Black Forest

by Shane Lee

  “I told you today would be busy.” Mullen tore the bag from his hand, catching his shirt with one of the clasps and popping loose three threads. “Fucking non-stop, did I not say that? Did I not?”

  He hadn’t, but Monty dared not to share that with him. His cheeks flushed, burning. He found his jaw again, and with it, some semblance of response: “I know it—”

  “You’re here for one reason, and that’s to make my life easier. Look at me, Monty. Do I look like a man whose life is easy?”

  Another impossible question that sewed his lips shut. What had happened between this morning and now?

  Rather than wait for a response, the Judge yanked open the flap of his bag and stretched it open, thrusting the empty insides at Monty’s face.

  “You see this, courier? Do you know how many scrolls this bag can hold?”

  Wise to the fact that an answer was not what the Judge was looking for, Monty let the Judge continue.

  “Seventeen,” Mullen said, snapping the bag back down to his chest. “Seventeen slots to keep them nice and orderly. Yet you left this morning with only nine. You left before I could give you the rest of your work, and now an entire half-day has been wasted!”

  The accusation was so unexpected that Monty couldn’t restrain his surprise. “Judge, I took everything you gave me—”

  “And then you ran right off. Unconscionable.” Mullen was reaching into his robes now, pulling out scroll after scroll and sliding them into the inner straps of the messenger bag. “I won’t have you pulling a mockery of your duties again, is that clear?”

  Monty bit back a retort, feeling the heat in his face. He knew he hadn’t messed up, that he’d taken the full morning’s load and gotten it done quick. He’d made mistakes before—late delivery, wrong house, wrong recipient—and Mullen had never resembled anything close to what was burning before Monty right now. Monty knew he’d taken his armload of scrolls and then Mullen had shut the door, just this morning.

  But losing this job was small stakes compared to being an enemy of the Judge’s, and what that would mean to his family. So he let it go.

  “I understand, Judge,” he said.

  “Good.” Mullen shoved the bag at him, filled with scrolls. “Get back to work.”

  Slam.

  Monty stared at the door, holding his bag in one hand. It was a side of the Judge he’d never seen, and it made him wonder what the man was capable of. He thought again of the Judge’s comment about the bloody dagger. He thought about what it would be like to have Judge Mullen rallied against you in his rage, vindictive and powerful. Why Rodney Talhauer, thrice the man’s size and bespoken of his ire toward the Judge, didn’t move against him.

  Maybe, Monty thought, this man is more than what he likes to show to everyone else.

  The next two days in town proceeded as normal. Judge Mullen had eschewed his frothing anger by the time Monty saw him again that first night, but Mullen did not acknowledge their previous meeting, nor did he apologize for it. Monty thought he might have detected a hint of aloof disdain in the man’s dark eyes, but chalked that up to being paranoid. Mullen had lost his temper and taken it out on Monty, and it was over.

  But he wouldn’t forget the way the Judge had looked then. How he called him ‘courier,’ and seemed to not care who he was; only that Monty had wronged him. Just because that part of Judge Mullen wasn’t bubbling to the surface right now...that didn’t mean it was gone. It only meant that it was waiting.

  Had his mother seen it before? Was that why she had such distrust of the man? For the first time since accepting the job, Monty was prodded by doubt about his future. Did he truly want to align himself with the Judge?

  And did he have a choice now, not knowing what might befall him or his family if he were to decide to part ways?

  The answer wasn’t written, but he felt it, heavy as stone. He had no choice. And to that end, he found himself relieved when locking his quarters that third evening and heading home, missing the faces of his mother and sister.

  22

  “Why didn’t you send for me?”

  Monty knelt beside his mother, who didn’t have the strength to get out of her bed.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. Her words were strong as ever, but her voice sounded weak. “It’s just the winter illness. I was bound to catch something among all those people at the sending. We’re just lucky...we’re not all sick.”

  Sick. Monty had heard enough of that word lately. Far too much.

