The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  “No!” Vincent screamed.

  The giant glared ferociously at the golden boy. “You!” He spotted the leather sack hanging over Vincent’s shoulder, the gold book shining through from inside. “My book!”

  “On my back,” the horse yelled to Vincent. “Hurry!”

  Vincent ran and jumped on the horse and locked his arms tightly around its neck. Together, they took off toward the mouth of the cave, the giant right behind them.

  The horse ran with all its might out of the darkness and into the waxing light of early morning. Vincent was finally free. As he escaped the cave, the world seemed new. Everything was magnificently different somehow.

  Sadly, there was no time to take in such pleasures, for behind them the giant’s feet could be heard rapidly pounding the ground.

  The horse wove and hurdled its way down the mountainside, stumbling and sliding atop loose rocks, while all the giant had to do was execute one large leap and he was at the bottom, waiting for them.

  “Come to me!” he yelled, and the horse did just that.

  The giant couldn’t help grinning at the pair’s foolishness. He crouched down, ready to swipe them up and into his powerful arms so that he could slowly crush the life out of their pitiful bodies.

  Head down, the horse charged, full gallop. It was only yards away now.

  “Yes!” the giant wailed, nearly on top of them. “Yes!”

  The horse snorted. Vincent slammed his eyes shut. And the giant lunged forward.

  But the horse was anticipating such a move and was far too quick for the lumbering monster. It deftly sidestepped the swipe and took off between the arches of his legs. Off balance and off guard, the giant fell face-first to the earth.

  At the sound of the thud, Vincent opened his eyes and looked back. The giant was on all fours, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Meanwhile, the horse made its way into the open farmland and, with no obstacles in its path, galloped even harder. It practically flew through those fields, scaring up birds and scattering varmints. But still, they could not lose the giant. Pure determination on his face, he was up and gaining on them. His strides were so long he would surely have them in no time.

  The horse yelled back to Vincent, “Throw the needles! Throw them now!”

  “What?” Vincent hollered over the thrashing of the horse’s hoofs. He didn’t think he’d heard right.

  “The needles in the sack! Throw them at the giant!”

  Vincent dug into the leather sack and pulled out the needles. What are a handful of these going to do against something like him? he wondered.

  “Throw them! Do it now!” the horse yelled again.

  Vincent did as he was told. He tossed the needles far behind them, straight into the giant’s path. But they failed to reach him. And yet the needles were never intended to strike their enraged pursuer. They were only meant to hit the ground, for the moment they did, an entire forest sprang up out of nowhere, further separating hunter and prey. Thousands of trees grew in a matter of seconds. Only this forest was no ordinary forest. Each tree was made up of devastatingly sharp needles. Needles for branches, needles for leaves, needles for roots, needles for bark. Millions of needles sitting atop one another, all blocking the path of the giant.

  The giant, however, fuming mad and refusing to turn back, ran straight into the forest without slowing one bit. The needles served their purpose, meeting him head-on and puncturing his entire body, every inch of it. They pierced his feet and jabbed his skull; they dug deep into his arms and stabbed his throat. He was speared over and over and over again, losing an eye in the process. The giant howled in pain as he pushed through, knocking trees to the ground left and right in enraged swipes.

  Meanwhile, Vincent and the horse kept running, the giant’s screams filling their ears. Their lead widened.

  But eventually Vincent glanced back, and he saw the giant in pursuit once again. Bleeding from head to toe, he ran faster than ever, as if fueled by his pain and fury. The land trembled beneath his feet.

  “I’m coming!” he screamed. “I’m coming for you, Vincent!”

  “The razors!” the horse yelled, with fear in his voice. “Throw them!”

  And this time Vincent didn’t need to be told twice. He threw the razors over his shoulder, and when they hit the ground, a mountain erupted from the earth. It was a towering mountain, wide and steep, and every inch of it was covered with razors. There was not a single place to set one’s hand or foot without having it sliced open on ultrasharp steel.

