The Rose Petal Thief

by Sylvan Scott

Walking through an enchanted forest on another world in the dark beneath a full moon was not “magical” in the sense that Karl desired. When he first set eyes upon NeverEarth, he’d felt something. He’d not had a surge of memories or a sudden re-connection with his youth but, instead, he’d seen the new vistas as a chance. There was something here that he’d not found—that he couldn’t find—back home. The very idea of a whole, new world made him excited. Coming here had been the sort of snap decision he’d been making since the new year. It had led him to the Delta Lambda Phi mixer on Valentine’s Day, encouraged him to hit on a cute stranger, and even sleep with him on their third date. If his resolution was to try and be more adventurous, less cautious and reserved, he couldn’t have succeeded more spectacularly. But now, less than a day later, he was reaping the consequences.

  The sounds of night were filled with menace. Unseen animals, large and small, called out in their strange, unfamiliar cries. It was more adventure than he’d bargained for.

  “So, uh, this happens a lot, then? Werewolves and water women?”

  Quissit looked back over his shoulder. “I’ve heard stories of the naiads if that’s what you mean. Werewolves are far less common than actual wolves.”

  “Not common at all, then.”

  “What is ‘common’ anyway?” asked Rosa. She’d been leading them at a pace ranging from a jog to a run, but had slowed to a walk. The gnarled trees and bushes in this section of forest, had roots that thrust in and out of the ground like a badly-sewn stitch. They were slow to move out of the dryad’s way. “You ask as if these things were completely unthinkable.”

  “In my world, they are.”

  She shook her head as a chokecherry pulled up its roots, dropped a few berries, and crawled to one side to let them pass. “It sounds dull.”

  “Compared to here, maybe, but you’ve never tried to fight traffic on I-94 over Labor Day weekend.”

  The dryad shook her head but Quissit looked curious.

  “Trafficking of what?” he asked.

  “Cars,” Karl answered.

  The squirrel shook his head. “Horse-drawn?”

  “Driven by people; by mortals. Otherwise, self-propelled.”

  “And there are a lot of them?”

  “On Labor Day? It’s like a stampede.”

  “Sounds … unpleasant,” Quissit said. Something about his tone indicated he found it more annoying than actually dangerous.

  “My point exactly,” Karl replied.

  “Your world sounds dull,” Rosa said. “You should be thanking me.”

  “Thanking you? For luring Anthony into a trap that got him turned into a beast? Oh, sure:  thank you, Miss Rose Bush. I’m so grateful you got my friend trapped by a fate worse than death.”

  She stopped and turned. Her eyes were alight but not with anger. She looked eerily happy; excited and alive. “Do you know what it’s like to be a dryad?”

  Karl and Quissit stopped as Rosa continued.

  “We are borne on the winds of chance:  our seeds carried by birds or insects until coming to rest on fertile soil. We take root and, for the first years of our lives, struggle to find our way. I landed by a ticket of roses. Only Auntie Willow was there to protect me. As dryads grow older, we travel less and less distance from our roots. Next year I’ll not be able to see the Stormbridge Mountains any more.  By the year after that, I’ll barely be able to travel to the doorway to your friend’s home. After that? Well, within a decade, I’ll scarcely be able to walk the paths of the World Labyrinth.” She sighed and resumed walking. “Your friend should be grateful:  I uprooted him.”

  Karl and Quissit exchanged glances before following.

  “You think you did him a favor?”

  “Miss Rosa,” Quissit added, “you helped turn him into a monster. He’s going to kill and devour anything in his path. That’s more than ‘uprooting’.”

  Rosa glanced back as she rounded a large boulder. “Life and death are always bound up in each other,” she said. “Whether it comes with age or at the claws of a beast doesn’t matter:  it’s still death. What matters is the experiences you’ve had by then.” Her face was still flush with excitement. “You underestimate your power:  you can walk and move freely. Nothing stops you. You can find meaning by leaving where you were born. You have the freedom to seek new experiences. But you mobile-types always seem to forget that and put down roots anyway. By bringing him here, I’ve done him a favor.”

  Karl just shook his head. He’d taken enough psychology classes to recognize a fanatic. But fanatical or not, her outlook made a certain amount of sense.

