“My father built this house,” he told her. “Originally, I mean. Before it burned down.”
MJ moved in closer. “He did?”
“That’s why I came here. I had to see it again, what was left. I had no idea it had been rebuilt.”
“So you, like, lived in this house?”
“My bed was almost exactly where yours is.” Grinning, he got up and ran to the window. “And look at this.” He pointed out into the woods. “You can’t really see it because of all the snow coming down, but back there my dad and I built a tree house. It was huge. So cool. We used to play in it all the time. Well, not all the time, but whenever he wasn’t away. We’d have shoot-outs and adventure games, we’d make passwords to get in, and at night we’d tell scary stories. I loved that tree house so much.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember now. I came across something back there once. It must have fallen down over the years because there were all these piles of wood scattered about. Although one tree still has boards nailed to it.”
“The ladder!” With a hand against his head, overwhelmed by everything, Vince slumped down to the floor. “I didn’t think it would feel like this, coming back here. I wasn’t sure I’d feel anything.”
MJ sat before him, crossing her legs as if she were about to meditate. “Give me your hand. The one you write with.”
With an arched eye, Vince sat up and hesitantly extended his right hand. When it was close enough, MJ sprang forward and snatched it. She held his hand tightly, as if she didn’t want him to pull back. Then, with her free hand, she reached behind her and pulled a book from off her shelf.
“I’ve been studying how to do this,” she said.
“Do what?” Vince asked, curious.
“Read palms. My aunt got me started. She told me she always sensed I had spiritual abilities.”
Was that true? Vince shifted uncomfortably. He was scared of what she might say.
“Don’t be nervous,” MJ said, as if sensing his fears. “Everything will be fine. You trust me, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Besides, if I say anything you don’t like, just dismiss it. You can chalk it up to my being a beginner.”
Vince laughed. “Sure. I mean, it’s not like this stuff is real anyway, right?”
“Who’s to say? We won’t know until it happens, now will we?”
Vince glanced over at his grandfather’s book. He adjusted his posture and leaned in. “Okay. Tell me what I need to know.”
“Great, let’s see,” she said, bowing her head, her eyes practically in his palm. “There has been much pain in your life.”
Vince looked up at her. “Seriously? You’re cheating. You already know what happened to me and my family.”
“I know that, but it’s in your lines too. Right here.” She traced her finger in an area near his thumb, creating a pleasant tingling sensation. “That says it all.” Licking her lips, she shifted her focus up toward the top of his palm. “But you see this line? That means it will get better. And it will get better very soon too.”
This sounded good to Vince.
“And this line here, this is your travel line. It’s very long. This means you will be going someplace you’ve never been before, and it will be a very important trip for you. Life changing, in fact.”
Vince wondered if by this last comment, she meant his trip to Dyerville. He wondered if she meant he would finally reunite with his father. That would certainly be life changing. He sat up even straighter, excitement coursing through his body.
“Your Mercury line is strong,” she went on. “This means you are a great communicator.” She paused. “I think. No. Yeah. Anyway, it’s something you should continue.” Blushing a little, she flipped some pages in her book and scanned a few paragraphs. Vince watched her lips open and close as she silently read the words.
“Okay, got it.” She focused on his palm once again.
“This right here is your Saturn mount. It’s pretty prominent. But don’t worry, that’s a good thing. It tells me you seek”—she glanced down at her book again for confirmation—“wisdom and understanding. You do, don’t you?”
“So much.”
“I think you’ll definitely find it,” she said with a nod and a smile, and Vince couldn’t help smiling back, the two of them keeping their eyes on each other for some time.
MJ looked away first, awkwardly pulling her hair back behind her ears and forcing a cough. When her eyes returned to examine Vince’s palm, it was clear she noticed something because she suddenly leaned back, her face twisted and scrunched in deep contemplation. “That’s weird,” she said, stretching the adjective. “I’ve never seen this before.”
“What?” Vince asked.
“Look, your life line, it splits in two,” she said, illustrating with her fingernail. “One is very short, but the other stretches really, really far. Look at that.”
“My grandfather lived to be a hundred,” Vincent said. Then he immediately recalled how his grandfather always told people he lived twice that. Was that possible? Why did it suddenly seem possible to him?
MJ let go of Vince’s hand. “He sounds like such an amazing person. I want to hear more about him. I want to listen to you read his story.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I mean, don’t you find the story incredible?”
“It’s the best story I’ve ever heard.”
“What if it’s true? What if parts of it were taken from real experiences he had?”
Vince didn’t respond. He just watched as MJ got up and grabbed the book. When she returned, she handed it over to him.
“Read it to me. Just one more chapter.”
Barlow Manor
Vincent was on the back of the horse, galloping along a dusty road, their shadows lost in the dense clouds of dirt violently kicked up behind them. The sun burned Vincent’s golden skin without remorse, and his weight—he was nearly three times as heavy now, covered as he was in gold—had begun to drastically slow Orin. After riding for hours, they would need to rest soon. Luckily, they had drawn near to where Vincent had grown up. He knew exactly where to go.
“We have to stop soon!” he shouted into Orin’s ear. “There’s somewhere I wish to go. We’ll have food, water, a place to sleep.”
“Yes,” Orin agreed, “I tire.”
“Down this way,” Vincent said, pointing west.
The trees he recognized appeared as old friends, branches waving. Every road told a different story he knew by heart. Even the sky appeared the same as when he had first set out those many months ago, not a cloud out of place. Nothing had changed.
Desperately, he wished to see his mother again. He wanted to calm her fears, tell her that he was okay. He wanted to be in her care once again. Safe, happy. And this time he wouldn’t leave; with the gold book in his possession he would discover a way to end the curse once and for all. Oh, to be home; he wanted nothing more.
When they reached the house, Vincent dismounted Orin as if on a spring and, grinning with delight, ran straight inside.
“Mom? Mom?” he called, throwing open the front door so hard he nearly took it off its hinges. “Mother!” He waited for her to come running, hand on her heart, eyes filled with tears, but there was no response. Is she out? he wondered. He looked all over, searching every room, but couldn’t find a trace of her. In fact, the house appeared to have been abandoned some time ago. The walls had begun to wither and crack; dust covered everything; bugs and critters roamed freely. The food had gone bad. What is going on? Where is she?
His nose twitched. What was that smell?
The answer became clear soon enough. Smoke. Smoke and flames. As if Vincent were a lit match, the entire house caught fire. Everywhere he ran, flames followed and spread fast, consuming every corner of the home. Nothing could be saved.
Vincent ran outside, back toward the shed he’d built for her; that seemed to be another lifetime, another person completely. His heart pounding in his chest
, he sprinted straight for it, passing his beloved garden, which had gone to seed. What is going on? What is going on? “Mom! Mom!” He ran harder, as if to crash right through the wood doors, the house behind him quickly burning away. Then, just yards from the shed, he was knocked aside by Orin. He landed punishingly on his face and chest, his breath knocked clear out of him. Gasping and grimacing, he gathered himself, looking up at the horse.
“Is she—is she in there?”
Orin shook his head. “No. You know that. And if you step inside that shed, it too will go up in flames, and yourself with it. It is the curse of the witch. You were never meant to return here. You were never meant to reunite with your mother or your past life. You belong to the witch now.”
Vincent, overcome with grief, suddenly realized the full extent of the witch’s power. His mother was gone, and he might never see her again. He didn’t even know if she was still alive.
No, she is. I can feel it. I know it.
He tried to stand, but his legs gave way, and he collapsed, sobbing into his hands. “What did I do?” he cried. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry. I should never have left. It’s my fault. I’m the curse. I’m the curse.”
Orin sat beside his friend, but neither of them had anything to say for quite a long while. Eventually Vincent found the strength to speak. “The witch did this,” he told Orin, his tears still streaming, his hands grabbing at the dirt as the house continued to burn behind them. “Why did I leave? Why was I so foolish? I should have known what would happen. Instead of running, I should have waited for the witch and settled this myself.”
Orin nodded in understanding. “Do not give up hope. Your mother may yet still live. Together we can find her and bring the witch to her end. By defeating her, we will return ourselves to our proper forms, no longer marked by her evil conjurings.”
“But the giant made me gold; he turned you into a horse, not the witch.”
“The giant was a thief, Vincent. He wasn’t blinded because he innocently wandered into the witch’s woods. He pursued her. He stole from her. Everything in that room, those magical needles and razors, the vial of water, the potion he used to transform me, everything on that shelf: they all came from the witch. That fountain was an ordinary fountain until the giant mixed the water with a concoction he pilfered from her home. And so, when she finally caught him, she blinded him. She marked him just as he has marked us, and she has done the same to hundreds of others. But we can kill the witch, and by killing her, we can reverse everything wrought with her magic. All will be set right.”
“How do you know all this? How did you end up in the giant’s cave?”
“What does it matter?”
“I want to know.”
Orin was agitated. “You have to understand . . . I had no one. Nothing.”
“You are an orphan?”
“It was an empty life, Vincent. I was like a ghost. No one saw me. No one cared. I walked into the giant’s cave trying to change all that.”
“You pursued the gold book?”
“A mistake. For which I am still paying.”
“I see.” Vincent glanced up at the blue sky. “And my mother, you think we can save her?” he asked hopefully.
Orin looked away. “There are no guarantees she is even alive. I’m saying it’s possible.”
They fell silent again. Vincent rested his head against the hard ground, a part of him wanting to sleep forever. But his thoughts would never let him, the fire inside his belly would never diminish, until everything was set right. When he spoke, he sounded different, on the verge of rage.
“That witch, my mother did nothing to her. It was me she wanted. I don’t know why, but it was me. It didn’t have to come to this. Yes, you are right. This all ends with the witch getting what she deserves. Tell me, Orin, how do we find her, how do we defeat her?”
“That I do not know. But I know of someone who does.”