  This, however, did not deter the giant either. He ran straight for the mountain, jumping at the very last moment. He jumped so far that he landed almost halfway up. But as his hands and feet came down, they were met with the blazing pain of razors sinking deep into the skin. Still, the giant climbed, up and over the mountain. He lost one finger, then another. Three in all, along with two toes. Veins were cut, as was some bone. His ears were slashed to bits; his tongue was split in two, forked now, like a serpent’s.

  However, down the mountain the giant came, Vincent and the horse locked in his sights. He wouldn’t give up; he would never give up, and again, even more amazingly now, he gained on them.

  Finally the horse told Vincent to throw the vial of water.

  Vincent removed the clear blue liquid from the sack. It was their last weapon, their final hope. But what was some water going to do? How was that going to stop the giant when a forest of needles and a mountain of razors didn’t? Regardless, Vincent tossed the vial.

  It hit the ground hard, shattering upon impact. The water seeped slowly into the earth. Seconds passed. The giant gained.

  Then, glancing back, Vincent watched as a massive lake appeared, a lake so large that it was impossible for the giant to run around it and still hope to catch them; it seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. But surely he could swim across? It wouldn’t slow him down for very long at all.

  “A lake?” Vincent said into the horse’s ear.

  “Not just a lake,” the horse said in return, a gleam in its eye, “but a lake of salt water.”

  The moment the giant jumped in, he wailed to the heavens. Salt entered every wound, shocking him with tremendous pain. The pain was so great, in fact, so agonizing, that the giant couldn’t swim. He tried to make his way back but found he couldn’t do so. He could hardly move at all. Within seconds the lake had turned red.

  “Help!” the giant cried, waving his arms. “Vincent! My friend, my only friend! Please! Help me!”

  Vincent looked back with terrific sympathy for the giant. Maybe he should help him.

  Almost reading his thoughts, the horse said, “Don’t listen to his cries. He is pure evil; you can count on that. Were you to save him, you would only doom yourself. I too sought shelter in his cave. I was a boy, just like you. My name is Orin. And now look at me. No, that giant deserves what comes to him.”

  As the horse called Orin galloped on, Vincent glanced back at the flailing giant. He saw him sink lower and lower and lower into the lake until there was no longer any part of him left to see. He was gone.

  Vincent, gold body shining in the sun, turned ahead and gazed into the radiant distance.

  Where to now?

  CHAPTER 10

  Vince woke up to a wonderful scent filling the air. Cinnamon perhaps. Or maybe vanilla. He was alone in the room that had once been his own and didn’t realize he was half naked under the billowy blankets until he saw his ragged clothes hanging over some chairs and the heater. With the covers wrapped around his body, he got up and felt the fabric of his garments. Dry. All of them. As he slipped back into his clothes, he noticed how refreshed he felt, as if he had slept for days.

  Fully dressed, he glanced out the window to his right. The snow continued to come down at a steady pace. There must have been well over two feet on the ground. And in that snow he saw his father. He had a football in his hands, and he was casually tossing it into the air, a wide smile on his face. A thick fog of breat
h drifted from his mouth as he turned and waved Vince outside.

  Vince reached out, his hand against the windowpane. “Dad?”

  Through the bedroom door trotted the family dog, an old beagle, and Vince’s eyes were momentarily pulled from the window. The dog’s ears, he noticed, were peculiarly crinkled, and there was a white patch amid all the black and brown fur, as if a chunk of snow had settled permanently behind its neck. The elderly canine didn’t pay Vince any mind; it was busy chomping on some food it clearly wasn’t supposed to have. Vince turned back to the window, but his father was no longer there.

  “Romeo, no!” A redheaded woman ran in and snatched the bread from the dog’s mouth. “Oh, I hope he doesn’t get sick. It’s spiced bread, and he has a very sensitive stomach. You don’t think he ate a lot, do you?”

  “I don’t think he got very much,” Vince said. This wasn’t completely accurate, but he said it mostly to keep the woman from worrying. She had eyes of constant concern, as if all she had ever done was care too much. It was one of the few things he remembered from the previous night. Sometime in the midnight hours this woman checked in on him, spoke kind words, felt his forehead, adjusted his blankets; he woke up only briefly during this kindhearted intrusion, noticing her eyes and feeling their deep warmth, and then he fell back to sleep, not stirring again until morning.