  The eaves of the wood gradually fell away as the moon climbed high into the night sky. Tall grasses set with white, fluffy tassels as high as Karl’s chest, rose and fell before them. Only a mile or two away rose stark, jagged cliffs. Beneath the moon, they looked like crisp silhouettes touched only with the tiniest depth. The night was half over.

  They pushed on and reached the base of the hills in another half hour. The ground gradually rose until Quissit found a trail that he said smelled like mountain goats. Rosa declared that any path would suffice as long as it got them higher.

  A mournful howl rose and fell between the cliffs.

  Another hour passed followed by another. Morning rapidly approached.

  The trio climbed to the top of a rounded, weathered tor upon which sprouted a small stand of trees. There was almost no grass but scraggly brush poked up from the fractured earth. It was empty.

  “He’s not here, either,” Karl sighed. In a way, he felt relieved. This was the fourth of the high hills they’d visited in the last two hours and he still wasn’t sure what he’d do when he found Anthony.

  “There are some other peaks,” Quissit said. He pointed off to the southwest.

  Rosa was scanning the moonlit horizon. “Auntie never said this was a certainty,” she said. “This trek was never anything more than a—”

  That was when the wolf pounced.

  Low to the ground, more like a prowling lion than a wolf, it had crept close, hidden by brush and rock. Anthony’s claws caught the moonlight as he dove upon the dryad. Quissit leaped back and drew his dagger. Karl stood, transfixed.

  He felt paralyzed as Rosa screamed. What little plant life existed on the weathered hill came to her defense but it was a feeble action. A few vines and branches tried to grapple with her assailant but the wolf still raked her with his claws. Strips of leafy cloak and bark-like flesh tore from her body. Karl gripped the hockey stick with both hands but held his ground. What could he do?

  Quissit ran at the colossal beast, brandishing his steel. Smaller but faster, he dodged back and forth, cutting at the wolf’s thick hide and shaggy fur. He evaded each swipe of the werewolf’s claws, tail twitching furiously. It was enough to give Rosa space to retreat.

  Blood, like sap, seeped from her arms and chest. Scraggly shrubs uprooted themselves and went to her aide. They pulled her back and shielded her as best they could. Quissit had begun retreating, ducking and weaving as Anthony pressed forward. The gap between the two closed. Finally, as Anthony pushed the squirrel near the hill’s edge, Quissit dove forward, aiming to dash between the beast’s legs. Anthony reacted faster. He swung a powerful arm downwards in an arc. The wolf’s claws missed Quissit’s head but caught the squirrel in the shoulders and threw him nearly six feet. Anthony crouched, ready to finish his attack.

  Karl couldn’t stand back any longer.

  He rushed the werewolf and hit him as hard as he could with the hockey stick. Attacking from behind, he swept the makeshift club into the back of Anthony’s knees to knock him over. The wolf tumbled but swiftly rose to a crouch.

  “Anthony:  please! Stop!”

  The wolf snarled as he faced Karl. In the beast’s golden eyes, Karl could see nothing of the man he once knew. They were savage; feral. He interposed the hockey stick and backed up, trying to think.

  “You didn’t attack me, first,” he said. His voice was h
oarse and cracked with fear. “You could have attacked any of us but you chose her. That … that says something, right? You didn’t go after me until last; you remember me, right?”

  The beast growled and crept closer.

  “You … you don’t want to do this.” Karl swallowed, scrambling for ideas. He put his hand out. “Please, just think; clear your head.”

  Anthony snapped at him, but kept his distance, wary of the weapon in Karl’s hands.

  Karl kept backing away. He had to do something; he had to get through to Anthony. Then, abruptly, he had an idea. He looked towards Quissit and Rosa. Neither of them was close but, still, they might over-hear. Quissit was struggling to rise and Rosa was cocooned in leaves and vines. He decided to take the risk.

  “Anthony Nigel Delleroe,” he hissed, “Champion of NeverEarth:  you know me. I’m Karl King Prince and you’d never harm me.”

  The wolf stopped its advance. Its eyes widened. In that second Karl saw a flicker of recognition. He whispered again.

  “Your name is Anthony Nigel Delleroe; you hate your middle name but I love it. It sounds like something from a Monty Python sketch. Please, Anthony; come back to me.” He didn’t know if sincerity mattered with true names but he meant every word. His heart raced as he licked his lips nervously.

  The massive beast crouched lower to the ground, stopping its advance. Feeling hope, Karl gulped and took a step closer.

  “Anthony?”

  The monster sprang.