The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  “I’m asking about the other one, kid.” Slowly the man reached out for Vince’s hood, his fingers eagerly twitching away.

  Vince wondered if he should make a run for it. The man’s fingers were getting even closer now. His identity would be revealed at any second.

  “Wait, let me see again,” Christopher said, swiping the picture from the man’s hand and turning his back on him.

  The man quickly spun away from Vince and charged after Christopher. “Hey, give that back. I have to show other people, you know.”

  “Oh, sorry. Here you go.” Christopher handed the picture back all crumpled up.

  “What’d you do?” the man said, flattening it out. “You ruined it. You can’t even make out his face anymore!”

  “Well, I got a good look in. We haven’t seen him,” Christopher said.

  The man walked away shaking his head, and Christopher turned to Vince, nodding his head once. “That might buy you some time.”

  Vince lowered the hood. “You could have given me up.”

  “To some random guy? You’re here for your grandfather’s funeral. What’s the problem with that? Why are they looking for you anyway?”

  “I ran away from my orphanage to get here. I must have upset a lot of people.”

  “And they never stopped to wonder just how upset you might be?”

  The walk was a long one, and the coat didn’t do much for the cold. He might as well have been wearing a net. He was more than thankful when, almost an hour later, Christopher finally pointed out the house, tufts of smoke coming from the chimney.

  “Home sweet home.”

  Warmth. He felt the warmth of the fire the moment he walked in, like an abrupt shift in seasons. He could hear the flames crackling. The fireplace was oversize, almost encompassing the entirety of the far wall. Pictures hung everywhere in simple frames: all portraits, many of them children.

  Christopher guided him across the wood floors, each beam creaking beneath the pair’s feet, and into the kitchen. Exhausted and shivering, each pulled up a chair at the table and sat down. Vince sneezed.

  “Did you go out without your coat?” somebody called out. The voice, filled with both concern and agitation, came from upstairs, as did plenty of other noises, which Vince, because of his experiences at the orphanage, quickly recognized as boys roughhousing.

  “Yeah, I went out naked,” Christopher shouted back, concealing his laughter.

  “Don’t you get wise with me, I’ll—”

  “Ma,” he yelled, stopping her, “we have a guest.”

  “What do you me—” A woman was in the doorway now, hands on hips. Upon seeing Vince, her eyes revealed that Christopher was lucky to get away with one, and it looked like her son knew it too. “You’re Andrew’s Vincent?” she asked.

  “Vincent Elgin, ma’am.”

  “Right, right,” she said, ambling over. “It was your grandfather who just passed away earlier this week. I’m so sorry about your loss, dear, dear boy.” She placed a compassionate hand on the side of Vince’s face and rubbed his cheek with her thumb.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The woman had wavy hair, cut above the ear, hair that wanted desperately to curl but came up just short. Her skin was dark and smooth; she looked like she should have had wrinkles, but there weren’t any at all. However, it was her eyes and smile that truly gave everything away. In them she carried more warmth than the fireplace.

  “My name is Marie,” she said. She looked at Vince’s ragged coat and turned to her son. “Christopher, what are you doing? You make him sit here in damp clothes? Take his coat.” As Vince handed it over, she turned back to him. “I’m sorry, you give these kids life, you sacrifice day and night for them, but when you try to instill some civility in these brutes, they’re found wanting. Vincent, can I get you anything? Something to eat, drink?”

  “I’ll have some water, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  She hustled across the kitchen and was about to pour Vince a drink when she reached back and grabbed his hand. Her face shifted to one of concern. “My dear, you’re ice cold,” she said. “Look at your cheeks. Look at your lips. They’re purple. I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you tea, how about that? It’s mostly water, so this way we both win.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Can I have hot chocolate?” Christopher asked.

  “If I make it for you, I have to make it for everybody.”

  “So?”

  With a great sigh, Marie went and put up a pot of water. When she came back, she rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand while looking into Vince’s eyes. Shaking her head, she appeared to be on the verge of tears. “What are you doing here all by yourself at such a difficult time?” she asked. “Where is your mother?”

  “I don’t have a mother.”

  If Marie was embarrassed for asking, she didn’t show it, and Vince was grateful for that. “I’m so sorry. Is your father here with you?”

  Vince shook his head.

  “No siblings either?”

  “No.”

  “Well, who’s looking after you?”

  “No one. I ran away to get here.”

  “There are people looking for him,” Christopher interjected.

  “What? What people?”

  “From the orphanage. I wasn’t allowed to come here. I snuck out of the orphanage and hopped a train.”

  Marie looked a little shaken, but she paused, calming herself. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You’ll be safe here.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

  “Don’t you worry about it. I’ve taken in many a child in my day.” She waved her arm around the room, gesturing at the portraits. “I take in the sick, the poor, you name it. It’s the least I can do.” The teakettle went off. “Water’s boiled.” She shuffled over and prepared his tea.

  “Now, drink up,” she said, setting it before him. “Get warm.”

  Vince sipped the tea, nearly burning his tongue.

  “How is it?” she asked.

  “It’s perfect.”

