The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  With his head down, without really knowing why, he began to run. Feet crunching the fallen snow, he ran and ran and ran, eyes closed. And when he opened them again, he saw his father beside him. They were perfectly in stride, a father racing his little boy. Vince saw it as clearly as anything.

  Facedown, he ran as hard as he could, trying to run straight into this new reality. He ran for what felt like hours, completely unaware that his fingers were crossed in hope once again. He ran dozens of blocks, creating hundreds of footprints in the snow leading to a place he called home but wasn’t. He ran until he couldn’t run anymore, until he nearly collapsed from exhaustion.

  His eyes closed. And when they opened again, his father was gone.

  There in the snow, bent over and gasping, his breath escaping like his soul, Vince stared ahead into the blizzard, waiting desperately for his father to reappear.

  Instead, on this barren road, squeezed shut by trees on either side, not a house in sight, he saw a dark car idling along the shoulder, stuck in a bank of snow, black smoke spiraling from the exhaust as the tires spun in place, kicking up filthy flurries. A man and a woman—the only people for miles—were trying to push the vehicle free but were getting nowhere. As Vince walked closer, he called out to them, “Need any help?”

  Nobody turned around or acknowledged him in any way. Vince figured they must not have heard him through the howling wind. He waited until he got closer, and then he asked again.

  “Need a hand?”

  The man and woman pushing against the rear of the car froze like much of the town and the trees surrounding it. Although it was clear they heard Vince’s query this second time, they didn’t move or say a thing.

  Vince looked past them and saw behind the wheel an old woman glaring at him through the rearview mirror. The gas was hit again, and the tires rotated, but the car went nowhere.

  Vince placed his frozen hands against the trunk of the car. Beside him, the man watched from the corners of his eyes. Together the three of them pushed, and soon the car was free from the snow.

  “Now get in here,” the old woman in the driver’s seat yelled to her companions. “Let’s go, you imbeciles!”

  The man turned to Vince. It was peculiar; his body didn’t move in the same manner as everyone else’s. It was like he was stiff, locked at the joints, a dead man just learning to walk. He was a tall specimen, towering over Vince by nearly two feet. The man’s face was that horrifying. Oddly shaped and emaciated, it was all popping bone, the skin pale and immensely tight against it. His nose was severely broken, almost knocked flat on his face, a fresh wound, dripping bright red blood. He didn’t wear a hat, and his hair was stubbly. This made the jagged scar that ran inches across his scalp so easy to see. And it was this more than anything that gave him away. Vince swallowed hard. He had seen this brutal face before. Without even getting a decent look at the other two, he knew he was standing before a family of criminals. He was face-to-face with the Byron Clan.

  “What do we do with this one, Lonnie? Do we take him for a ride?” The voice was like the wind if it carried nails in it, cutting up the inside of Vince’s ears.

  He looked at the crazed woman, who now knelt down before him. She sat in the snow as if it were sand on the beach. She didn’t react to the cold; she didn’t look uncomfortable in the least. Her black hair was knotted and ragged and wild, like Medusa’s serpents, and her equally dark eyes seemed to stare straight through him into some other realm. There was a slight screeching sound, and Vince soon realized it was her hyper and excited breathing.

  Lonnie’s large hand came to rest on his sister’s head. His fingers were so long they nearly engulfed the entire skull. “Ask Mother,” he said in a baritone voice, tapping those long fingers against her scalp. “She’ll know.”

  But his sister didn’t budge. With her tongue wagging like a dog’s, she continued to stare at Vince. “Would you like a ride, little boy? You were such a good, helpful little boy. We’ll get you through this snow. Bring you somewhere nice and warm. Toasty.” As she spoke, her eyes twitched.

  Lonnie lumbered to the front of the car and leaned down and talked to his mother. His sister meanwhile reached out and caressed Vince’s face. Her touch was repellent, and he was thankful his face was already numb. She was a petite thing, but there was more to fear in this woman than from a dozen Lonnies. She leaned in and placed her lips against Vince’s ear. Her breath was colder than the wind. With her lips touching his skin, and in a childish voice, she began to sing: “Oh, I have the moon in me. And everything beyond. I am a black hole, you see. And I’ll eat me some vagabond.”

