Fearful Symmetry

by Francis Gideon

  “Forty-five seconds,” Otto called. He walked back and forth against the wooden floors, deliberately pacing to make himself seem like a second hand of the clock. “Tick-tock,” he mocked. “Hurry up, hurry up.”

  Dryden looked down and saw the last bit of flame fade to ash. He let out a quick breath, then held it deep inside his mouth. He couldn’t blow any of it away, or he would surely be doomed. Very carefully, he transferred what ash he had onto the scale. He tapped the edge until he could balance. He waited and saw the pendulous weight of the scale still figure itself out. Dryden tapped some more.

  “Thirty seconds. Fading faster and faster.”

  Dryden didn’t let the numbers faze him. He knew he would have enough time; the scales were what he needed to focus on. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the final balance of the ash, and then turned toward the log.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  Dryden paused and started his math again. He was working with decimals this time. He drew the box from his math class, used his fingers and toes to count in his head.

  “Five.”

  “Fuck,” Dryden said. The countdowns were messing him up. He silenced his mind, then saw the final digit fall into place in his head. He turned to Otto before he could count to “three” and stated the weight.

  “What now?”

  “Three point eight ounces. That is the weight of smoke from that one log.”

  Otto paused along with the grains of sand. He wandered over to the table, glanced at the books, then glanced at the numbers on the scale. He started to laugh, and the sound filled Dryden with dread. He looked over his math, his numbers—but he saw nothing wrong. Yet Otto continued to laugh.

  “What’s wrong? I got it. Let me go. I’m right.”

  “You have the weight for this bit of smoke. And really, you’re dealing with ashes. Who wants that? It’s nothing but ruin.”

  Before Dryden could reply, Otto knocked the clay bowl off the table. It smashed onto the ground, the ash rising up against the chair in a cloud. As it scattered over the chair, some of the ash stuck to the residue of the aloe vera on the chair—clearly now, as clearly as a shadow fell on the sundial. Dryden watched as four handprints, varying sizes, emerged like cave paintings, giving himself and Emmons away.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Otto ran his fingers through the ash and dust and then pulled away to smell it. He paused as realization crossed over his eyes. What had first been done in rage now became a weapon to use against Dryden. “Someone was here. Who was here?”

  Oh no. Dryden backed up toward the door. No matter what, I must get to the door. I must prepare to run. Otto narrowed his gaze, strong and sharp. He wasn’t changing into his angry form of the evil tree—no, not yet. But Dryden could hear the snapping of branches that became his breath in and out of his lungs.

  “Who was here?” Otto repeated.

  “No one. I don’t know at you’re talking about,” Dryden said, voice surprisingly calm. In the back of his head he screamed Emmons! Emmons! hoping to keep the man’s name alive. Silly fox. Emmons.

  “Liar. You’re such a bad, ridiculous liar.” Otto laughed, deep and bellowing. “How can you think I’ll believe you?”

  “Because I’m not lying. I’ve solved the riddle.”

  “You solved it with help. I hardly think that’s fair.”

  “And what you’re putting me through is?” Dryden snapped back, then drew a hand over his mouth. He hissed a sigh through his teeth and then straightened his posture. “Even if I had help—I’m not saying I did—you told me the first night I was here that I could read books. That I could have third-party help. I didn’t break any of your rules!”

  “You didn’t read a book, young man. You fucked someone for answers.” Otto laughed again, running his hands through his hair. When he glanced at the chair again, he kicked it into the table, smashing apart the legs. “You realize what you’ve done, right?”

  Dryden didn’t move. “I’ve solved the puzzle. Now you let me go.”

  “No. You’ve upset the order. You fell for a trickster.”

  “As opposed to what? A beast like you?”

  “I am not a monster. I am nature. I am balance itself.” His eyes glowed ochre, and his pupils disappeared. Quicker than before, Otto’s skin became hard against his face, and his clothing bulged as if he was going to snap out of it once again. But before Otto could spill out and into his spindly tree-form, he pulled back. He took a deep breath that sounded like the autumn wind, and his skin softened. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to remain stoic. “I tried to give you a second chance.”