  Vince spent the rest of the evening talking with Marie and her five boys around the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating cookies. They were a rambunctious lot, but they were funny and pleasant—a real family—and it kept his mind free from the anxiety that had been building for the funeral.

  When it was time for bed, Vince followed Marie to the second level, down a hall, and into a dark spare bedroom.

  “Bah!” two of the five boys screamed while jumping out at them from behind the door. Marie, nearly toppling over, began swatting at her sons as they squeezed by and took off down the stairs, laughing all the way.

  “Don’t do that to me!” she yelled down at them. “You know I hate that! Nearly gave me a heart attack.” With a hand on her heart in an attempt to calm herself, she turned to Vince. “Don’t mind them. They tend to get a bit wild and silly, especially around bedtime. I shouldn’t have given them the hot chocolate.”

  She moved to a closet, grabbed a heavy coat, and raised it up to Vince’s frame. “This should do. Here,” she said, passing it to him, “try it on. No one should be walking around in such a skimpy coat. Not in these temperatures.”

  Vince threw his arms through the sleeves and adjusted the collar. A perfect fit.

  “I knew it. Much better than that raggedy thing you came in with.” Marie also handed him some gloves and a hat—everything in pristine condition and of very high quality. Then she gave him another look-over, inspecting him closely. After a few moments she spoke softly, a frown on her face. “You know, I have an extra suit in here too, Vincent. For tomorrow.”

  Vince looked beneath the fine coat at the clothes he had collected from the orphanage. It was already a sorry assemblage, and now after all his travel it looked even worse—especially under a coat of such value—enough to make him feel ashamed that he had even thought he could pass it off as acceptable. He would be a disgrace enteri
ng that church.

  “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want,” Marie added. “You look handsome as is.”

  But he did want them. He wanted to do his grandfather proud. “If you wouldn’t mind. I promise I won’t get it dirty.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Keep it. Tomorrow you will be a fine-dressed gentleman. Your grandfather will watch you from above and smile.”

  Vince’s eyes began to water. He had to look down and bite his lip.

  “Now”—Marie went on—“don’t get upset. You’re here for him. He would be happy to know it.”

  Vince liked the sound of that. Marie reminded him of his mother, and he felt himself tearing up again. “Thank you. For everything.”

  Marie smiled. “I’ll be there tomorrow too. With my boys. You don’t have to know a person to be at his funeral. I make sure we pay our respects to everyone who passes away in this town. It’s the least we can do. Now get some sleep.” She bent over and turned on a night-light. “My boys are scared of the dark, the little babies.”

  “I used to be,” Vince said. “Not anymore.”

  When she left, before undressing, he looked out the window. Everything was still, quiet, and the light from a lamppost outside cast a warm glow in his room.

  He climbed into bed, thinking about tomorrow, when he would finally meet his father. Then, fully prepared for what was to come, he slipped The Dyerville Tales out of his pack and opened to the final chapter.

  The Witch of the Woods

  The crow flew for days. Occasionally it descended, and believing they were close, Vincent felt his breath catch in his throat. As his eyes darted about the bleak landscape—a path of trees snapped in half as if knocked over by outsize forces—his hand tensed around the grooved handle of the sword. His breathing intensified; his pulse quickened. He wasn’t sure he was ready for what was to come.

  But then, after circling an area of the forest several times over, the crow would let out a cry and suddenly fly higher than it had before. Another false alarm. The witch, it appeared, was on the move yet again.

  “The boar is following in the path of its master,” Orin pointed out. “It feels the pull, the link between the two.”

  “The witch will have to set her home down at some point,” Vincent said, his voice dry and scratchy, all adrenaline rapidly draining from his body. As he wiped the sweat from his hands on his legs, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. “We have to remain ready.”

  “I have waited so long for this,” Orin said, “a few days more mean nothing to me.”

  And it was a few days more before the crow finally settled.

  At first, Vincent couldn’t believe it; he had just about given up hope of ever finding the witch and her wandering abode. He imagined himself trekking through the forest until he was a very old man, no longer in need of the aging cloak to appear withered and brittle. But now, on a damp morning just before dawn, in the distance, through the thickness of the trees, he saw a hut. It blended in well with its surroundings, as if a spell were concealing it from adventurous travelers. Had the crow not been staring directly at it, Vincent most likely would have wandered right past, never knowing how close he had actually come.

  The nearer they approached, the more rank the air became; it was a truly putrid and foul smell, one that lingered like a fog, infiltrating the nose and clinging to the skin. Gagging, he felt his stomach roll over. “What is that?” he asked, trying hard not to vomit.

  Orin gazed ahead, his eyes alert. “It is evil. Pure evil.”

  The crow, out of anxiousness or recklessness they didn’t know, flew even closer to the cottage, urging them to follow, which they did.

  When Vincent and Orin were close enough, they hid behind some brush and peered through it. They spotted the crow perched upon a skull. It pecked at something inside the hollowed nose and came up swallowing. The skull, cracked and eerily small, bottom jaw missing, sat tilted on a wooden post—a grim warning to all. There were many skulls atop many posts surrounding the cottage, although some remained empty, as if the witch were expecting more victims. With a hand rubbing at his throat, Vincent wondered if he was next.

