by Kirk Watson
THE WOODLANDER
The Grey Tales
Book One
Kirk Watson
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2013 by Kirk Watson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
ON FALLING
When predicting the lethality of a fall, your primary consideration should be distance. Some falls are short—mere stumbles that might leave the fallen with a skinned knee or a reddened face. Other falls are not so inconsequential. The key is distance—fall far enough, and things get broken. But not all great falls happen at once. Some begin as a misstep, turned into a stumble, tilted into a sprawl; before the fallen might even notice, they have plummeted headlong into an abyss. It is only upon reflection, when former acquaintances look down and whisper, “Look how far he has fallen…” that the true depth of the hole is revealed.
Sam was in deep. The mouse scratched at his fur with a dirty nail. His stomach growled, but it wasn’t hunger that drove him. The rumbling in his belly was the least of his problems—the sickness was upon him.
The fix, the fix, always the fix.
Sam wandered down the alley. He knew he should eat something; a little bite might hold him over until he could satisfy his greater hunger. He raised a trashcan lid and peeked inside.
Damn, not a scrap.
He replaced the lid, ignoring the trembling in his paws. At least it was summertime. His ragged clothes would provide little protection from the cold of winter, but on a summer night like this, he was almost glad for the holes in his shirt and pants. He looked down the dark alley.
Back here in the shadows, he was safe from the straights, but the alley held its own perils—namely addicts like himself. He knew there was nothing more dangerous than a junkie in search of a fix. He surveyed the darkness, looking for any signs of movement.
All clear.
He should have been relieved, but relief was impossible in the throes of withdrawal. As the first telltale signs of nausea crept up his throat, he steadied himself against the alley wall, fighting the urge to vomit—it was no use. He retched violently, his tail curling with each sharp intake of breath before whipping behind him with every heave. Gasping, he stood, wiped his mouth, and blinked his watery eyes.
It hadn’t always been like this for Sam. Just last year he had been studying law at the well-regarded Langley University, working nights to pay for the expensive education. The coursework was demanding, and there was little time left for studying, let alone sleep.
Sam’s grades had been slipping. His professors had warned him he might not make it to the bar exam. But he had gotten lucky; one of his fellow students had introduced him to a powder. A little pick-me-up, he had called it.
At first, Sam thought the powder a godsend; he could stay up for days if needed. But just a few months later, he found himself more interested in the powder than his books. The powder was expensive—far too expensive for a law student—and he had since replaced it with a cheaper yet more potent concoction. Brown displaced white, and Sam found a new purpose in life. No longer did he worry about tomorrow. There was only today, only his next fix. The law degree faded to a distant dream, as did his job and apartment soon after.
On the bright side, Sam no longer worried about yesterday, either. Shame was for those who dwelled on the past, and Sam could no longer be bothered.
He wandered back up the alley. The cramping in his stomach made it difficult to think. If he could just eat something, maybe his head would clear long enough to solve his greater hunger.
The bakers will have to throw out their day-olds soon, he thought, but not until morning.
He looked at his wrist before remembering he had sold his watch long ago. The desperation inside him was growing, nearing a panic now.
The fix, the fix, always the fix.
He rounded the corner. Lanterns sat atop the lampposts, lighting the storefronts along the cobblestone street. Most of the shops were closed at this time of night, but the theater district stayed open late. As the playhouses and concert halls let out, people streamed into the streets—wealthy foxes walking paw in paw, packs of drunken ferrets laughing and shouting obscenities, the lonely gophers with the weary eyes—all wandering into the surrounding pubs and eateries.
“Spare change?” Sam would ask, but they all passed by him as if he were invisible, a ghost no one could see or hear.
Defeated, he sank to the ground with his back to the wall.
Maybe I’ll just curl up and die. That wouldn’t be so bad, now, would it?
He hugged his knees to his chest and closed his eyes.
“Looking for something?” a deep voice asked.
Sam looked up at the stranger standing before him. The raccoon wore a three-piece suit, the kind bankers and politicians wore, but the gold rings on his fingers told Sam this was no banker. He briefly wondered how much he could get for the jewelry, but he quickly discarded the idea—the raccoon was at least a head taller than Sam, and much heavier. And there was something menacing about the stranger; he was smiling, but Sam didn’t find it the least bit comforting.
“Excuse me?” Sam asked.
The raccoon looked around before discreetly opening his jacket. Sam glimpsed a glass syringe hanging from its silk lining. The raccoon quickly closed it up.
Great, a well-dressed pusher, Sam thought. Under better circumstances, he would have been happy to see the dealer. Instead, he dropped his head. “I have no money.”
“That’s all right,” the raccoon said. “This one’s on the house.”
Sam looked up at him warily—every junkie knew there was no such thing as a free fix. He shook his head. “No offense, mister, but whatever you’re into, I’m not doing it.”
The raccoon chuckled. “It’s nothing like that. I just need a small favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I need somebody to try this batch out, let me know if it’s any good.”