  “And I passed.”

  “You cheated. You took someone else into this house. You violated my welcome.”

  “You gave me no such contract. I played the game fair and square. And I won.” Dryden laughed now, as deep and menacing as Otto. “I won. That’s what you can’t stand. You gave me something so stupid, and I solved it. Because it wasn’t stupid at all—you just couldn’t see the right answer even if it stared you right in the fucking face.”

  Dryden didn’t realize he was sauntering across the floor as he yelled until he was right in Otto’s face. He could feel his hot breath on his neck, furious anger in his eyes. But Dryden wasn’t afraid. He had won fair and square. He was not going to bow down to a monster anymore who said it wasn’t. Nothing was fair here—unless you made it so. Dryden had.

  “I’m going now. You’ll do best to let me leave.”

  Otto spit in Dryden’s face. Dryden gasped, feeling the spit like venom. He could handle Otto’s rage, Otto’s monstrous form, and even his accusations. But this? This was vile. Disrespectful.

  “Marked up the pretty fucking face of yours,” Otto said, his grin leering. “Now you look a little more like what you really are. People will know you’re an awful cheater with a face like that now.”

  Dryden touched his skin where the spit had been. He felt the sudden heat there, like a burn. Worse than a burn, he realized. He flashed to Emmons’s scar on his chin. Oh God, he thought. He did that to him, too. This is the price of leaving—you can never forget him now, not even when you look in the mirror. Dryden wanted to throw up with the realization. Instead he pushed away the saliva on the back of his sleeve and turned to face Otto once again. He kept Emmons in his mind, holding onto him like a lucky charm.

  “I’m going now. You can’t stop me. All is fair here—and now that my time has passed, and I’ve done all you want, I know that the magic of the land will let me go.”

  “I rule the land.”

  “No, you don’t. Stop lying. You said the first day you couldn’t help it. These were the rules. You may have influence like when you can make the time shift, but you can’t change it. And now,” Dryden said, staring back toward the hourglass, “my time is up. I’m leaving, and you can’t stop me.”

  Dryden turned around. He could feel how vulnerable the position made him, his spine tingling with trepidation. He worried that Otto would step forward and wrap a hand around his neck, break his back, pull him into the bedroom and never let him go. Dryden imagined so many horrible fates—but nothing could compare to the sting of the spot on his face. He touched the small wound again, coming back with bloody fingers. He sucked the blood off his fingers, but when he reached up with his sleeve, the wound was healed. The skin was taut and bumpy, a scar that he would have to keep. He thought of what Emmons had told him about beauty and symmetry, but he pushed the thought away. Emmons said he was beautiful yesterday, and Dryden knew he still would be now. Scar or not. Story or not. This was not his fault, and he would walk out of here and tell that to the world.

  When nothing came from Otto, Dryden continued to walk. He got to the door before he heard Otto’s voice.

  “All right. You can leave. Magic probably won’t stop you. But I can still hunt you. You still have a good run before you get to your place of fucking freedom.” Otto walked forward and grabbed the quiver of arrows he had once hung up. Hi
s expression was serious, his motions stiff and angry. Dryden’s blood turned cold.

  “Fine,” Dryden said. “Fair is fair.”

  Otto sneered. “You know, because you understand me so well, I will give you a thirty second head start.”

  Dryden paused, unsure if he had heard correctly. Otto shrugged and then gave Dryden a dismissive sweep.

  “Better start now, little bunny. ’Cause I am.” Otto folded his arms across his chest and then began the count backward. “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight….”

  Dryden didn’t need any more convincing. With a bolt, he ran from the house and down the pathway. He knew how far he had to go from that first night; he knew he could probably make it to the edge in less than the three minutes he had while the gates were open. He could probably even make it in less than one minute, so long as he didn’t get too scared or trip over his feet.