  Looking at her now, he found her to be a woman of staggering beauty. She had thick bright red hair falling just past her narrow shoulders. Her skin looked like cream, and her eyes like green zinnias. Every feature was just about perfect, as if she were a painting come to life. An apron was tied snugly around her petite frame, and she was wearing a very thin silver necklace with a ladybug charm hanging from it. At the sight of the disappointed dog, she bent over to pet it affectionately.

  “Romeo,” she said in a voice that could melt the snow outside, “you know you can’t eat that stuff. It’ll hurt your tummy. Go to the kitchen, and Daddy will give you a healthy treat.”

  The dog left, as if understanding these words, and the woman looked over at Vince. “I don’t know if you remember, but my name’s Michele. We didn’t get yours yet. You mumbled something, but it wasn’t clear.”

  “Vincent.”

  “Vincent, yes. We’re lucky we found you when we did, Vincent. You could have frozen to death. Any longer out there, and you might have lost some toes. Now, unfortunately, there’s no way of driving out of here anytime soon, but is there someone we can call to tell you’re okay? Your parents must be worried sick.”

  Vince shook his head and explained that he was an orphan on the way to his grandfather’s funeral in nearby Dyerville.

  “I see,” Michele said. “Well, come to the kitchen when you’re ready and have something to eat. I’m sure you can smell it. MJ and I have been cooking all morning.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  “It’s our pleasure. Please, make yourself at home.”

  She left the room, and Vince looked around one more time. Home. This was what it would have been like, he imagined. If that one tragic day had been ripped from the time line, this would have been his life. He would have woken up on a cold morning in this very room, and his mother would have had breakfast cooking, and he would have sat down to eat it with his father, and maybe eventually he would have had a sister too. And a dog. Home. Yes, it seemed perfect.

  And then into the room walked his mother. She was like a ghost, passing right through him. Vince followed her with his eyes and watched as she glided to the bed—his bed, with his blankets and sheets, with his toys tucked away beneath it—gently rousing his younger self awake. “Time to get up,” she said with a kiss to his forehead. “Breakfast is ready. You have to beat your father to the best pancakes. Hurry now.”

  The two of them vanished, and the lovely scent grew stronger all around him. Vince, covered in goose bumps, followed the path of the aroma, his heart warmed by the bountiful generosity offered to him by these strangers. He wished there were more people like this.

  The kitchen smelled and looked fantastic. There were pancakes and French toast and bacon on the stove, some gorgeous pastries in the oven, ingredients strewn all around—jellies and jams, nuts and spices, sugars and frostings. Flour coated every surface like the snow outside. There was love here; Vince felt it immediately. At this moment he believed this was exactly where he needed to be. He didn’t know why, but he thought that maybe he had come home for a reason.

  MJ was placing some pancakes onto a plate when she turned around, beaming a bright smile, her cherubic face flecked with flour. “Glad you’re awake. You have to try these,” she said, sliding over the plate. “Chocolate chip. They’re amazing. My favorite.”

  Vince, somewhat hesitantly, sat down on a stool at an island; he was stunned by the beneficent turn his life had suddenly made. “Mine too,” he said. He took one bite, and then he couldn’t stop. They really were amazing, far better than anything he’d ever received at the orphanage.

  “We’re all very sorry to hear about your grandfather,” Michele said.

  With his mouth full, Vince lowered his head and nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Mom, you should read this book Vince has. It’s all about his grandfather’s life, and you just wouldn’t believe the things that happen to him in it.” With a curious look, MJ turned to Vince. “Do you think any part of them is real?”

  Vince wiped his mouth with a napkin. “They’re just stories,” he said finally.

  “Paul’s grandfather had some great stories too,” Michele said. “All grandparents do. Right, Paul?”

