“I’m cold, Horley,” Clem said. “I can’t feel anything. Is winter coming?”
“Should we bring his wife and son?” the farmer who had found Clem asked Horley at one point.
Horley just stared at him, aghast.
They buried Clem in the old graveyard, but the next week the Third Bear dug him up and stole his head. Apparently, the Third Bear had no use for heroes, except, possibly, as a pattern of heads.
Horley tried to keep the grave robbery and what Clem had said a secret, but it leaked out anyway. By the time most villagers of Grommin learned about it, the details had become more monstrous than anything in real life. Some said Clem had been kept for a week in the bear’s lair, while it ate away at him. Others said Clem had had his spine ripped out of his body while he was still breathing. A few even said Clem had been buried alive by mistake and the Third Bear had heard him writhing in the dirt and come for him.
But one thing Horley knew that trumped every tall tale spreading through Grommin: the Third Bear hadn’t had to keep Clem alive. Theeber hadn’t had to place Clem, still breathing, at the edge of the village.
So Seether wasn’t just a bear.
In the next week, four more people were killed, one on the outskirts of the village. Several villagers had risked leaving, and some of them had even made it through. But fear kept most of them in Grommin, locked into a kind of desperate fatalism or optimism that made their eyes hollow as they stared into some unknowable distance. Horley did his best to keep morale up, but even he experienced a sense of sinking.
“Is there more I can do?” he asked his wife in bed at night.
“Nothing,” she said. “You are doing everything you can do.”
“Should we just leave?”
“Where would we go? What would we do?”
Few who left ever returned with stories of success, it was true. War and plague and a thousand more dangers lay out there beyond the forest. They’d as likely become slaves or servants or simply die, one by one, out in the wider world.
Eventually, though, Horley sent a messenger to that wider world, to a far-distant baron to whom they paid fealty and a yearly amount of goods.
The messenger never came back. Nor did the baron send any men. Horley spent many nights awake, wondering if the messenger had gotten through and the baron just didn’t care, or if Seether had killed the messenger.
“Maybe winter will bring good news,” Rebecca said.
Over time, Grommin sent four or five of its strongest and most clever men and women to fight the Third Bear. Horley objected to this waste, but the villagers insisted that something must be done before winter, and those who went were unable to grasp the terrible velocity of the situation. For Horley, it seemed merely a form of taking one’s own life, but his objections were overruled by the majority.
They never learned what happened to these people, but Horley saw them in his nightmares.
One, before the end, said to the Third Bear, “If you could see the children in the village, you would stop.”
Another said, before fear clotted her windpipe, “We will give you all the food you need.”
A third, even as he watched his intestines slide out of his body, said, “Surely there is something we can do to appease you?”
In Horley’s dreams, the Third Bear said nothing in reply. Its conversation was through its work, and Seether said what it wanted to say very eloquently in that regard.
By now, fall had descended on Grommin. The wind had become unpredictable and the leaves of trees had begun to yellow. A far-off burning smell laced the air. The farmers had begun to prepare for winter, laying in hay and slaughtering and smoking hogs. Horley became more involved in these preparations than usual, driven by his vision of the coming winter. People noted the haste, the urgency, so unnatural in Horley, and to his dismay it sometimes made them panic rather than work harder.
With his wife’s help, Horley convinced the farmers to contribute to a communal smoke house in the village. Ham, sausage, dried vegetables, onions, potatoes—they stored it all in Grommin now. Most of the outlying farmers realized that their future depended on the survival of the village.
Sometimes, when they opened the gates to let in another farmer and his mule-drawn cart of supplies, Horley would walk out a ways and stare into the forest. It seemed more unknowable than ever, gaunt and dark, diminished by the change of seasons.
Somewhere out there the Third Bear waited for them.
One day, the crisp cold of coming winter becoming more than a promise, Horley and several of the men from Grommin went looking for a farmer who had not come to the village for a month. The farmer’s name was John and he had a wife, five children, and three men who worked for him. John’s holdings were the largest outside the village, but he had been suffering because he could not bring his extra goods to market
The farm was a half-hour’s walk from Grommin. The whole way, Horley could feel a hurt in his chest, a kind of stab of premonition. Those with him held pitchforks and hammers and old spears, much of it as rust-colored as the leaves now strewn across the path.