  “Stop your worrying,” Delila said, brushing a hand across his shoulder. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, plastering a few strands of black hair to her skin. “I can see it all over your face, Monty. Just let me rest. It will get worse before it gets better. I’ll be up and about in a...a couple of days.”

  “You need some water,” Monty said.

  “Yes...I could use some.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Monty stood, his mind clouded as he left the house. Terra was rummaging through the pantry, collecting root vegetables for dinner per their mother’s instructions. She wasn’t worried. His mother wasn’t worried. Why should he be worried?

  Because I was there. I saw Audrey.

  But he didn’t know anything. He was no doctor. Whatever disease had killed the two Kettles had no reason to spread all the way out to their farm from Irisa. He’d heard not a peep of more illness or sudden, unexplained deaths within town over the last three days, and he’d been all over, talking to everyone. Winter sickness, sure; plenty of townspeople were bedridden with that, and nothing more.

  That made him feel better, and he rested his palms on the well stones, closing his eyes. Everyone in town felt a little more relieved, it seemed. With days passing since Audrey’s death, the fear that the strange sickness would spread through Irisa had dissipated.

  Monty let out his breath and opened his eyes. He’d bring in the bucket of water, he’d help Terra cook, and he could relax for a bit. He felt ragged after three full, taxing days as courier, and he looked forward to sitting down with his family for dinner.

  Well, with his sister. His mother would take her bowl in bed.

  He dipped the bucket and began pulling it up, winding the crank with the absent motions he’d been doing all his life. His gaze drifted to the Dromm woods, and the wooden handle creaked to a stop.

  “What...?”

  Monty almost let the full bucket drop. He pulled it up and set it on the stones, keeping his eyes on the trees. He thought he was seeing something he’d never seen before, but he had to get closer to be sure.

  Monty moved to the path through the tall grass, past the compost pile and back to where the plants started to thin and the ground became dark, dry earth as it approached the black forest. What he had seen rested upon a branch some twenty-five feet above his head.

  The budding green of a new leaf.

  It was so jarring that Monty blinked and expected it to disappear. Never, not once in all his life, in his dozens of youthful jaunts through the forest or the thousands of times he looked at it from across the field, had he ever seen anything growing on a Dromm tree. Ever.

  If it were closer, he might have reached up to pluck it off and make sure it was real. But he could see it plainly. A sprout—small enough to fit between two fingertips, but alive all the same.

  Water. He remembered why he had come outside, and it wasn’t to go investigate the Dromm. His sick mother was thirsty, and waiting on him. He looked away from the speck of green and went back home, picking up the bucket and bringing it inside.

  His mother thanked him for the water, her voice heavy and tired. She sat up and drank the cup down in three big gulps, and Monty got her another.

  “Stay there,” he told her as she drained half of the second cup. “I’ll help Terra cook.”

  Delila didn’t protest.

  Terra had done a fine job assembling the ingredients for vegetable stew, and Monty let her chop the carrots while he worked on the rest, letting a po
t of water boil and collecting the scraps to toss outside.

  When he went to go see if Delila wanted more water, he found she was asleep. Her cup rested, empty, on the small table beside her bed. He refilled it and set it down again in case she wanted more, remembering how she’d done the same for him and Terra when they were sick, and how it was nice to wake up with water there for you.

  When the stew was done, he left his mother’s serving in the pot and sat down with Terra to eat.

  “When did mom get sick?” he asked her.

  Terra shrugged, shoveling a spoon of stew into her mouth. “I dunno. After the, um, the sending.”

  “Right after?”

  “No...” Terra set her spoon down into her bowl, screwing up her eyes. “Tomorrow. The day after, I mean. While you were gone.”

  While you were gone. Terra hadn’t meant the words to hurt, but they did, needling at Monty and raising a small flush in his cheeks.

  Terra’s face darkened, her eyes going down. “She’s not gonna die like Ma Kettle, is she?”

