by Terry Brooks
Finally he quit running, too exhausted to go on. He found himself back within the deep woods, right where he had started. He had been running, yet he hadn’t moved at all. Desperado was before him still, a monstrous, shapeless terror that he could not escape. He could feel the Dragon all around him, above and below, and even within. The Dragon was inside his head, crushing him, blinding him, stealing away his life…
Like a sickness.
He gasped in sudden recognition.
Like the sickness that was killing him.
This fight is to save you, Pick had told him. The Elf’s words came back to him, their purpose and meaning revealed with a clarity that was unmistakable.
Jack went a little bit crazy then. He cried out, overwhelmed by a rush of emotions he could not begin to define. He shed his fear as he would a burdensome coat and charged Desperado, heedless now of any danger to himself, blind to the Dragon’s monstrous size. To his astonishment, the walking stick and the garbage can lid flared white with fire and turned into the sword and shield he had been promised. He could feel the fire spread from them into him, and it felt as if he had been turned to iron as well. He flung himself at Desperado, hammering into the Dragon with his weapons. Push him back! Lock him away!
The great gnarled shapes of the Dragon and tree seemed to join. Night and mist closed about. Jack was swimming through a fog of jagged images. He heard sounds that might have come from anywhere, and there was within him a sense of something yielding. He thrust out, feeling Desperado give way before his attack. The feeling of heat, the smell of burning rubber, the scrape of scales and armor plates intensified and filled his senses.
Then Desperado simply disappeared. The sword and shield turned back into the walking stick and garbage can lid, the greenish mist dissipated into night, and Jack found himself clinging to the shaggy, bent trunk of the massive old tree that was the Dragon’s prison.
He stumbled back, dumbstruck.
“Pick!” he shouted one final time, but there was no answer.
Then everything went black and he was falling.
Jack was in the hospital when he came awake. His head was wrapped with bandages and throbbed painfully. When he asked, one of the nurses on duty told him it was Saturday. He had suffered a bad fall off his back porch in the middle of the night, she said, and his parents hadn’t found him until early this morning when they had brought him in. She added rather cryptically that he was a lucky boy.
His parents appeared shortly after, both of them visibly upset, alternately hugging him and scolding him for being so stupid. He was still rather groggy, and not much of what they said registered. They left when the nurse interceded, and he went back to sleep.
The next day, Dr. Muller appeared. He examined Jack, grunted and muttered as he did so, drew blood, sent him down for X-rays, brought him back up, grunted and muttered some more, and left. Jack’s parents came by to visit and told him they would be keeping him in the hospital for a few more days, just in case. Jack told them he didn’t want any therapy while he was there, and they promised there wouldn’t be.
On Monday morning, his parents and Dr. Muller came to see him together. His mother cried and called him “Jackie” and his father grinned like the Cheshire Cat. Dr. Muller told him that the additional tests had been completed while he was asleep. The results were very encouraging. His blood disorder did not appear to be life-threatening. They had caught it early enough that it could be treated.
“You understand, Jack, you’ll have to undergo some mild therapy,” Dr. Muller cautioned. “But we can take care of that right here. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Jack smiled. He wasn’t worried. He knew he was okay. He’d known it from the moment he’d pushed Desperado back into that tree. That was what the fight to lock away the Dragon had been all about. It had been to lock away Jack’s sickness. Jack wasn’t sure whether or not Pick had really lost his magic that night or simply let Jack think so. But he was sure about one thing—Pick had deliberately brought him back into the park and made him face the Dragon on his own. That was the special magic that his friend had once told him would be needed. It was the magic that had allowed him to live.
He went home at the end of the week and returned to school the next. When he informed Waddy Wadsworth that he wasn’t dying after all, his friend just shrugged and said he’d told him so. Dr. Muller advised him to take it easy and brought him in for the promised therapy throughout the summer months. But his hair didn’t fall out, he didn’t lose weight, and the headaches and vision loss disappeared. Eventually Dr. Muller declared him cured, and the treatments came to an end.
He never saw Pick again. Once or twice he thought he saw Daniel, but he wasn’t certain. He looked for the tree that imprisoned Desperado, but he couldn’t find it. He didn’t look for Wartag at all. When he was a few years older, he went to work for the park service during the summers. It made him feel that he was giving something back to Pick. Sometimes when he was in the park, he could sense the other’s presence. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see his friend; it was enough just to know that he was there.
He never said anything to anyone about the Elf, of course. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
It was like his mother had told him when he was little. A friend like Pick belonged only to him, and that was the way he should keep it.
This story is something of an exception for me.
Actually, that’s a vast understatement. The truth is, there’s nothing about this story that’s normal for me.