They could smell the disaster before they saw it. It coated the air like oil.
On the outskirts of John’s farm, they found three mule-pulled carts laden with food and supplies. Horley had never seen so much blood. It had pooled and thickened to cover a spreading area several feet in every direction. The mules had had their throats torn out and then they had been disemboweled. Their organs had been torn out and thrown onto the ground, as if Seether had been searching for something. Their eyes had been plucked from their sockets almost as an afterthought.
John—they thought it was John—sat in the front of the lead cart. The head was missing, as was much of the meat from the body cavity. The hands still held the reins. The same was true for the other two carts, their wheels greased with blood. Three dead men holding reins to dead mules. Two dead men in the back of the carts. All five missing their heads. All five eviscerated.
One of Horley’s protectors vomited into the grass. Another began to weep. “Jesus save us,” a third man said, and kept saying it for many hours.
Horley was curiously unmoved, his hand and heart steady. He noted the brutal humor that had moved the Third Bear to carefully replace the reins in the men’s hands. He noted the wild, savage abandon that had preceded that action. He noted, grimly, that most of the supplies in the carts had been ruined by the wealth of blood that covered them. But, for the most part, the idea of winter had so captured him that whatever came to him moment-by-moment could not compare to the crystalline nightmare of that interior vision.
Horley wondered if his was a form of madness as well.
“This is not the worst,” he said to his men. “Not by far.”
At the farm, they found the rest of the men and what was left of John’s wife, but that is not what Horley had meant.
At this point, Horley felt he should go himself to find the Third Bear. It wasn’t bravery that made him put on the leather jerkin and the metal shin guards. It wasn’t from any sense of hope that he picked up the spear and put Clem’s helmet on his head.
His wife found him there, ready to walk out the door of their home.
“You wouldn’t come back,” she told him.
“Better,” he said. “Still.”
“You’re more important to us alive. Stronger men than you have tried to kill it.”
“I must do something,” Horley said. “Winter will be here soon and things will get worse.”
“Then do something,” Rebecca said, taking the spear from his hand. “But do something else.”
The villagers of Grommin met the next day. There was less talking this time. Horley tried to gauge their mood. Many were angry, but some now seemed resigned, almost as if the Third Bear were a plague or some other force that could not be controlled or stopped by the hand of Man. In the days that followed, there would be a frenzy of action: traps set, torches lit, poisoned meat left in the forest, but none
of it came to anything.
One old woman kept muttering about fate and the will of God.
“John was a good man,” Horley told them. “He did not deserve his death. But I was there—I saw his wounds. He died from an animal attack. It may be a clever animal. It may be very clever. But it is still an animal. We should not fear it the way we fear it.”
“You should consult with the witch in the woods,” Clem’s son said.
Clem’s son was a huge man of eighteen years, and his word held weight, given the bravery of his father. Several people began to nod in agreement.
“Yes,” said one. “Go to the witch. She might know what to do.”
The witch in the woods is just a poor, addled woman, Horley thought, but could not say it.
“Just two months ago,” Horley reminded them, “you thought she might have made this happen.”
“And if so, what of it? If she caused it, she can undo it. If not, perhaps we can pay her to help us.”
This from one of the farmers displaced from outside the walls. Word of John’s fate had spread quickly, and less than a handful of the bravest or most foolhardy had kept to their farms.
Rancor spread amongst the gathered villagers. Some wanted to take a party of men out to the witch, wherever she might live, and kill her. Others thought this folly—what if the Third Bear found them first?
Finally, Horley raised his hands to silence them.
“Enough! If you want me to go to the witch in the woods, I will go to her.”
The relief on their faces, as he looked out at them—the relief that he would take the risk—it was like a balm that cleansed their worries, if only for the moment. Some fools were even smiling.
Later, Horley lay in bed with his wife. He held her tight, taking comfort in the warmth of her body.
“Rebecca? I’m scared.”
“I know. I know you are. Do you think I’m not scared too? But neither of us can show it or they will panic, and once they panic, Grommin is lost.”
“What can I do?”