  “Terra!” Monty said, harsh but quiet. “Don’t say that. Of course she’s not. It’s just winter sickness.”

  “That’s what she said it was.” She brightened and picked up her spoon again, eating. “I hope I don’t get it. Last time my nose was runny for weeks.”

  “I remember,” Monty said. “You ruined three good shirts because you kept blowing your boogers into them instead of a kerchief like Mom told you.”

  “You can’t say boogers at the table,” Terra told him, but she giggled at the word, and so did Monty. He wished their mother were sitting with them.

  “Take good care of her while I’m working,” he told Terra. “Okay? Let her sleep, don’t let her try to do any work. Get her lots of water. Can you carry the bucket?”

  “Yes, I can carry the bucket! I’m strong, you know.”

  “Good. I guess you have to let her cook, but...make sure she eats, too.” Monty realized he sounded just like his mother when she was instructing him on how to care for his little sister when she was sick, and found he was grateful to have that to cling to. “She’ll get better in a few days.”

  “I hope I don’t get sick,” Terra repeated, and she was well ahead of Monty on her dinner because he had been talking so much. He hurried to catch up.

  When he was done, he decided it was best to wake his mother up with a bowl of stew while it was still hot. He brought it back to her while Terra cleaned out her bowl (not grumbling about it like she usually did), setting it on the table by her cup, which was still full.

  “Hey, mom,” he said softly, kneeling down again. “Got some food for you.”

  She was silent and still, but when he repeated himself, she stirred. He smiled at her, but it was laced with sadness, the way you smile at someone you care about when they’re in pain.

  “Huh? Oh...dinner...” Delila was sleep-ridden and weary, blinking her eyes. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Not long,” he said. “It’s still hot.”

  “I don’t really have any...appetite,” she said, letting her head sink back down into the pillow.

  “Eat it anyway,” Monty told her, pushing the table closer to the edge of the bed. “You’d make me do the same thing, you know.”

  She smiled, and it lifted Monty’s spirit a bit. “You bet I would.”

  “I have to work in town tomorrow, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Delila sat up, a slow task. “You’re a hard worker. I’ve always been proud of you for that. I’m sorry I’ve been so...so crotchety about all of this.”

  “Crotchety...” Monty almost laughed, settling on a grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be crotchety.”

  “No?” she asked, matching his grin with a weak smile of her own. “Your father did, when he let my dinner burn.”

  “Lucky for me, it’s hard to burn stew.”

  “It looks good.” She cupped the bowl with both hands, lifting it off the table. “Go on...don’t want you getting sick, too.”

  He left her room and helped Terra clean up the kitchen. It was late now, fully dark, and his sister was sleepy. He checked on his mother once more afterward.

  She had eaten only a little of the stew before lying back down. Monty looked down at the remaining food, twisting his lips. At least she had taken the water.

  “Good night, mom,” Monty said, and she stirred a little at his words, which was enough. He filled her water again before he went to lie down in his own bed.

  As comfortable as the Commons quarters were, this was better. He found sleep.

  23

  When he woke the next morning, beating the sun as usual, Terra was already up, sitting at the table in the kitchen. He stepped in slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. There was a candle lit on the table, and her hands were busy.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked her.

  Terra shook her head. “I had some stew. It’s still good.”

  She had something on the table before her. Blinking, Monty recognized it as a shirt, and the thing shining between her fingers was a sewing needle.

  “Are you...sewing?”

  “Yeah. Mom’s been teaching me.” Her tongue poked out between her lips as she plunged the needle into the fabric, her rough movements making Monty wince. Still, she seemed to be doing a fair job fixing up the tear in the shirt. It was strange, seeing Terra sew up a shirt instead of playing with a neighbor kid, or a doll.

  She has to grow up sometime. I just didn’t think I’d miss it.

  Monty went to check on his mother. Her water was gone—good. She was asleep, and she looked buried in it. He let her lie.

  “You have to go?” Terra asked him when he came back out into the kitchen.