  There was debris and bones and trash scattered all around, dirty water in rusted buckets, rats the size of cats eating rotten food. It seemed that wherever the home traveled, its deplorable surroundings came with it, as if it had ripped up the earth on which it sat. All the trees, all the bushes and plants and flowers sitting within range of the cottage must have died upon its arrival. Only weeds, dried grass, and withered vines remained.

  How did the house move, though? Looking for an answer, Vincent believed he could make out long, thin legs that were tucked under the floor of the house: black magic.

  Dark smoke escaped from the chimney, the source of the rancid smell. Vincent pointed to this as he hopped down from the horse. “The witch is inside. I’m going to have a look.”

  “Don’t be crazy. What if she sees you? We don’t want to confront her until we have struck down the boar.”

  “I have to see if my mother is in that awful place. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  Vincent crawled ever so slowly across the ground, the rats not intimidated in the least by his presence. They skittered beside him, smelling his gold skin. One tried to take a bite out of his leg, and he had to smack it away with the back of his hand. He passed a skull that had fallen from a post, one that had become home to a red and black snake. Vincent swore to whoever it belonged he would avenge him for what the witch had done.

  When he reached the house, he ducked below a small, solitary window on the far side. It was opened just a crack, and he could hear noises coming from inside. Something told him not to look in, but he pulled himself up and did so anyway.

  It was a strange sight. Apart from the fact that the hut’s interior was an absolute mess, the first thing he noticed was the several people, some men and women, some children, casually walking about inside. They weren’t chained up; they weren’t helpless or screaming or crying; no one was trying to escape. They were simply working. They cooked, mixed potions, captured rodents and insects and reptiles, tended to the cast-iron oven burning oh so brightly in the center of the room. But why would they do such things? They looked like good, kind people.

  Then he noticed they all bore the same blank expression, as if their souls had been sucked out of their eyes and left them hollowed. They have no choice, he realized. They were being controlled, forced into servitude, not by whips or chains but by the witch’s spells. Suddenly Vincent was hit with a bleak realization. These people must have once been children, bartered away by their parents, kidnapped right from their homes. One of these might even be Stella’s brother. Had Vincent not run away, he could have been here as well.

  But where was his mother? Did she too share this fate?

  Just then a skull rolled out from under the house and settled at Vincent’s feet. He looked down at it, rage surging through his body. If the witch had killed her . . . And for what? What was the curse all about? This? So the witch could have one more able body to perform her incantations? Where is she? he thought, his hand tightening on the sword once again. I want her. I want her now.

  And as if hearing his thoughts, the witch emerged from deeper in the room. She sat down at a table in the middle, set down a large plate of food before her, and began to eat. Bits of meat soon hung from her face, thick juices running down her chin and hands. Licking her lips with a long, fat tongue, she picked up another slab and shoved it deep into her mouth. She ate ravenously, as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Each bite was savored. She squirmed in her seat, sucking her fingers dry. “More,” she called.

  A servant removed another heaping portion from the oven and set it before her, and Vincent turned away in disgust. Her meal didn’t look like any animal meat he had ever seen. The revolting smell of the food wafted out the open window, watering his eyes. He had to take deep breaths, calm himself. When he glanced back, the oven door was still op
en, and he saw what was cooking inside. There were body parts. Human body parts: hands, feet, arms, legs. On the witch’s empty plate sat the remaining bones, scraped clean.

  Vincent, his mind reeling, backed away from the window and returned to Orin to fill his friend in on what he had seen.

  “That vile hag”—Orin spit, once he’d heard enough—“she must be stopped.”

  “I agree. The time has come.”

  “And your mother . . .”

  “No sign of her. If that witch—”

  “Vincent, we must concentrate. Don’t let your anger overwhelm you. We must be careful not to take the lives of her servants,” Orin said. “If they defend her, wound them at most, for when the witch is finished, they will return to their true selves, as will I.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I am. The boar must be somewhere close by.”

  “Then let’s—”

  There was a noise behind them, the sharp snapping of a twig. Vincent turned around, only to find one of the servants staring blankly at him from within the woods. She stood frozen, her arms full of firewood.

  Vincent slowly raised a finger to his lips. “Miss, we’re here to help you. Don’t—”

  The logs tumbled from the woman’s arms as she let out a horrible, piercing scream. It could be heard for miles.

  The door to the hut was thrown open; the servants spewed forth. They ran right for Vincent, their mouths wide open, teeth bared. There was life in them yet.

  Orin quickly jumped in front of his friend, kicking two of the attackers aside with his back legs. “Get on.”

  Vincent, however, didn’t move. He was horrified by what he saw. These were innocent people turned into monsters.

  “Get on,” Orin screamed.

  Another servant was sprinting in their direction; she had a knife in her hand. She raised it over her head, the sunlight gleaming off the blade and directly into Vincent’s eyes. His trance was broken, and he pulled himself onto the horse and grabbed his bow. But no sooner had he done this than the woman lunged forward and stabbed Orin.

  The horse bucked wildly, kicking the woman and sending her flying backward into a tree.