Taillights faded into the storm, and that part of the world resumed its steady march forward into the night.
Rain drummed heavily upon the fresh tarmac of Route 29.
Somewhere in the night, a doe searched frantically for her buck and young ‘un.
A warenne of rabbits mourned the loss of a great warrior.
Far away, two large black figures crept stealthily beside the crumbling stone wall of a green-lit building, reveling that they had driven away a band of animals—even forcing one of them into the road.
A dark bird fluttered atop an ancient stone tower.
These are just some of the stories that continued on in the world that night.
But all of these stories would be – because of this one night in particular – forever connected.
CHAPTER 9
“What Happened in The Garden”
To fully grasp the scope of this tale, we must go back to the beginning.
Lou Lyons was his name. He had once been a fine young man, full of vim and vigor, energy and ideas. He worked hard, but spent much of his time dreaming. One might say he was possessed of a deep entrepreneurial spirit.
Theo had given Lou an opportunity in “The Garden”.
“The Garden” was a small corner pet store located along Rays Road and Memorial Drive. To allow that to be its only description would be an injustice to exactly what kind of establishment Theo ran. Theo was the kindest, most gentle man one could meet. Lou often misinterpreted this characteristic as weakness. But Theo was not weak; he was meek. We often confuse these attributes and think them synonymous. Theo was the very picture of strength under control.
It’s hard to recall exactly how and when the two of them met (it’s quite another tale). Suffice it to say, the two had known each other since time out of mind. The relationship existed in many capacities, but somehow, a working relationship ultimately developed. They were quite opposite. At times – in his pride and immaturity – Lou would mistakenly think of their roles as being equal, like “partners” of a sort. In reality, it was Theo who had always given Lou his opportunity. And it was Lou who always worked for Theo.
But, somewhere along the line, things became blurred—at least for Lou.
Theo gave Lou a tremendous amount of authority in “The Garden”. Lou had his own set of keys, and could come and go as he pleased (provided his responsibilities were met). He made sure the animals had enough food and water, the cages were cleaned, the lights turned off. It was also his responsibility to “cover”. Every night, Lou would make sure all the cages in “The Garden” were covered by a sheet so the animals could sleep soundly.
Theo harbored a deep-seated devotion toward all the creatures in the Garden.
From the beginning, Lou had never understood his boss’s affection for these creatures—even though he tried to come across as though he did. In reality, Lou found Theo to be horribly misdirected. Over time, Lou’s true attitude began to manifest itself. Late at night, for instance, as he went about his duties, he would blast rock and roll music, insensitive to the effect it had on the creatures; ignorant – or apathetic – toward the obvious anxiety it brought upon them. It had been one night as this music played that, as Lou covered the rabbit cage in the corner, one of the rabbits (obviously disoriented) leapt forward and bit him ferociously on the hand. Lou drew back and looked at the blood, gazing coldly at the rabbit.
In that instant, something was born—something that had not been there before inside Lou.
Perhaps the seed had been there, lying dormant. But now that seed sprouted, and began to grow. A floodgate opened in Lou’s mind. All kinds of evil thoughts poured in. And the one thread undergirding them all either began or ended with the same phrase:
“If I were Theo . . . If I were Theo . . .”
Lou stared at the rabbit in the corner of its hutch. If there was one thing Lou despised, it was weakness. Contempt and hatred boiled inside as he rubbed the bite. When several minutes had passed, he walked from the rabbit hutch to where a large glass terrarium stood. A heat lamp glowed brightly. There was but one creature in “The Garden” Lou held any respect for. He peered at the snake inside the terrarium and felt a swell of awe and respect—almost love (if this man were capable of such things). Lou removed the cover from the cage and put his hand inside. The coiled snake lifted its leathery head, and, for a moment, the two stared at each other through the glass. As if some strange communication took place between them, the snake bowed its head and began to lick the blood from Lou’s bite.
The effect was hypnotic. Lou’s eyelids became heavy. A kind of trance befell him.
He wondered what it would be like to be Theo; imagined if he was the owner of “The Garden”. Vanity led him one step further to where he actually began to feel that he should be the owner. In his pride-intoxicated state, Lou fantasized about the way he would run the store, the way he would treat the creatures.
Then darker thoughts came. He imagined all kinds of diabolical and torturous things being done to the creatures—could hear their screams.
He smiled.
Lou reached into the cage and lifted the serpent from its resting place. Like a cat in an alley, he took the snake back to where the rabbit hutch was and stared at the frightened rabbit.
He lowered the snake inside.
By then, Lou was chuckling.
From that night on, it became increasingly difficult for Lou to carry out even the simplest task which Theo asked of him. The more Lou fantasized about being the owner of “The Garden”, the more it seemed Theo did things totally wrong. At the end of each day, Lou would walk home alone with hands sore from clenching fists and his jaw aching from grinding teeth. The feelings grew to where Lou found it required almost every shred of self-control to make it through another day in “The Garden”. On the occasions when Theo left for the day and Lou was alone in “The Garden”, he was given to tremendous fits of rage, slamming things around and ranting and raving at the top of his lungs.