“Why don’t you try it yourself?”
“Me? I never touch the stuff. It wouldn’t be good for business, you see? But I need to know what it’s worth before I can move it. I have a reputation to protect. You look like you could use a taste. What do you say we help each other out?”
Sam considered the offer. “I don’t know. Where did you get it?”
“From a friend of a friend.”
“Why would a friend give you bad junk?”
The raccoon scowled. “What are you, a lawyer? Look, if you don’t want it, I’m sure I can find someone else—”
“No, I didn’t say that! You just can’t be too careful, you know?”
“Smart kid. Now, why don’t we step into my office?”
As the raccoon headed into the back alley, Sam considered his options—go with the stranger or suffer the hunger.
As usual, the hunger cast the deciding vote. Sam followed the raccoon into the dark alleyway. The two hadn’t walked far when the raccoon stopped between a pair of garbage cans. He looked around to see if it was clear, his eyes glowing from the shadows.
“This looks like a good spot.”
He reached into his jacket and brought out the syringe, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Sam’s eyes followed it as if he were hypnotized. He licked his lips and scratched at his neck.
The raccoon smiled. “Here, kid. Take it.�
��
Sam took the syringe. For a brief moment, he thought he heard someone coming. He looked up the dark alley, yet he couldn’t see anyone but the smiling raccoon. His head screamed run, but the sickness screamed louder: The fix, the fix, the fix!
Sam pulled the belt from his pants and sat with his back to the wall. With a practiced efficiency, he tied the belt above his elbow, holding the syringe between his teeth as he tapped at his forearm. Finding the vein, he jabbed the needle into his arm. Dark clouds billowed in the glass barrel as his blood rushed up to meet the golden solution. His tail twitched behind him in anticipation. He hesitated and looked up at the raccoon, who just nodded at him with that unsettling smile.
Right. Here goes nothing.
Sam pushed the plunger and watched the murky elixir disappear into his arm.
It was good. Sam leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A rush of warmth welled up inside him. Waves of ecstasy rippled across his emaciated body, his dirty fur undulating with the rhythm. The hunger and pain vanished, replaced by a pure sense of pleasure. The suffering, the shame, the despair—all washed away. For the moment, Sam’s endless quest was over.
The raccoon smiled down at him. “How is it, my friend?”
Sam blinked his watery eyes. His world was losing focus, getting blurrier. The raccoon now seemed far away, as if he were standing at the end of a tunnel.
“It’s good,” Sam said. “It’s… really… good.”
He couldn’t be sure—everything seemed so disjointed, as if he were dreaming—but he thought the raccoon reached into his jacket and pulled something out.
The raccoon knelt down and placed the bag over Sam’s head, but Sam did not resist. His world went black. He felt a pair of paws lift him.
“Grab his feet,” a second voice said.
Sam sensed he was being carried, floating away in the darkness like a particulate in his bloodstream.
Sam did not know where he was being taken. Sam did not care.
Chapter 1
SPIRITS
Though critical, distance is but one aspect of a fall. Some might say the most remarkable characteristic of a fall is not the distance itself, nor the sudden halt at the end. No, the most remarkable aspect of a fall just might be the reaction of the fallen; that is to say, will he remain felled, or will he get back up?
"Closing time!” the mole bellowed from behind the bar. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!”
The mole squinted his tiny eyes, watching the patrons as they filtered out of the molehill pub. Soon they were all gone. That is, all except one; the grey squirrel sat alone at the bar, hunched over his mug.
Grumbling, the mole flipped his towel over his shoulder and stood in front of his remaining customer. He placed his paws on the bar and leaned in close, furrowing his bushy eyebrows at the squirrel. “That means you, John.”
John Grey blinked up at the mole, clutching his near-empty mug in his paws. The mole simply stared back at him, drumming his fingers on the copper-topped bar. With a sigh, John finished his acorn ale in a single gulp and pushed the mug across. “How about one more, Harry? For the road?”
The bartender took the mug away and wiped the bar down. “Can’t do it, John. Closing time. Besides, I think you’ve had enough.”
“Oh, come off it. I’m fine.” John fished through his pockets and produced a single copper coin. He placed it on the bar and looked up expectantly.
The mole rolled his tiny eyes. “Go home, John.”
“What’s the matter? My money’s no good here anymore?”
The bartender slid the coin back across the bar. “Your money wouldn’t even cover the peanuts you’ve eaten tonight, you cheapskate.”
“Maybe not,” John said, dropping the coin back in his pocket, “but it would make a fine down payment towards getting that unibrow waxed.”
“Bah!” the bartender scowled, waving his towel. “Go on, get out of here, you damn squirrel.”
John stood from his stool and buttoned his coat. The bartender watched impatiently as he wobbled his way towards the door. Before exiting, John paused and turned. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he called to the mole, who just grunted in return. John opened the door, and a gust of cold wind nearly knocked him over. He put his head down and pushed through the icy gale.
