Vince thought a moment and shook his head. He blamed himself for this. He, along with his parents, was one of the cynical doubters who believed his grandfather had lost his mind. He had forgotten the stories, the language they shared. The words, and any meaning that came with them, were now lost.
Andrew sat back in his chair. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I suppose all that matters is what you take with you, what parts of your grandfather you take with you.”
“That’s why you sent me the book. So I could carry him with me.”
“The tales seemed like they meant a lot to him.”
“That’s his life on those pages.”
Vince said this and had to look away. He glanced around the room and noticed all eyes were locked on him.
Andrew, picking up on his guest’s discomfort, turned around with a snort, and the others quickly diverted their eyes and returned to their activities.
“Don’t mind them,” he told Vince. “People in here have argued about that for some time now.”
“Argued about what?”
“About the tales. Are those stories true or not? And you know what I say, Vince? Fact, fiction, what does it matter? Is anything really fact? There may come a time when one plus one doesn’t equal two anymore. The world was flat; now it is round. The sun once rotated around us; now we rotate around the sun. The universe continues to grow as well as multiply; how far will it go? There are countless religions, various origin stories, alternate histories of every country and government. Fact?” He shrugged his shoulders. “What is a fact? We gather information; that is the best we can do. We gather as much as possible and lay it all before us. Then we decide what to believe.”
“Then we grab the truths that speak to us.”
Andrew leaned in, grinning. “You’re a wise boy.”
“But not until we hear the whole story, right?”
“Would you mind reading a tale to everyone gathered here right now? They all knew your grandfather and liked his stories, whether or not they believed them. I’m sure they’d love it.”
Vince nodded and reached into his backpack. When he looked up again, everyone in the room was gathering around him. He felt like it was bedtime at the orphanage again, and he had everyone’s rapt attention, every heart and mind yearning for somewhere to escape to. Once more the home for the elderly was filled with the voice of his grandfather.
The Trials
Everything was clear: every word, sentence, paragraph, and page. It all settled into proper form, not a single letter out of place. The book now explained to Vincent, in rich detail, how to reach the King of the Birds deep within the forest. It was this ancient man, it stated, who would tell him how to retrieve the sword and the bow he so desperately needed.
“It will be a long time before we come back out of these woods,” Orin said to Vincent early one sunny morning, as they stood on the edge of the forest after a full day and night of travel. “If we make it out at all.”
“We will emerge,” Vincent said, his body still throbbing with pain from the thrashing it had taken in the river. He even felt feverish, cold. “But we will not do so without finding the witch first. It ends here.”
“Yes, let us begin this final stage of our quest.”
And so together the golden boy and the horse headed into the dark forest to meet their fates.
It swallowed them whole. This massive forest was alive in more than just the natural sense. The path vanished almost instantly, eaten up by the ever-thickening brush. All around them, the trees multiplied by thousands, seemingly springing up out of nowhere, more obstructions, more confusion at every turn. All directions appeared identical. It was as if they were lost to the world. The woods, in fact, seemed to be its own endless world. It had its own sounds, its own laws. It wasn’t safe.
With the blotting out of the sun, temperatures dropped precipitously. Vincent could see the fog of breath emerging from Orin’s mouth and followed it up until it thinned and vanished in the darkness. With his eyes heavenward, he said, “I never felt so small. These trees, it’s like they’ve been stacked one atop another. I can’t see where they end. Do they end?”
“I have an uneasy feeling about these woods, Vincent. The longer we are here, the more likely we are to perish. We should make haste.”
Vincent kept the gold book open before him, studying the text on how to properly navigate through such a merciless maze. “It says here that there should be a tree that is split in two, as if it were struck by lightning. We are to go in the direction of the left half.”
“There!” Orin shouted, and sure enough, sixty feet ahead was a tree torn down the center, one half bending one way, the other in the complete opposite direction, the inside blackened and charred.
It felt good to be making progress. Vincent caressed the book like a beloved pet. He wanted to thank it for its help. But this was just the beginning.
From there the two had to follow certain slants of light, locate peculiarly twisted trees and curious clearings. Many times he deciphered the information incorrectly, and they had to retrace their steps for a mile or more, only to start over again. When the sun went down, not a thing could be seen, and they had to cease their travels and try to sleep. Although that was when the wilderness truly came alive.
Odd noises, the forest’s wild midnight orchestra at play, surrounded them in the darkness. Creatures rustled the leaves, creaked the branches from which they leaped. There were shrieks and snarls, moans and cries, howls and bellows. Vincent and Orin heard the vile devouring of prey, the crunching of bones, the slurping of blood. Throughout the night, all around them was the sound of approaching footsteps—large beasts, no doubt. The boar, Vincent immediately thought. It’s watching us. And perhaps through it, the witch as well. But it is not yet time for our paths to cross.
“When this is over,” Vincent asked Orin before their crackling fire, “and you are human once again, what do you plan to do with the rest of your days?”
The horse neighed quietly and exhaled. “I’m not sure. A part of me fears that I have forgotten what it’s like to be human. What if I don’t fit in anymore? What if, no matter where I go, I’m not wanted?”