It’s impossible for feelings of this kind to stay below the surface for long. Like an infected sore, they burst open and run out.
Lou had tremendous authority—tremendous freedom. But with freedom there comes great responsibility. Theo began to notice that Lou was slacking in his duties. Lou would smile as though everything was fine. But before long, it was obvious he was lying.
Theo showed mercy for a long time.
Finally – exhausted – Theo told Lou he was no longer needed at “The Garden”. This was not received well by Lou. An ugly argument ensued, during which all of Lou’s feelings toward Theo finally came out. He exploded, bitter and venomous.
Theo listened patiently, lovingly. He pitied Lou and his ravings about how he could run “The Garden” better than him, and how the creatures in “The Garden” were weak.
“Just like you!” Lou hissed.
Lou saw the patient look in Theo’s eyes and resented it. It was the same look Theo gave to any of the creatures in “The Garden” if they were sick or hurting—a look of pity and . . . compassion. It reeked of condescension and superiority.
In that moment, Lou discovered he hated the owner.
His heart brimming with rage and fury, Lou almost rushed at Theo. At the last moment, something held him back. Deep down inside, Lou knew Theo was stronger than he.
No, he thought, and settled himself. I’ll get back at him another way.
I’ll get to him through his creatures. I’ll study them. Learn their weaknesses…
Slowly, Lou’s chin dropped. His eyebrows lifted. An evil, sardonic grin that threatened to split his cheeks wide open worked across his features. He looked around “The Garden”.
Yes, he thought. These creatures. His smile widened.
“Lou; when I get back, I want you gone,” was all Theo said. Then Theo did an amazing thing: He turned and walked out of “The Garden,” leaving Lyons alone. The bell over the door jingled a moment, and Theo was gone.
Fool! thought L
ou. He’s left me with all his creatures!
Lou stood trembling, somewhere between fear, and anger, and sorrow. For the tiniest moment – perhaps the way you might catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of someone else’s eyeglasses before it is gone – Lou recognized the futility of his childish feelings. In that brief flash of time, the sense of a huge weight being lifted from his shoulders swept over him, and he was relieved. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes. For a brief nano-second, he relished it, longed for it . . . wanted it.
But then the moment was gone. Lou found himself shaking, and fought against the feeling. With his innermost self, he reached out and brought the weight crashing back down upon his shoulders, and screamed a primal scream of rage and envy unlike anything you have ever heard. The window panels rattled. The creatures in “The Garden” froze in terror. Some of the little ones scurried beneath the protection of their mother’s breasts.
Lou stood, trying to imagine how to precisely exact revenge up the weak fool, Theo. But, overcome with his own self-absorption, Lou was content to think of no concrete action for now. He chose, instead, to merely wallow in pure, raw bitterness. Ultimately, all he did was leave. But not without taking his set of keys with him. And also not without walking over to the large snake cage, popping off the lid, and lifting the huge, coiled beast and taking it with him.
“You’re coming with me,” he whispered. “Where you belong.”
The snake coiled approvingly around Lou’s neck as he made his way out of “The Garden”, like some demonic scarf. Lou Lyons stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder one more time. His mind swirled with all kinds of devilish ideas. But they would take time – much time – to put to work. Slowly, deliberately, like a cliché out of a spaghetti western, Lou murmured in the dim afternoon: “You’ll see . . . you’ll all see.”
With that, Lou Lyons left “The Garden” for good.
Several years would pass before he and Theo would see each other again, a time during which Lou Lyons set about building his own empire—a conglomerate he envisioned would one day destroy Theo and all he stood for. All along, his hatred for Theo and the innocent creatures of “The Garden” grew and festered like an unattended sore. It eventually spread to take over his entire mind, to where all he thought about was revenge.
But, all of this had been a long time ago.
A long time ago, indeed.
CHAPTER 10
“A New Name”
Dawn crept across the unsuspecting world. Trees inhabiting the foothills of the Prahmist Mountains glimmered like well-polished brass, like something in a fairytale. A thin sheen of ice covered a nearby pond, mirroring the brilliant eruption of color to the east. Snow lay upon the ground in thick blankets. As first light spread across the undisturbed surface like butter, the world took on the look and feel of a Norman Rockwell painting.
But the sounds—oh, the sweet sounds of a waking world!
Leaves rustled. Birds called in songs of joy. A dog yipped playfully at no one but the day. Faraway cows mooed. This was a balletic display of nature, accompanied by a great orchestra, led by the Hands of the Almighty Conductor on high.
Well-ensconced within the firs and spruce, and looking as though it was made of gingerbread, stood a house. Some might have called it a mansion. It was solitary at the edge of the woods, and gave the appearance it was still sleeping; hibernating – inattentive to the waking world outside. Like a performer in a play, the house seemed to wait for its cue, when it would enter and join the morning’s performance. The closed shutters and inactive chimney let on that the inhabitants still lingered in an anticipatory slumber where perhaps even a sugarplum or two might be dancing. They all slept quietly, somehow knowing that Christmas morning – with its presents and carols and mouth-watering aroma of cooking turkey – awaited to greet when they woke.