Normally I write multilayered epic-meta-fantastical thingers that clock in at a quarter million words or more.
This story has a single plot, and it’s only about seventeen hundred words.
Normally it takes me a long time to finish something—months if not years.
I wrote this story in a single day.
Normally I miss deadlines like a storm trooper misses Jedi.
But I actually got this story in to Shawn months ahead of when I said I would.
Normally I revise like…well…like a Rothfuss, really. I take a story through dozens if not hundreds of revisions before I’m happy with it.
But once I was done with this story on that first day, it was really, really finished. I changed about eight words and that’s it.
The story itself is a little odd. It’s from an odd perspective, and it covers a vast scope of time. The main character is odd. The language is odd. I’ve read it out loud a couple times, and I’ve found the sound of it to be…well…odd. Rhythmic. Almost like a chant.
For all that, I have to say I’m a little proud of it.
Anyway, that’s all I’ll say. I don’t like trying to explain my stories. Either you’ll like it, or you won’t. You’re entitled to your opinion either way without me trying to tell you what to think.
— Patrick Rothfuss
HOW OLD HOLLY CAME TO BE
Patrick Rothfuss
In the beginning, there was the wood.
It was strong wood, and old. And it grew beside a stream, by a tower all of stone.
There was warm sun, which was good. There were climbing vines, which were bad. There was wind, which was neither. It merely made leaves turn and branches sway.
There was also the lady. She was neither. She came to the tower. She turned the earth and made a garden. She cut the other trees and burned them in the tower.
But the holly tree she did not cut. The holly grew and spread its branches in the open space. And that was good.
There was summer, which was warm. There was winter, which was cold. There were birds, which were neither. They built nests and sometimes sang.
There was also the lady. She was neither warm nor cold. The holly grew beside the stream, its branches spreading dappled shade.
The lady sat beneath the holly reading books. She climbed the holly, peering into nests. She leaned against the holly, napping in the dappled shade.
These things were neither. None of them we
re warm or cold. None of them were good or bad.
There was day, which was light. There was night, which was dark. There was the moon, which was both light and dark.
There was a man. He was both. He came to the tower. He and the lady sat beneath the holly. They were both beneath the holly. They were both.
The man said to the lady. The man showed to the lady. The man sang to the lady.
The man left the tower. The lady left the tower. They both left the tower. Both.
The garden grew. The garden, left untended, changed. The garden grew and changed and then the garden was no more.
The tower did not grow. The tower, left untended, did not change. The tower did not change and stayed.
The holly grew. It did not change. It stayed.
The lady came to the tower.
She cut a branch of holly for a wreath, which was bad. She rooted up the climbing vines and tore them from the branches, which was good. She turned the earth and made a garden, which was neither.
She sat beneath the holly reading books and wept. She sat beneath the holly in the sun and wept. She sat beneath the holly in the rain and wept. She sat beneath the holly and the moon and wept.
These things were neither.
She sat beneath the holly and she sang.
She sat beneath the holly and she sang.
She sat beneath the holly and she sang.
The Lady sat beneath the holly, which was good. The Lady wept, which was bad.
The Lady sang, which was good. The Lady left the tower, which was bad. The tower stayed, which was neither.
The holly changed, which was both.
The holly stayed. There was a stream, which was beautiful. There was wind, which was beautiful. There were birds, which were beautiful.
The Lady came to the tower, which was good. She turned the earth, which was good. The Lady sang, which was beautiful. There were tomatoes, and the Lady ate them, which was good. The Lady sat beneath the holly reading books, which was beautiful and good.
There was sun and rain. There was day and night. There was summer and winter.
The holly grew, and that was good. The Lady sat upon his gnarled roots and fished, and that was good. The Lady watched the squirrels play among his leaves and laughed, and that was good.
The Lady turned her foot upon a stone, and that was bad. She leaned against his trunk and frowned, and that was bad. The Lady sang a song to holly. Holly listened. Holly bent. The Lady sang and branch became a walking stick, and that was good.
She walked and leaned on him, and that was good.
The Lady climbed into the highest reaches of his branches, looking into nests, and that was good. The Lady pricked her hands upon his thorns, and that was bad. She sucked the bright bead from her thumb, and slipped, and screamed, and fell.
And holly bent. And holly bent. And Holly bent his boughs to catch her.
And the Lady smiled, and that was beautiful. But there was blood upon her hands, and that was bad. But then the Lady looked upon her blood, and laughed, and sang. And there were berries bright as blood, and that was good.
The Lady spoke to Holly, which was good. The Lady told to Holly, which was good. She sang and sang and sang to Holly, which was good.