  And with a hiss, she opened her mouth really wide only to have her brother yank her back the second her jaw snapped like a rabid dog’s.

  “Misty. Not yet. Help me put him in the car.”

  Pleased, she rubbed her hands together. “Yummy.”

  As they stepped closer, the old woman in the driver’s seat yelled out to the others, “Cover!”

  A plow truck was approaching from down the road, steering waves of snow onto the sidewalks, and seeing this, Lonnie and his sister quickly hid their faces. Vince saw his opportunity—most likely the only one he would get—and took off in the snow. Lonnie moaned and Misty hissed, but he was in the clear; chasing him would bring far too much attention. As he escaped, he could hear the driver of the truck stop his plowing and call out to the Byron Clan, “You guys stuck? I can get you out of there; no problem.”

  “Yummy,” he heard Misty say, and then she began to sing, the words lingering in Vince’s ear as if her lips were still pressed against them. “Oh, I have the moon in me . . .”

  Vince’s heart was beating wildly. That poor man, what were they going to do to him? He had to get help. He had to alert the authorities. The area, however, was still deserted, and so he kept running alongside the dense woods, hoping to stumble upon someone he could trust. But the snow grew higher and his pace grew slower and the temperature continued to drop. He walked through the fierce isolation, his teeth clattering like coffins in a quake. He was soaking wet; he couldn’t feel a thing anymore. He imagined himself slowly becoming a block of ice. First his feet, then his hands. He’d walk with them encased in cubes of ice until his body succumbed, and, finally, his head. A giant ice cube. If he could have laughed, he would have. This would be the end of his journey, he realized, a frozen boy waiting for spring. What a fool he was.

  His vision was blurred, and he wasn’t even sure he was going in the right direction anymore. But he couldn’t go back. Anywhere but back.

  It was clear his body was beginning to give out on him. Everything hurt. How long had he been running now? However long it was, it felt like double because of the snow. Maybe triple. He was close to collapsing, close to blacking out. He could feel it. It would happen at any moment now.

  And that was when he saw the house. His house. But that isn’t possible, he told himself. It burned down. You’re hallucinating.

  A young girl stood outside the house, building a snowman, her dog taking laps in the snow, barking merrily. She saw Vince staring at her. And then she saw him fall face-first into the snow.

  Darkness.

  CHAPTER 9

  Hours later, when Vince woke up again, he was in what should have been his house. He was in what should have been his bed. And around him were a man and woman and the young girl he saw just before passing out.

  “Get some rest,” the mother said, adjusting one of the many blankets over him. “Warm up. There’s some hot chocolate right there. You’re safe now. We’ll get you all squared away in the morning, when you have more strength.”

  “Thank . . . thank . . .” He could barely speak.

  “Don’t,” the father said. “Just rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

  With that, the parents left, and the young girl, perhaps the same age as Vince, perhaps a year older, sat in a chair beside the bed.

  “My name’s MJ,” she said. “I was the one who found you o
utside. You know, it’s kind of funny. I was so bored and lonely out there by myself, as usual, that it was almost like I wished for you to appear. And then there you were. You face-planted right into the snow. I couldn’t believe it. My dog started barking and licking your face. I called for my parents, screaming about a boy fainting in the snow, and I just knew they weren’t going to believe me. They always accuse me of making up stories. Anyway, I ran over to you as fast as I could. You were mumbling something. Umbi-something or other.”

  Vince’s throat throbbed with pain. “Umbia Rah.”

  Features scrunched in confusion, MJ placed her hand on his forehead. “You’re going to be okay. You had my parents really worried there for a minute. They wanted to get you to a hospital, but the roads are all closed. I hope you don’t mind, but we went through your backpack looking for something that might tell us who you are. We didn’t find anything, but we did find this.” She held up his grandfather’s book. “I’ve been reading some, and I love it. It’s a great story. I love the main character.”