All of them, that is, except for Paladin.
For a long time, Paladin didn’t know he could open the door to his cage; partly because it had taken him so long to get used to the idea of a “cage” to begin with. For this rabbit that had grown up in the wild, the concept was completely foreign. Well, perhaps I should say it was foreign that a cage could mean anything positive. As a young ‘un, he had obviously heard about “caged” animals from Jola and Sivic – is ma and da – but the idea had always sounded dreadful. Now he wondered if perhaps his parents had only known of a certain “kind” of caged animal—like an animal taken against its will.
It had been quite an adjustment to go from living in the wild to thinking of himself as “belonging” to someone else—even to one as gracious as “the Son” (that’s what the elahs called him). There had been lots of adjustments. Like his new name—Paladin. The Son gave it to him. He wasn’t sure what it meant. In fact, for the longest time, he hadn’t even grasped that it was his name—regardless of the fact that the Son kept calling him by it! Imagine how it would be to hear someone calling somebody else’s name over and over again, but never respond because it’s not your name. Then, imagine your surprise to find they are actually talking to you! He had been horribly confused for a little rabbit!
Who or what is Pal-a-Dinn? he thought.
Why is he calling me that? Doesn’t he know my real name?
But those thoughts seemed long ago. Now, it seemed he heard the new name so much that he had quite forgotten what he had been called before, or even who he had been!
In reality, it was only a few months since Paladin had lived near the ruins of Tanglewood. But each time he looked back into his memory, only the events of that last fateful night stood out with any clarity: his da, the dogs, the black strip, the bird with the horrible red eye. Any further back in his mind, all was grey. Now, there seemed to be only this present occupation: living with the Father and Son (as he had come to know them) in comfort and ease and peace. He was like a new creature.
Paladin looked around again at the wonders of this place. So much of what he had heard about the elahs was wrong. Well . . . not wrong, perhaps, but limited—one version. All his former perceptions had been dismantled. This place was warm and friendly and comfortable. He hardly resembled the poor rabbit the Son brought home so many nights ago. For one thing, he was getting older, and his colors were beginning to change. For another, he was eating better than he had in his entire life. His coat was rich and shiny. His body no longer had a taut, muscular look. Now, he was beginning to be a bit cobby in shape. He was also no longer exposed to the harsh elements, so his coat retained a smoother texture for longer. He was quite a sleek-looking rabbit.
However, this new environment was not without its negative effects. Not being exposed to the wild had caused his once-sharp senses to grow dull. They were not completely latent, just numbed, the way your jaw might feel after receiving a shot of Novocain—it’s still there; it just doesn’t feel the same. Paladin could be slow now, almost sluggish.
When Paladin was first brought to the mansion by the Son, he had not been able to figure out how to open the door of his cage. After weeks of watching the Son carefully undo the latch, Paladin found that – by employing his front teeth (and a little bit of patience) – he could actually pop the latch himself and sneak out—as he had done this morning. Paladin hopped slowly down the upstairs hallway, his soft paws barely making a sound upon the plush carpet.
It has never been made known to the world of humans (there is much we take for granted), but animals know about Christmas, too. Christmas extends beyond mere holiday tradition. Something happened on that day. And there comes with it something much deeper than tradition or observance—it might even be called ‘instinct’. Whatever it is, animals share it, too. Perhaps this is because animals were every bit as much a part of that first Christmas story as people were.
Paladin hopped down the hall from the Son’s room, recalling so many of the stories Jola had told about Christmas. But this was Paladin’s very first one. Sitting alone inside the mansion, awake before any other living thing, Paladin experienced wh
at Jola had tried so many times to describe to him—a sensation that all was warm and ‘right’ in the world. As if – for one day – the world had laid aside grievances (grievances which, by the way, never made their way into a little bunny’s mind). This day was . . . peaceful; tranquil. It was – to the spirit – as cool and refreshing as the slices of melon were to the palate that the Son brought to Paladin from time-to-time.
Paladin paused, lost somewhere in that strange place between contentment and sadness as he thought about his mother. He wondered where she was, how she was doing, if she was okay. If there was one regret Paladin had about that night so long ago, it was that he had not left the black strip to find Jola and tell her what he had seen. He wished she were with him now, and lowered his head.
Regret is such a difficult thing to live with—even for a little bunny.
Paladin eventually made his way downstairs and across the sitting-room floor, but not without pausing to take care of the occasional flea. Beasts, they were! He hated the infernal things. Whenever they bit, he found himself cursing “Bear” – the large, old, family “she-dog” – under his breath. She was obviously the source of the abominable little creatures!
He wound his way through the labyrinth of Christmas presents beneath the large, real tree. They rose around him like a miniature metropolis. The scent of the tree was strong, and Paladin could not resist helping himself to a stomachful of tree nibblings. He followed this with a quick dessert of wrapping paper—and then another, and another. Within moments, the chewed evidence that his jaws had been at work this morning lay all around. Paladin knew he would be punished for this later—but he couldn’t help himself! The bright colors of the wrapping paper were so irresistibly appealing!
The Evil Within the Woods Page 5