  And don’t look back, he told himself. Never look back. Dryden ran and ran, knowing that even if he did have a head start, it didn’t mean Otto would count precisely. It also didn’t matter if he had arrows; Otto’s aim was near perfect. I could run in zigzags, Dryden thought. Sometimes that worked in the wild with small creatures. Dryden went over more techniques, more tricks and traps, as he ran faster than he thought was possible. His feet were bleeding; he could feel the grass stick to him. He felt himself hit rocks. He tripped once, feeling the gash on his leg like a slap, but the pain didn’t register. It couldn’t register.

  “Here I come!” Otto’s voice boomed over the land. It felt like he was all around, like Dryden really was trapped inside a bell jar. Dryden’s lungs burned, his mind raced, and he felt the first arrow shoot by.

  “Fuck!” he screamed. The arrow had barely grazed him, but its presence was a harsh reminder. He veered through the trees and then began to run in zigzag. When another arrow shot by but barely touched his shoulder, he continued to run back and forth. Soon, he saw the white flowers at the edge, and he nearly started to cry. Maybe I am crying, he thought. He wasn’t so sure anymore. He had been running so fast he barely broke a sweat before the wind took it away.

  “I’m almost there,” Dryden said aloud. “Emmons. Emmons. You silly fox. I am almost there.”

  Dryden laughed as he ran now, nearly choking with delight, though his lungs burned and his feet hurt. He could do this. He looked around for Emmons—in any form—but saw nothing.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, a red puffy tail went by.

  “Emmons!” Dryden shouted. “Silly fox. Get the fuck over here. Run faster. He’s coming. Arrows….”

  Dryden was no longer running in zigzag formation. He was too close to the flowers, too close to the outer edge and freedom. With Emmons in his view as well, Dryden nearly forgot he was being chased. That must have been when the arrow got him—that brief bit of hope when he saw the puffy tail and recognized the glimmering blue eyes. The sharp pain radiated in his arm, striking deep through the muscle. He screamed louder than he ever thought possible. When he saw the back of the arrow emerge from the other side of his arm, the black arrowhead covered in his blood, Dryden barely thought anymore. He forgot everything he was doing, including running, including Emmons, and fell down by the grass.

  Another arrow soared by him, just missing where he now lay. If he had been standing, Dryden knew that would have pierced his torso, right through his heart. He rolled over, trying to stop the blood that was covering his arm and pooling in the center of his palm. Through his own foggy haze, he saw a blur of fur that turned into flesh. Emmons. Relief flooded his system until Dryden realized he was no longer the target of the arrows.

  “Emmons. No! Run.”

  Otto was getting closer, and now his arrows struck the pale fleshy bits of the person yards ahead of him. Dryden could barely see through his pain, but he was sure he saw blood. More blood than ever before. Emmons? Or has Otto been stopped? Dryden’s body ached again, worse than the roof’s burns. His arm felt like it was on fire, as if Otto’s arrows had been laced with the same venom that had burned his face from before. The gash on his leg oozed out more blood, staining the white flowers around him.

  White flowers, he realized. Daisies. Dryden saw the lemon tree in the distance behind him; Dryden was far past it now—and Emmons, naked and bloody, also huddled nearby. Not bloody, Dryden realized. Maybe not. Emmons could have been a mix of red fur and skin, Dryden wasn’t sure anymore. The images faded in with Otto’s dark beard and the black arrowheads. Dryden could hear the ticking of a clock—the dull hum of seconds passing by. The barrier in front of him no longer existed, but patches of it sparkled, like sunlight against glass, as if teasing Dryden that this sense of freedom would not last. So close, Dryden thought. We are so close.

  “Emmons,” Dryden called out. “Silly fox. Come with me. We’re almost there.”

  “Go!” Dryden heard a muffled cry in a ragged but familiar voice. “Run. You can do it.”

  Dryden rose to his feet, only to feel more blood pour out of him. He tried to run, but his feet wouldn’t work. As he fell down again, he shifted to his uninjured arm. He stretched it over the edge of the daisies and pulled himself closer and closer. Sometimes he grabbed handfuls of grass and dirt instead, but more often than not, he inched himself over the ground. He felt the rumble of the world by his ear as he moved.