  There was no response from her husband, who was seated at the kitchen table, and so she crumpled up a napkin and tossed it in his direction. “Head out of the paper, Paul. I’m trying to talk to you. You’re being rude. We have a guest.”

  “What? Oh, sorry,” he said, folding up the previous day’s edition. “I was just reading about that Byron Clan. I think they might actually get away. Can you believe it? In this day and age? The storm might have saved them. Talk about an injustice.”

  Vince stopped eating, the previous day’s events suddenly overwhelming him. For a minute there he’d thought it was all just a horrible dream. “I saw them,” he muttered very quietly. “Yesterday. They weren’t far from here. I tried to get help, but I couldn’t find any. And then—”

  “You—you saw them?” Paul said, standing up.

  “I did. Their car was stuck in the snow. I—I helped them get it out. I didn’t know it was them until it was too late.”

  “And they just let you go? After you saw their faces?”

  “I ran. I ran here.”

  Paul looked at Michele, fear crawling across both their faces like hairy spiders. “We have to call someone. The police need to know. I’ll be right back.”

  Michele sat down next to Vince, a comforting hand on his back. “Did they see where you went, honey? Did they follow you?”

  “I—I don’t think so.”

  “They’re busy getting out of town,” MJ said.

  “In this?” Michele responded. “In this they’re not going anywhere.” Then, seeing her daughter’s worried eyes, she changed her tone. “I mean, I’m sure they’re going to keep a low profile. They don’t want to arouse suspicion.”

  There was a noise behind them, and Michele jumped and screamed. Romeo, it turned out, had his entire head in a bowl of pancake mix, licking away as if he’d known he had only seconds to do so before being caught.

  “Shoot!” Michele ran over and, after pulling the bowl away, led Romeo out of the room. When she returned, she made sure to put up a gate. Romeo of course was not happy with this and howled in disapproval.

  “Oh, shush,” she said.

  Stepping over the gate, Paul returned to the kitchen. “I’ve called the police,” he said. “I don’t think they can do much, though. They said they’d get people out to patrol the area once the roads are cleared. Until then their hands are pretty muc
h tied.”

  “That’s just how they planned it,” Michele said, licking some of the batter herself. “Makes me sick.”

  Paul pointed at the finger in her mouth. “That’s what’s going to make you sick.”

  “What? This?” she said, dipping her finger back in and sticking it in her husband’s face as he backed away. “You wouldn’t want me to be sick by myself, would you?” Then she began to chase him around the kitchen, much to MJ’s embarrassment.

  “Mom! Dad!” She buried her face in her hands and groaned. “They’re the worst.”

  Vince just watched them. His parents once had acted the same way. Watching this couple circling each other around the kitchen table, shifting chairs to obstruct the other’s path, he was thankful. These antics brought a wide assortment of pleasant memories rushing back into his head, like water freed from a dam. He saw his parents in love once again; he saw them tossing snowballs and sharing food from the same plate and getting competitive with board games and dancing to no music at all, and on and on and on. Everywhere he turned, the walls of this home fell down and were replaced by the walls of his childhood. All his furniture—the dining table, the couch, the lamps, the desk, the bookcases—returned, and he could hear his parents’ voices in every room. He could watch as his mother and father picked him up or snuggled with him before the fire or exchanged presents on holidays. Seeing his mother dressed as a clown for Halloween, he laughed again and even harder when his father entered the room as a mermaid. Vince couldn’t walk anywhere without being reminded of his past, and for him, that was wonderful. They were special memories, and he was afraid he had lost them for good. But here they were, as fresh as ever. It was some time before he stopped smiling.

  From there the day just got better and better. Vince hadn’t felt this good in a long time. There were plenty of laughs, and the flames from the fireplace warmed them all. Michele and Paul were unbelievably kind—their only rule was to not leave the house until the Byron Clan business was all cleared up—and MJ was turning out to be the perfect friend. They watched some TV together, played video games, ate a few highly stacked sandwiches for lunch, with some chips on the side, and shared numerous stories about themselves, Vince recounting many remembrances of his parents, including his belief that his father might still be alive and waiting for him in Dyerville.