The Lady was afraid, and that was bad. She watched the water of the stream. She looked into the sky. She listened to the wind, and was afraid, and that was bad.
The Lady turned to Holly. The Lady laid her hand upon his trunk. The Lady spoke to Holly. Holly bent, and that was good.
The Lady drew a breath and sang a song to Holly. She sang a song and Holly burrowed deep into the earth. She sang a song and all along the stream there sprung new holly from the ground. She sang and all around the tower climbed new holly. She sang and up the tower grew new holly.
The Lady sang and they were both. Around them both there grew new holly. New holly spread and stretched and wrapped the tower. New holly grew and opened groves of leaves against the sky. She sang until no tower could be seen, and that was good.
The Lady stood beside Old Holly, smiling. They looked out at their new-grown holly grove, and it was good.
Old Holly stood beside the stream and watched the land below. He stood beside the edge of his new grove and felt the earth below and knew that it was good. He felt the sun upon his leaves and knew that it was good.
The wind brushed up against him. The wind was bad. He bent. He bent his boughs against the tower window.
The Lady came to stand beside him. She looked upon the land below. There was a hint of smoke upon the sky. Far away were shapes that moved across the hills.
There were great black wolves, with mouths of fire. There were men who had been bent halfway into birds. They were both, and bad.
Worst of all there was a shadow bent to look as if it were a man. Old Holly felt the ground beneath the last grow sick, and try to pull away.
The Lady stepped behind his trunk. She was afraid. She peered out at the land below. The shapes came closer, which was bad.
Old Holly bent. Old Holly bent toward the Lady.
The Lady looked at him. The Lady looked upon the land below. The Lady laid her hand upon his trunk, and that was good. The Lady asked. Old Holly bent again.
The Lady sang. She sang Old Holly. She said to him. She said her words. She said.
Old Holly bent and he became a man. He was both, and it was good.
The Lady sang, new holly bent and it became a spear, and it was good.
Old Holly bent his boughs and took the spear. Old Holly stretched his roots and strode across the stream. Old Holly struck the wolves and pinned them to the earth. He bent his boughs and brought another spear. They bit at him, and that was neither. He clutched the men bent into birds, and pulled at them, and tore them all apart.
And last there came the shadow thing, and it was bad. When it moved across the ground he felt the earth attempt to crawl away. It sickened and it shrank away from contact with the shadow thing.
Old Holly bent his boughs again, and brought a spear, its wood of living green. Its blade as bright as berry blood. This he drove into the shadow thing, and held it to the earth, and watched it howl and burn and die, and this was good.
Old Holly came back to the tower, and it was good. The Lady smiled and sang to him, and it was good. The Lady looked upon his wounds. She wept, and sang to them, and then he bent, and that was good.
The Lady said that she must leave, and that was bad. She said she would return, and that was good. She said that it was dangerous, and Old Holly stretched his roots to stand across the stream.
The Lady shook her head. She said to stay. She said to stay here with the tower. She said to keep it safe for her return.
Old Holly stretched his roots until he stood beside the tower. His Lady went inside. She came outside. She said goodbye.
Old Holly bent, and from a branch, he made for her a walking stick of green wet wood. Old Holly bent, and from his boughs, he wove a crown for her, all bright with berry. Old Holly bent, and as he was a man, he brushed her cheek with his own bark-rough hand.
The Lady wept, and laughed, and left. And that was both and neither and all and other.
Old Holly stayed. The tower stayed. Old Holly stayed beside the tower. Old Holly all around the tower.
Old Holly stayed, and that was good.
The summer left.
The winter left.
The garden left.
Old Holly stayed, and that was good.
The bones of the wolves left.
The roof of the tower left.
The glass in the windows left.
Old Holly stayed, and that was good.
The stream left.
The tower left.
Old Holly stayed.
As is usual even with a short, purposefully lighthearted story, several things led to “The Old Scale Game.”
First off, I love buddy pictures and buddy stories. Most of us do. Mismatched buddies, better still. Nothing original there, b
ut you’ve got to start somewhere.
I also have a thing for the idea of retired dragonslayers. I mean, if what you do is kill dragons, there’s going to be a point where you get too old to ply your trade. (That’s if you’re good. If you’re not, you’ve already been charbroiled a long time ago and the issue is academic.) I mean, it’s dire, hard work killing a full-grown dragon. At least I assume so, not having done it myself recently.
And last, there was a film from back in the early ’70s, if memory serves, with Lou Gossett and James Garner, about a couple of pals—one black, one white—pulling a scam whereby the white one pretends the black one is a runaway slave he’s caught, so he takes him to the authorities and earns the bounty, then sneaks back and helps his friend escape, and they split the money and then go do it again somewhere else.