  “It’s my—my grandfather.”

  “Your grandfather? That’s amazing. If you want, I can read some for you right now. Maybe it’ll help you feel better. Is that okay?”

  Vince nodded his head. “He’s—he’s gold. . . .”

  MJ smiled. “That’s right where I left off too.”

  The Forbidden Room

  Vincent sat chained to the wall, his gold body gleaming in the giant’s roaring fire. Every day for a week straight now, the giant demanded that his prize pose for his amusement, like a living statue. “Arms up, neck stretched!” or “On your knees, face in the dirt!” or “Stand on one leg with the other straight out behind you!” Then he ordered Vincent to hold such poses for hours. Typically, Vincent collapsed or cried out, and the giant laughed mightily at this, especially while eating his abundance of exotic foods.

  This night, however, the night Vincent had been waiting for, was a different night in one important way. It was the giant’s birthday, and as he feasted in celebration of himself, between every bite and explosive burst of laughter, he consumed even more wine than usual, one barrel after the other.

  Unfortunately, this of course led to further abuse for Vincent to withstand. Belligerent from the booze, the giant forced him to act out scenes, dramatic and comedic alike, his very own puppet, the only string being the metal leash locked around his leg. When he was satisfied with the performance, and that was rare, the giant tossed food at the golden boy, striking him in the head and chest. Vincent then dropped to his hands and knees and, starving, gobbled everything up. When the giant wasn’t satisfied, however, he yanked on the chain, sending Vincent crashing hard to the ground. At one point, he even dragged him around the cave, laughing maniacally as he did so. The jagged rocks cut at Vincent, blood seeping through his gold skin. The giant pulled him all around, looking for especially harsh terrain on which to drag his body. The cave’s floor was like teeth; it ate from his flesh, biting at his face, deeper, even, than the gold. One spike cut straight through his cheek. And that was how Vincent came to bear the scar he was to carry for the rest of his life.

  As the night wore on, the giant, between deafening belches, drank more and more, much to Vincent’s delight, until a dozen empty wine barrels lined the cave. Vincent was willing to withstand a night of ridicule and torture, so long as the giant slept deeply. He didn’t care about being toyed with or, pinched between the giant’s fingers, sadistically dangled over the flames. He didn’t mind being showered with wine when he fell out of his pose or flubbed a line. He didn’t mind being laughed at and taunted. Just keep drinking, was all he thought. Drink and sleep well, giant, for tonight I escape.

  Finally, just hours before dawn, the giant began to tire. He quieted down, his eyes appearing heavy, his commands becoming more and more infrequent—almost involuntary and practically indecipherable. He stretched his legs out, yawning repeatedly. Then, sure enough, he fell asleep, with snores like rolling thunder.

  Minutes later Vincent decided it was time to act. He knew he had to be very careful as to not wake the giant, even as he searched his pockets for the black key with red teeth. But if he did wake, there must be a plan. And Vincent had one.

  As silently as possible he walked in a circle around the giant. When he completed one lap, he simply walked another. Then another. He circled the giant as many times as the length of chain would allow, and when he was finished, Vincent had his very own prisoner.

  Next, with the giant bound, Vincent crept over to the pocket in which he had last seen the key. He thrust his hand in, but couldn’t reach, and so he stuck almost his entire body into the deep pocket to retrieve it, but retrieve it he did. The iron felt cool in his hands as he pulled the black key free.

  The giant shifted in his sleep, and Vincent jumped to the ground. Quickly, yet also quietly, he undid the lock shackled to his leg.

  Now, get out of here and don’t look back. And yet he did look back. His eyes went down the hall and right to the red door.

  He had promised the lion and the horse he would rescue them. But was that really why he hesitated? No. There was something in that room that he needed, that he couldn’t leave without. The gold book. Was that the answer to everything? To breaking the curse and defeating the witch? Could the book tell him how to return to his life with his mother?