  “Yeah.” He had Delila’s cup, and he filled it again, setting it on the table by Terra. “Bring this to her when you can. And don’t poke a bunch of holes in your fingers.”

  “I already did.” Terra frowned, flexing her small hands. “But Mom says that’s part of it.”

  A tired grin came over him. “You’ll have to show me how, once you’re better at it.”

  “I’m already better than you,” she said, sticking her tongue out.

  “I’ll be back tonight,” Monty said. Even if the Judge asked him to stay over, he’d just sacrifice some sleep to be to town on time.

  Terra said, “Okay,” and she hopped down from the chair to bring the cup of water to their mother’s room. Monty was out the door before she returned.

  The day’s work was heavy, but not unusual. Monty heard far fewer whispers of death and doom as he hustled through the streets.

  Mullen, meanwhile, seemed distracted. He spoke few words to Monty, and was always halfway turned away and hurrying back toward his desk as his office door closed. Whatever set off his rage those days ago must have carried a tide of work with it, as evidenced by the bulging contents of his messenger bag.

  The time went fast, and Mullen didn’t ask him to stay the night. Perhaps he was too preoccupied to bother. Monty dropped his bag in his quarters and locked it tight, and he was back home again with a sliver of sun slipping behind the horizon.

  Terra was outside, waiting for him.

  “Hey...” he said, uneasy as she ran up to him. Was it mom?

  “Monty!” Terra stopped right before him. “Hi. Mom wants you to get another water bucket, before you come inside.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Monty looked toward the house. “Is she...doing all right?”

  Terra nodded. “She’s awake. She got up and put more salt and something else in the stew. She said it needed more...um, I don’t know what she put in it.”

  Monty broke into a smile. A weight he wasn’t even aware he’d been carrying lifted off him, and he clapped Terra lightly on the shoulder. “She’s just too nice to tell us our dinner wasn’t very good.”

  “Aw. I liked it.”

  “Me, too. I’ll get that water.”

  He brought in a fresh bu
cket and saw his mother hovering over the pot of stew, stirring. She turned to him when he came through the door.

  Delila didn’t look quite back to normal, but it was better than yesterday. Her face was shiny with sweat, but the color in her cheeks looked healthier, as opposed to flushed and hot. Her eyes were brighter, but lethargy still hung on her frame.

  “Mom, shouldn’t you be in bed?” he said to her.

  “Probably,” she admitted. “Terra pricked her finger, and I had to wrap her up, and then since I was up anyway...well...”

  “You didn’t like the stew.” Monty accused her with a twitch of his lips.

  “I liked it fine. Don’t be...silly. Ooh.” Delila wavered, dropping the spoon into the pot and steadying herself against the counter.

  Monty got to her side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I...” Delila closed her eyes. “Got a bit...lightheaded...”

  “You shouldn’t be up,” he said, putting a hand on the back of her shoulder. Her skin was hot even through her shirt. “Go and lay down. I’ll bring you some stew, if you want.”

  “Ah...well, all right.” Delila patted Monty’s arm, and he lowered his hand. “Just give it a good stir. Mix the spices in.”

  “Okay,” he said, and he did so, bringing her a hot bowl once she was in bed.

  Delila fell asleep soon after she ate. She did seem to be doing better than yesterday.

  While the last vestiges of light were slipping away, Monty brought the bucket back to the well. The Dromm stared at him. He had forgotten about the little sprout from the other day, and now there were more. Whole leaves, it looked like. In the fading light, they stood out in stark contrast to the black wall of trees they sprouted from.

  Monty counted six or seven little patches of green before it grew too dark to be sure. It bothered him, and he wasn’t sure why. But it wasn’t enough to keep him awake, and he slept well again in his own bed.

  The next morning, Delila was awake before Monty was. The noise of the front door opening roused him from sleep, and he left his room to see his mother coming back with the bucket. She was alert, but she still looked pallid. She read the concern on his face.