While Orin slept in the shade of the shed, Vincent watched his house burn to the ground. Slowly rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped around his knees, pulling them toward his chest, he had never felt so angry and so very devastated at the same time. Never had he felt the all-encompassing urge for revenge. Before he left home a second time, he swore upon the ashes of his house he would rid the world of the witch and her many evils and find his mother.
When he walked away, nothing was left standing but the shed he’d built with his own two hands, a monument to his mother.
Most of the following day was spent riding through the countryside. Vincent had no idea where they were going, but evidently Orin did. The horse rode with determination, with focus, stopping only when, in the distance, it saw a lone withered tree, stretching and twisting out over the road as if wishing to cross before dying. Standing beneath its dried branches, humming an ominous tune, was a bedraggled dwarf.
Orin slowly backed out of view, whispering to Vincent, “The dwarf up ahead sells items of a certain nature. There is a cloak in his collection. You must obtain it.”
“A cloak? What for?”
“We are heading to the home of a man of great wealth. However, Mr. Barlow is also a man with the blackest of hearts. A greedy man. All he craves in life is more money, more power. He wasn’t always like this, but now, if he were to see your gold body, you would be held captive all over again. And believe me, Mr. Barlow would see to it that you never escaped. Of course that is saying he doesn’t chop your head off first, so that he could mount it above his bed. But we need him; he has great experience in tracking the witch. We need to earn his trust. And for that to work you will need a disguise.”
“But we have no money to pay the dwarf.”
“I know this. But such a thing must not deter us. You must obtain the cloak by any means necessary. Do you understand? We cannot leave without it.”
Vincent and Orin made their way around the bend and over to the dwarf. This four-foot purveyor of random goods was broad-shouldered with a dark beard and beady eyes. He wore leather boots up to his knotty knees, the buckles of which were clearly made of fool’s gold, as was his belt buckle. He was missing his left thumb. Beside him, beneath the tree, was a cart with various objects displayed upon it in a disorganized manner: brass plates and jeweled goblets, stained glass, assorted tools, and various odd trinkets. And there, hanging over the edge just above the cart’s wheel, was a ragged cloak.
Upon seeing Vincent, the dwarf’s eyes lit up brighter than Vincent’s gold skin, glistening under the blazing sun. His whistling stopped abruptly, and his mouth hung open in disbelief, revealing several gold teeth—fake, of course.
“What have we here?” he said, hand stroking his disorderly beard.
“Good day, dwarf. I am interested in your wares,” Vincent said in a failed attempt at sounding older than his years.
“Oh? Everything here has its price. Is there something in particular that catches your eye?”
Vincent, leaning over from atop the horse, pretended to browse the cart. “That cloak. I would like that cloak there.”
“The cloak? Oh, that’s a very special item. I’m not so sure I could part with it. Very valuable. Very valuable. It will cost you.”
“I don’t have money.”
The dwarf laughed mightily at this. “You, a golden boy, no money?”
Vincent deepened his voice in yet another effort to come off more experienced than his years. “I’m willing to negotiate a suitable exchange. Perhaps there is something I can offer you. What is it you need?”
The dwarf eyed the sack strapped across Vincent’s shoulder. “What do you have in there?”
Vincent placed his hand on the worn leather. He could feel the binding of the book bulging beneath it. It pulsated with life. Something would not let him part with it, not even a single page, no matter how badly they needed the cloak. He adjusted the sack so that it was farther away from the dwarf. “There is nothing of value in here.”
“Don’t lie to me. I can smell a liar.”
“I told you, I have no money.”
“You have money, boy. You’re covered in it.” The dwarf reached up and stroked Vincent’s hand.
Quickly Vincent pulled it back. “I’m sorry, but this gold is a part of me. There’s no more where it came from.”
“Don’t be sorry; if you want the cloak, I’ll just take a part of you then.” With this, the dwarf pulled free a large knife and began licking its stained serrated blade. “I don’t need much.”
Vincent recoiled. “I’m supposed to cut off a part of my body for you?”
The dwarf shook his head, a ravenous look in his eye. “Give me a part of your face. I want a part of that beautiful face.”
“I will do no such thing.”
The dwarf spit on the ground. “Then move on from here. I have nothing for you.”
“There has to be something else I can give you.”
“There’s nothing. I named my price,” the dwarf said, turning his back to them. “Be gone if you can’t pay.”
With an incredulous glance Vincent looked down at Orin. But still, the horse nodded in the direction of the cloak.
Shaking his head and sighing, Vincent said, “Very well.”
The dwarf spun around on his heels, grinning madly from ear to ear, knife extended.
Reluctantly Vincent grabbed the handle and brought the dull blade to his cheek. He dug the broken tip in. It took some effort to get past the top layer of gold, but soon enough, he was beneath it.
“Yes. Yes, go on,” said the dwarf. “Get me a sizable piece.”
The blade cut deeper, then deeper still. The pain was horrible. Vincent’s eyes watered; his hand shook. Biting his lip, he slowly sliced away at his face. And that was how Vincent came to bear the scar he was to carry for the rest of his life.
Finished, he tossed the chunk of gold to the dwarf, who, upon catching it, danced around his cart, kissing his prize over and over.
The Dyerville Tales Page 12