As he closed the door behind him, the bartender shook his head and resumed wiping the bar down. “Idiot…”
With his head still spinning, John stumbled up the steps of the molehill bar. He paused to steady himself against the brass handrail, gripping it tightly as he navigated his way up to the street. The freshly fallen snow crunched beneath his bare feet with each step.
Despite the cold, squirrels rarely wore shoes; shoes interfered with climbing, and every squirrel loves to climb.
John was no different, though by the way he struggled up the icy steps, one would be hard-pressed to tell. But under normal circumstances, he was quite the ordinary squirrel; it was just that tonight he was rather drunk. Not that it was all that unusual for him to be drunk—in fact, he had been out drinking every night for the past six months, always returning to the same molehill bar and sitting on the same wooden stool until closing time, when the cranky old mole of a bartender would shoo him out.
John reached the top of the steps and emerged under the street lamp’s pale glow. It was another bitter winter night, and the cold air instantly fogged his glasses. He paused to wipe his lenses and adjust his scarf. For a brief moment, he thought he heard sleigh bells. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then began the familiar yet fuzzy trek home. He had only managed a few wobbly steps before plowing straight into the chest of a passerby, knocking himself to the ground.
“Oh, beg your pardon,” he said, fumbling to retrieve his glasses from the snow. He put on his spectacles and blinked, not quite believing what his pickled eyes saw.
A black mountain of a squirrel towered over him, standing a good head-and-a-half taller than John and built solid as a rock. He wore a long, black coat that brushed the ground as he walked, its hem wet with snow. His fur was blacker still, save for a shock of white protruding from beneath his woolen cap. A jagged scar fell beneath his eye like a frozen tear. In his sizable paws, he carried an old, tattered satchel.
The black squirrel scowled down at John. “Watch where you’re going, knothole.”
His gruff voice chilled John even more than the winter air. He didn’t stop to help John up, but continued on his way as if he had just swatted a gnat.
John struggled to his feet and watched the massive squirrel lumber into the darkness, the satchel jingling as he walked away. He waited until the beast was out of earshot. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you… you overgrown skunk!”
John was glad he had waited. Partly out of fear, but mostly for the poor comeback.
No matter, he thought, a proper quip would be wasted on his sort.
Satisfied, he brushed the snow from his tail and turned to resume his voyage home. Something in the snow caught his attention—a piece of paper lying on the ground. He bent to retrieve it.
A business card? That walking nightmare must have dropped it.
John wondered what sort of business would employ such a sinister-looking squirrel. He held the card under the street lamp:
The Broken Bough Inn
Langley Grove, Woodland
John had spent his entire life in Langley, but he had never heard of the Broken Bough Inn. Still, it was a large enough city, and there were parts of town best avoided by respectable citizens, a class from which he was quickly distancing himself. He flipped the card over and saw handwritten in ink:
Transporter
Wednesday, Midnight
He stared at the card for a long moment under the pale street lamp, his brain sluggish from the cold and alcohol.
That’s tomorrow!
“Hey, mister!” he called out, just before remembering how intimidating the black squirre
l had been. Fortunately, the stranger was already gone.
No matter, he thought. Absentmindedly stuffing the card in his pocket, as squirrels are inclined to do, he continued on his way home.
It was far too cold of a night to be out, and he found himself alone on the cobblestone streets. Moonlight supplemented the dim lamps glowing throughout the city, lighting his way. He headed down the street, past the bars and restaurants of the theater district, past the clothing stores and open-air markets of the shopping district, and past the offices and newsstands of the business district. The cobblestones came to an end as he reached the wooded residential areas.
Most city squirrels lived here in the arbor on the edge of town. The path wove in and out of the trees, mostly oak and elm, but some maple and sycamore as well. They had already shed their leaves for the winter, and the moonlight cast ominous shadows through the branches as they swayed in the wind, but John was too inebriated to notice. He concentrated on his own drunken footsteps instead.
Left, right, left, right. Step over the stick. Heh-heh, clever squirrel.
He passed by his neighbors’ trees: first, the sprawling sycamore of the banker, then the modest elm of the newlywed couple who had just moved in, and then the chestnut of the fastidious bachelor, who most of his neighbors agreed was rather unlikely to marry.
He came to the beech tree of his next-door neighbor, the widow Mrs. Nubblin. The last of Mrs. Nubblin’s children had left home after her husband had passed away, and she now lived alone. John thought the old lady quite lonely, but also rather judgmental. It was a rare day he could pass by with just a nod or a wave; the old squirrel seemed determined to talk his ear off, though she never missed an opportunity to point out yet another of his numerous flaws.
John had no desire to talk to Mrs. Nubblin in his current state—a lecture on his drinking was the last thing he needed. He tiptoed past her beech tree and came to a small oak surrounded by a picket fence. A blue mailbox stood out front:
