money to live together like normal folks."
"Sure, Pop," agreed Dooley, not understanding much except his undying faith in his beloved father. Though he hadn't finished the eighth grade himself, he knew that his father was especially smart, maybe even the smartest man there ever was. And he was doing important things, wondrous things that ordinary folks couldn't begin to understand and were far beyond his own meager abilities to comprehend. Someday soon however, everyone else would also understand what a true hero his Pop was.
"Tell me again about our house." Dooley's eyes would sparkle, as for the hundredth time, Fred would describe the house they would live in together someday, “an old farm house near or in the forest, with lots of rooms and plenty of food.”
"I'll have a garden outside and my own room too?"
"Of course Son, and rooms for your rock collection and bird eggs and all the other things that are special to you, just like I'll have rooms full of books and specimens from my own important projects."
"And lots of fruit pie? Including berry pie?"
"Of course, all the pie you want; huckleberry, boysenberry, elderberry, and blueberry, and blackberry and raspberry too. And chocolate ice cream, as much as you want."
"And Mom?" Dooley would sometimes ask.
Fred would force himself to keep smiling. "She's gone ahead of us to heaven, you know."
"I know. But we'll see her again?"
"Sure; someday of course, and we'll all be together again."
"I miss her, Pop."
"Me too Son, me too. But we still have each other for now."
In truth though, as the years passed they had spent less and less time with each other. Dooley had long been self-sufficient, and with the shop essentially on autopilot through Mrs. Milligan, Professor Simple was almost always on the road, occasionally doing some free-lance research for a few of his old friends in academia, but more often pursuing rumors of an elusive Big Foot or mischievous Leprechauns or reptilian lake-monsters, and cooking or washing dishes at diners for minimum wage and leftovers in-between his adventures. He seldom contributed materially to upkeep of the shop or his son, but at least he never asked anything material of them.
As Dooley approached the shop he saw that some of the lights were on inside. It was much too late for Mrs. Milligan to still be there. It could be only one person. "Pop!" he said, breaking into a wide grin and trotting with his long legs the last fifty yards to the shop. Sure enough, Pop’s old Chevy was in the driveway, and as Dooley pushed through the shop door, he discovered his plump little rosy-cheeked father sitting in his rocking chair near the counter.
"Hi Boy!" said his smiling dad, as he stood up and reached with open arms towards his son.
But Dooley stood frozen, bug-eyed and slack jawed. Near his father stood a tall muscular stranger dressed in black leather from head to toe. His bushy hair, beard, and eyes were equally black, and his thin lips were set in a smirking smile that showed perfect teeth that were even whiter than his pale skin. Of his aura there was almost nothing at all, only a black empty nothing, with a distinct twisted twinge of chaotic evil deeper than death.
Exactly like the thing in the forest.
"This is Mr. Dark, Dooley," said Fred Simple, his eyes movin
g between the two, puzzled. "Find your manners Boy!"
"Mr. Dark," muttered Dooley mechanically, but he wouldn't shake the hand that the stranger extended towards him. Instead, he stepped back another step, until his back was pressed against the door. He stood as though poised to bolt out through it. But Pop was here. He couldn’t leave Pop alone with this monster!
"As I was telling you Mr. Dark, my boy here could probably tell you some wild tales about things going on around here, if you let him. He gets some crazy ideas about things from the Indians and probably from me, seeing that my profession is like yours: the scientific research of unexplained phenomena. Anthropology and psychology, of course, is what it all comes down to. All peoples have myths and legends. I try to track down their logical source, and figure out what might be going on inside their heads to cause such outlandish beliefs.
“I've researched everything around here several times over of course, but never gotten anywhere. The usual Indian drivel, that's about all; nothing much for the serious scientific researcher like myself to sink his teeth into. I'm afraid that you would also be wasting your time around here.
“There have been Sasquatch sightings in these parts, but they’ve died down in recent years. Now, at the seashore not far from here, I've recently been on the trail of some water sprites, and a hundred miles East of here I've collected some incredible Big-Foot footprints. Would that interest you?" Doc sat down in his recliner, hoping that Dooley would follow his example and relax.
"My current interests are more local," said Dark with an impossibly deep voice, never taking his eyes off Dooley. "Does the local Tribe believe in Sasquatch? I hear that the Reservation has a shaman. What can you tell me about him, Dooley?"
Dooley didn't say anything.
The man's grin widened, and his eyes burned into him. "Does the shaman have powers boy? Give you an Indian name, did he? Has he shown you some things? Things you used earlier today in the forest perhaps? Tell me!"
"Ugh, ugh," stammered Dooley. He was trying to remain silent, but something was compelling him to speak. It was Dark, Dooley realized, and those black eyes of his, reaching into him and trying to make him talk against his will!
"Hold there Dark, I can tell you about the Tribe shaman," volunteered Doc Simple. He didn't much care for the intense attention that Dark was giving his son. Dark had said that he wanted to meet Dooley, not that he wanted to grill him. The plump doctor tried to rise from his chair, intending to physically interpose his small pudgy self between Dark and Dooley, but oddly, he found that he couldn't even stand up. He was feeling tipsy, almost as if he had just chugged down a whole bottle of wine.
He did find, however, that he could still speak. "Two Bears is his name, Mr. Dark. He's a giant of a man and full of rumored powers: a fake just like any tribal shaman. Nothing real of course; nothing at all that anyone could substantiate scientifically. That's all right there in my book, Folk Tales of the Northwest. You mentioned that you’ve heard of my book Mr. Dark?" He wind-milled his arms in an unsuccessful attempt to draw Dark's attention away from his son.
Dark laughed, though his eyes never left Dooley. "Your book is full of silly nonsense, Simple, though it helped lead me to your town. Now that I am here I can find out the truth myself, but I'd like to learn more about the shaman before I go poking around on the Reservation. Dooley can tell me more, can't you boy? Much, much more."
"Now see here, Dark, I don't think I like your tone," interjected Simple, face red and puffing, he struggled mightily to stand up, stubby arms and legs straining and wheeling about impotently like the legs of a turtle flipped over to an unlikely angle, and straining against gravity grown monstrously strong, but seemed to be on the verge of actually standing when Dark waved his hand in the air and snapped his fingers. The plump little professor slumped back in the chair limply, limbs numb, only able to stare at Dark with the wide astonished eyes of a stunned mackerel, gasping for breath like a beached whale and unable to move or speak at all.
"Ugh, ugh," stammered Dooley, fighting to not say things, Tribe things he was forbidden to say. He might have tried to get to Pop, or fled, but his feet seemed to be nailed to the floor. The stranger with the black eyes smiled more, and Dooley felt his lips involuntarily forming words, prohibited words, secrets he was forbidden to tell anyone. "Ael tou yuama," he said, his lips somehow at the last moment contorting to change what came out. "Ael tou yuama, kannsor."
Dark's smile disappeared, his black eyes flashed red in anger for a moment. Then he grinned widely in mirth, showing pointed teeth that were too long and sharp to be human. "Good trick, boy. That's twice today you’ve used shaman powers. Perhaps some other time we will talk in private. Or I could use a bit more persuasion on the Professor." Dark glanced back towards the still swooning Fred Simple.
"Ael tou yuama, kannsor," repeated Dooley more solidly, taking a threatening step towards Dark, his fists clenched tight and his voice raising, his fear changing to anger and sudden strength, as he reached out to the forest around him for yet more power. “AEL TOU YUA-MA, KANN-SOR,” Dooley shouted now, his voice grown in volume far beyond human capacity. Trees outside the house thrashed as though in a gale, though there had been no wind, and the front door swung open, pushed by invisible forces.
Dark's features suddenly contorted, his face becoming a mask of boiling hate, his big body dropping into a crouch, and a bestial snarling replacing words. Clothes changed to fur, shoes disappeared to be replaced by monstrous clawed feet. Sharp clawed hands reached out towards Dooley, while his legs bent at odd angles, coiled as though ready to spring. His face lengthened as his lips pulled back to expose white fangs. A snarling wolf-like head sat atop a monstrous, beastly body.
It was the thing from the forest, Dooley knew for certain now. The creature called Dark was trying to attack him, but was being held back by the forest forces that Dooley had called forth.
The young man didn't back away, but he stepped aside, away from the open doorway. "AEL TOU YUA-MA, KANN-SOR," shouted Dooley, one last time, in a commanding, thunderous voice that violently shook the house, as he gestured towards the open door.
Dark again strained mightily to step towards Dooley, but couldn’t so much as move a clawed foot or hand a single inch in the young man’s direction. He tried also to reach toward Doc Simple, but couldn’t do that either; all he could do is howl in impotent rage, as he fought to even stay where was within the house, against relentless forces. Outside, trees and bushes whipped about in a frenzy, hemlocks and rhododendrons and boxwoods, drawing him out, pulling him towards the open doorway.
Snarling, Dark at last gave in to the irresistible elemental forest forces. He took a vicious, unsuccessful swipe at Dooley as he was yanked past him and out the doorway. Carried away like a leaf in a great storm, he quickly disappeared into the night as he howled wolf-like.
The winds died down and the nearby trees were again still. Far up the valley however, trees still thrashed as they transported evil further away from Lathem and the Simples.
"Holly shits," remarked Doc Simple, in the silence that followed.
Secrets of Goth Mountain Page 6