  Even if I don’t make it, Dryden thought. Even if I’m only halfway, at least I won’t be alone. Maybe I can be a fox too, or a rabbit, or something—anything—else. He pulled and pulled, and then his body no longer felt heavy. The pain in his arm dulled, and he realized he was beyond the magic. This land only belonged to King, Country, and God for those who believed. There was a loud clatter of thunder as the last second passed, before whatever invisible wall was enacted again. Dryden rolled onto his stomach, as far away from the place as he could.

  He couldn’t stand, he knew that much. But when he peeked out over his shoulder, he saw nothing but the old lemon tree. Just a husk of a tree now, really, all of the fruit and stones shriveled up and out of the way. He saw no Otto, but he also saw no Emmons.

  “Emmons?” he called out. His voice was weak, but he raised it more. “Emmons, please. I’m not leaving until I have you. Please. Emmons….”

  Dryden’s head swam. The sun had come out now from the skyline and hovered high in the sky like it was a spring afternoon. Is it afternoon? What day is it? Dryden wondered. He could hear the birds and the sound of running water. He was close to the lake, now. He could get some water, wash his wounds….

  “Emmons?” he called again. Nothing. No fox, no human, no nothing. “Emmons, please. You stupid fox.”

  Dryden waited a few moments longer. He counted to thirty; then when no one came, decided it was better to dream.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE FISH merchant’s son Claudius found Dryden. He had lost a lot of blood, but most of his injuries weren’t too bad once they had been cleaned. When Dryden awoke, the first thing he saw was the bandage on his arm. The sudden searing pain of the arrow came back to him next.

  “Ow,” he said, touching the bandages. His mother, who had been asleep on a kitchen chair she had propped in his room, startled awake and took Dryden’s hand.

  “Are you all right, my dear?”

  Dryden paused and touched his arm. There wasn’t nearly as much pain as he remembered. He continued to probe at the bandages, trying to find the origin point of his wound by pain alone. It all seemed the same, as if it was only a bruise. “I’m fine,” he said. “How… long have I been here? What happened?”

  “A while, dear. You’re fine, though. A bit scraped up, though we don’t know why.” His mother smiled and touched the side of his face. The memory of Otto’s hand doing the same action came back to him, and he turned away.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “My jaw hurts, that’s all.”

  “Hmm. The doctor didn’t say anything about your jaw. I can call him…?”

  “No. I’m fine. Really.” Dryden shifted in t
he bed. His skin no longer felt tight from being burned. He glanced down at his hands, and aside from the dirt and dried blood that clung under his nails, he didn’t look sunburned—or tanned—either. “How long have I been gone?”

  “Well, you slept all day yesterday….”

  “No. Before then. When you found me. How long had I been gone?”

  “Oh.” His mother pressed her lips together. “It’s hard for me to keep track. I woke up and you weren’t in bed—I don’t know when you left, but you hadn’t been exposed to the elements that long. Couldn’t have been more than a couple hours.”

  “I was gone for a day?”

  “Not even, dear. Claudius found you before dinner, when he went to fetch his sheep. He heard moaning from the woods.” His mother laughed for a moment. “Do you remember Claudius’s big gun? He can barely aim or shoot the infernal thing, but he brought it with him to investigate the noise. He was so worried you were a beast!”

  Dryden blinked under the words before his mother continued. She seemed relieved to talk this much, as if she had been waiting for him to come to if only to have an audience to tell her story to. “He came to my door still carrying the gun. Oh, we’re so lucky it wasn’t his father with shaky hands. Who knows what would have happened! He’d probably have shot first and asked questions later. Well.” His mother touched his hand again. “No matter. You’re here now.”

  “The arrow….” Dryden said. “Where is the arrow?”

  “Claudius never had one. Just the terrible gun.”

  The memory came back to Dryden in bits and pieces, but it held no interest. The pockmarked face of the man who had carried him out of the woods and then this room—his own room—was of no consequence, even if his mother continuously stated that he had been lucky. The real world seemed blurred and muted now that he had spent so much time in the woods, in a place where the time really didn’t exist. And neither did the arrows, Dryden realized. Or anything else from the woods. The time that he had spent solving riddles was gone—but still leaving him with nothing but questions.