  He glanced up at the giant, whose chest was heaving with each obnoxious snore. He could wake at any moment. The chains would have to hold. I won’t be long. In and out. No time at all.

  He hurried to the red door and, without slowing, pushed it open. Inside, the lion jumped to its feet.

  “I have the key,” Vincent said, holding it aloft.

  “The giant, what about the giant?” the lion asked, pacing anxiously. “Did you finish him?”

  “No, he’s asleep, wrapped in my chains.”

  “Hurry,” the horse said, it too rising from its slumber. “That won’t hold him for very long.”

  Vincent shoved the black key into the lock and opened the gate.

  After years of captivity, the animals were finally freed. The lion, however, brushed right past his liberator and ran from the room without looking back.

  The horse began to follow but stopped just outside the door. “The giant will come for us,” it said. “We must prepare ourselves. Vincent, go to the shelf and grab what I tell you to.”

  Vincent’s eyes, however, were locked on the gold book. “What for? There’s no time,” he said in a dazed tone. “The lion’s right. We have to get out of here.”

  “Do as I say. You have to trust me.”

  Vincent struggled to take his eyes off the book and, recalling how the horse had been right before, did as he was told. Standing before all the supplies stacked neatly on shelves, he asked, “What do we need?”

  “Take the razors and the needles and that vial of water there on the end. Place them in the leather sack hanging from that nail.”

  Vincent curiously eyed the horse. What was this all about?

  “Go on, grab them.”

  He collected the items, and the horse appeared pleased.

  “Very good. Now we must run. The giant will wake soon.”

  Vincent turned around. “The book. I can’t leave without the book.”

  He had to have it. Was that what the gnome wanted, not the golden liquid? What was written within those ancient pages? What was so special about it? Did it have all the answers? Would it solve his every problem and so much more?

  “Vincent, leave the book. There is great power within it, but it is not to be taken lightly. It is locked away for a reason.”

  But as if hypnotized, Vincent ignored the horse. He walked closer.

  “Vincent, no! If you take it, the giant will surely kill you.”

  “Maybe I can use it,” he said, more to himself than to the horse. “Maybe I can defeat the witch and reverse her spells. Maybe I can set things right.”

  “It’s not that simple!”


  To Vincent it was. Hastily, he ran to the fountain and grabbed the gold book from off the pedestal. In his hands, the pages felt like absolute splendor. His body vibrated; his eyes couldn’t look away from the shining cover. He couldn’t even place it in the sack. It felt as if the book belonged in his hands.

  “Quickly,” the horse said with a snort. “We’ve wasted too much time.”

  This seemed to break Vincent’s trance. The book slipped from his fingers and into the sack.

  The two ran out of the room and down the hall, only to find that the lion hadn’t escaped at all. Rather, it was threateningly circling the sleeping giant.

  “Don’t,” said the horse, anticipating its next move. “Let us leave while we still have a chance.”

  “No,” the lion snarled. “I’ve suffered far too long. He must pay for what he’s done.” And the lion leaped at the giant and slashed his face on each side.

  The vicious blows awakened the giant, but the lion bravely and stubbornly continued to slash and bite regardless.

  Arms pinned to his sides by the chains, the giant stood, unable to defend himself from the relentless attack. But the chain didn’t hold him for long. With a roar that far outmatched the lion’s, he broke free, metal links flying in every direction like shrapnel. Then he squared off against his opponent.

  The lion froze, a look of hesitation and fear on its face.

  “Run!” the horse and Vincent yelled. “Run!” But the lion ignored the pleas.

  “Come, little lion,” the giant said, waving it on. “I should have done this a long time ago.”

  “This ends now!” the lion bellowed as it lunged forward, claws extended, teeth bared.

  Vincent could only watch in horror as the giant snatched the lion out of midair and held its squirming body in his massive hands. Then, with a disturbing laugh, the giant snapped the beast’s back with ease and threw it hard to the ground. The lion lay motionless, eyes rolled back, its tongue hanging limply from its mouth.