“Who wouldn’t want you, Orin? I couldn’t have asked for a better companion.”
“We’re an unlikely pair, the two of us. Perhaps something greater than ourselves brought us together. I have no doubt you will find your mother. After this is done, you will have everything you ever wanted.”
Vincent stroked the horse’s head. “I got this far because of you. I survived the giant and met Stella because of you. Whatever happens, you will never be forgotten. You will always have a place where you are wanted. Never question that.”
A haunted howl cut through the woods, silencing their conversation. The two of them edged closer to the fire, their eyes scanning the dark and menacing surroundings. The night couldn’t pass soon enough.
Over the remaining hours they slept poorly, and when morning arrived, they wearily set out once more, the days repeating with little difference and minimal progress. They found hardly a trifle to eat in the forest, and what they did consume usually made them sick. Their bodies grew heavy; their minds, fragile. Every muscle weakened, and all energy drained as if through a sieve. Vincent’s fever rose dangerously high. At times the two friends believed they, like so many others before them, would embrace their deaths here in the woods.
But still, they were persistent, fighting through all illnesses and hunger, all fears and doubts, never wavering, and in the end such determination served them well. Nearly two weeks into their venture through the forest, they came to the tree they had been searching for.
“It matches the one in the book,” Vincent said. “Exactly.”
It was a thick tree, the thickest they had come across in all their travels. Nearly four hundred feet in height, the top was lost in the clouds, its own dank environment. At their feet, the roots must have plunged deep into the earth, ensuring the anc
ient tree would never topple or go hungry. The falling cones were as large as Vincent’s head, and nearly every single branch supported a hundred birds all lined up and silently watching the pair’s every move. It was as if every winged creature had sought this one tree, had been pulled to it. Indeed this was the home of the King of the Birds.
“He’s inside there? How do we get in?” Orin asked, sidestepping another plummeting cone.
Vincent, gold book in hand, watched the pages flip. When they settled, he read the unlocked words. “The book says to knock in a particular pattern.” He hopped down from the horse. “Like on the door of a house.” With his free hand, he reached out and rapped his knuckles against the trunk in the rhythm explained on the open page.
Almost instantly the trunk began to split open, kicking up dirt and sand into small clouds. The wood creaked so loudly it sounded as if it were being twisted and wrung dry. The thousands of birds scattered, and eventually a door took shape, revealing darkness within.
“We’re one step closer,” Vincent said, nudging Orin onward.
From the outside the tree was humongous. From the inside it was even bigger. There was an entire palace within, everything made of wood—tables, chairs, staircases, bowls, chalices, everything—all kept in place by their own roots. Like the forest itself, it was a living, breathing place. In the center of it all, high above them, Vincent found the old man from the gold book sitting on a throne of thick limbs. He almost looked like he was made of wood himself. His features were dark and gnarled and thick like bark. His arms appeared to be covered in dying moss, and his legs could have been trunks themselves. His beard, which straggled all the way down to his soiled feet, was littered with dried leaves and was crawling with insects. He wore a robe of tangled undergrowth. His nose was sharp; his eyes were bold and round and wildly unsettled. There were several birds lingering on his person, on his arms and shoulders, even his head. He fed them from a large bowl of writhing worms.
“I know why you’ve come,” said the king, his voice so old it sprayed dust. “My birds have told me. They tell me all that goes on in the world, from every corner of it. There is nothing that escapes me. You seek the sword and the bow. Am I right?” He smiled, revealing a rotting set of wooden teeth.
“Yes. We’ve come a long way, my horse and I. Can you help us?”
“That I can. The fact that you have found me reveals your admirable determination and will, a will I will not crush by denying your request. I cannot give you the sword and the bow, I’m afraid, but I can tell you how to obtain them.” As he spoke, he didn’t budge, as if his body too were rooted in place.
“That is all we ask.”
“To acquire the bow with which to kill the boar, you must first display great acts of stealth and cunning. To bring death to the witch, you have to first overcome Death yourself, for only Death can bring death. There are two” —he paused, carefully considering his next word—“creatures you seek. One has no name. Those who dare whisper about him simply call him the Tall Man. He sits beneath a tree deep in this forest. Whether it rains or snows, he never moves, never even stirs. Not unless something catches his eye, something special; then he hunts. He will find you, my golden friend, most alluring. His victims, you will discover, are displayed prominently all around him, like a warning. To retrieve the bow, you must not heed this warning. The Tall Man sits with the bow at his back, almost as a tease, a taunt; he wants you to come for it. You must snatch it without his turning around, without his spotting you. If he does, and you are not as cunning as he is, he will catch you, and your fate will be most horrendous. Do you understand?” Vincent nodded, and the King of the Birds went on. “The sword will be even more difficult to obtain, for you must face Death itself. Only such a being as Death can decide if you are worthy enough to carry such power in your hands, to deny Death a soul, for the sword itself is a soul killer. Death will not give it up easily. Beware Death’s gaze; beware its touch.” Silent, he stared down at Vincent, appraising what he saw. “Are you afraid of that which you must do?”
Vincent was very afraid, but he knew he couldn’t allow such fear to penetrate deep inside him, for then he would most surely fail. “Afraid or not, I will succeed.”
“I believe you just might. I suppose you would like to know how to find these two nightmares.”
“Yes.”
With a crunch, the King of the Birds pulled his arm free of the throne as if they were one and reached down beside him to pick up a small cage. In it were three birds: an owl, a raven, and a crow.
“To find the Tall Man, release the owl. It will take you to him, for it sees that which we cannot imagine. To find Death, set free the raven, for the two know each other well. Then, if you possess both the sword and the bow, release the crow, and it will lead you to the boar. Find and defeat the boar, and you will find the witch, for they are now linked for life.”
“Thank you,” Vincent said, stepping forward and taking hold of the cage.
“The birds of the forest will be watching. I will listen closely for your tale, my friend. Good luck. You will most certainly need it.”
Outside the tree Vincent opened the cage. Without hesitation, the owl took flight off into the trees.
“Follow it,” Vincent told Orin. “The Tall Man has our bow.”
It was several hours of travel, but by the time the sun dropped to the horizon and twilight ensconced the woods, the owl had settled on a branch in the near distance, folded its wings, and tucked its head.
It was an eerie part of the forest. Everything was withered and dying. The trees were dry; their branches, brittle and bare. There was no greenery. It was as if a fire had burned here for many days.
“The Tall Man must be near,” Vincent said, dismounting. His landing was awkward, the fever he still carried affecting his balance.
“What are you doing?” Orin said. “I’m coming with you.”
“The King of the Birds said this task shall require great stealth.”
“Stealth? You can hardly stand.”
“I will be fine. And I’ll be able to perform better alone. Wait here for me. Conserve your strength. You will need it when I return with the bow, for then we must flee and you must run faster than you ever have before.”
“If he spots us, we will be doomed. The King of the Birds said so himself.”
“Then let us hope it does not come to that.”
Reluctantly Orin wished him luck, and Vincent trod carefully in the direction of the owl.
It wasn’t long before he heard something familiar, a sort of creaking sound. The noise reminded him of walking the docks with his mother, boats all around waiting to be boarded. But surely there was no water or ships in the middle of the woods. What was it then?
Rope. Yes, it was the creaking of rope, not one but many. What exactly was out here in the forest with him? From behind a tree, Vincent peered out into the darkening distance, searching for what it might be. His eyes scanned the trees, jumping from shadow to shadow to— His hand quickly covered his mouth as he choked back a scream. Oh, no. Oh, no.
From a single oak tree hung a score of men. They were tied to the branches by their legs, their arms dangling, nearly brushing the ground as they swayed. Their bodies were heavily decayed and scavenged. Not by carrion birds—that much was clear—but by what?
Then he spotted the Tall Man.
The creature sat cross-legged beneath the same tree from which his victims hung, his back to Vincent. Even sitting, he appeared to be taller than most men. In fact everything about him was stretched and pulled thin. He looked flattened, squeezed, and yanked into something inhuman. He was dressed in black rags, and an oversized hat hung limply atop his head. Whatever skin showed was so pale he was practically translucent.
More important to Vincent, however, was the bow with a small quiver of arrows tied to it, lying on the ground behind the Tall Man’s back. It sat there waiting for him.
Should he create a diversion or just run and grab it? T
he Tall Man appeared to be in some meditative state. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe it wouldn’t be as difficult as he thought. No, you must be careful. It won’t be that simple.
Vincent approached slowly. He moved slower than slow. Every step had to be sure. He couldn’t make a sound; he couldn’t make one false step. He had to avoid all fallen branches, all piles of leaves. But whenever he looked up at the Tall Man, he nearly toppled over. Was it the fever? His mind played games with him. His thoughts didn’t feel like his own. What is he doing sitting there? Did his head just twitch? Is that noise coming from him? What is that? It sounds like a hiss. Then, oddly: His face, I want to see his face. Vincent had to freeze. What had come over him?
When he felt he had regained his composure, he moved again, nearer and nearer to the tree. All around him the Tall Man’s victims swayed back and forth in the wind, the ropes ominously creaking. Their reeking bodies brushed against Vincent’s arms and legs. It was almost as if they were reaching for him, looking to keep him from moving forward. Their skin was rotting and discolored; large chunks had been ripped out, revealing bone; spiders made their homes throughout the remaining clothes, some even burrowing into the open wounds to lay eggs. It was a disturbing sight, but Vincent paid little attention. The closer he got, the more he was in awe of the Tall Man’s size. One arm alone was nearly five feet long, if not longer. He could probably turn around and reach Vincent from here. What would he look like if he stood up? Should I call out to him?
Vincent was terrified now. It was as if his mind had been invaded, his thoughts maliciously toyed with. He felt close to passing out.
But he tried to brush such fears aside, for the bow was almost within his grasp. Just a few more steps.
He slunk closer. Closer still.
The Dyerville Tales Page 17