“Go see the witch woman, my love. If you go to her, it will make them calmer. And you can tell them whatever you like about what she says.”
“If the Third Bear doesn’t kill me before I can find her.”
If she isn’t already dead.
In the deep woods, in a silence so profound that the ringing in his ears had become the roar of a river, Horley looked for the witch woman. He knew that she had been exiled to the southern part of the forest, and so he had started there and worked his way toward the center. What he was looking for, he did not know. A cottage? A tent? What he would do when he found her, Horley didn’t know either. His spear, his incomplete armor—these things would not protect him if she truly was a witch.
He tried to keep the vision of the terrible winter in his head as he walked, because concentrating on that more distant fear removed the current fear.
“If not for me, the Third Bear might not be here,” Horley had said to Rebecca before he left. It was Horley who had stopped them from burning the witch, had insisted only on exile.
“That’s nonsense,” Rebecca had replied. “Remember that she’s just an old woman, living in the woods. Remember that she can do you no real harm.”
It had been as if she’d read his thoughts. But now, breathing in the thick air of the forest, Horley felt less sure about the witch woman. It was true there had been sickness in the village until they had cast her out.
Horley tried to focus on the spring of loam beneath his boots, the clean, dark smell of bark and earth and air. After a time, he crossed a dirt-choked stream. As if this served as a dividing line, the forest became yet darker. The sounds of wrens and finches died away. Above, he could see the distant dark shapes of hawks in the treetops, and patches of light shining down that almost looked more like bog or marsh water, so disoriented had he become.
It was in this deep forest, that he found a door.
Horley had stopped to catch his breath after cresting a slight incline. Hands on his thighs, he looked up and there it stood: a door. In the middle of the forest. It was made of old oak and overgrown with moss and mushrooms, and yet it seemed to flicker like glass. A kind of light or brightness hurtled through the ground, through the dead leaves and worms and beetles, around the door. It was a subtle thing, and Horley half thought he was imagining it at first.
He straightened up, grip tightening on his spear.
The door stood by itself. Nothing human-made surrounded it, not even the slightest ruin of a wall.
Horley walked closer. The knob was made of brass or some other yellowing metal. He walked around the door. It stood firmly wedged into the ground. The back of the door was the same as the front.
Horley knew that if this was the entrance to the old woman’s home, then she was indeed a witch. His hand remained steady, but his heart quickened and he thought furiously of winter, of icicles and bitter cold and snow falling slowly forever.
For several minutes, he circled the door, deciding what to do. For a minute more, he stood in front of the door, pondering.
A door always needs opening, he thought, finally.
He grasped the knob, and pushed—and the door opened.
Some events have their own sense of time, and a separate logic. Horley knew this just from the change of seasons every year. He knew this from the growing of the crops and the birthing of children. He knew it from the forest itself, and the cycles it went through that often seemed incomprehensible and yet had their own pattern, if you could only see it. From the first thawed trickle of stream water in the spring to the last hopping frog in the fall, the world held a thousand mysteries. No man could hope to know the truth of them all.
When the door opened and he stood in a room very much like the room one might find in a woodman’s cottage, with a fireplace and a rug and a shelf and pots and pans on the wood walls, and a rocking chair—when this happened, Horley decided in the time it took him to blink twice that he had no need for the why of it or the how of it, even. And this was, he realized later, the only reason he kept his wits about him.
The witch woman sat in the rocking chair. She looked older than Horley remembered, even though no more than a year had passed since he had last seen her. Seeming made of ash and soot, her black dress lay flat against her sagging skin. She was blind, eye sockets bare, but her wrinkled face strained to look at him any way.
There was a buzzing sound.
“I remember you,” she said. Her voice was croak and whisper both.
Her arms were mottled with age spots, her hands so thin and cruel-looking that they could have been talons. She gripped the rocking chair as if holding onto the world.
There was a buzzing sound. It came, Horley finally realized, from a halo of black hornets that circled the old woman’s head, their wings beating so fast they could hardly be seen.
“Are you Hasghat, who used to live in Grommin?” Horley asked.
“I remember you,” the witch woman said again.
“I am the elder of the village of Grommin.”
The woman spat to the side. “Those that threw poor Hasghat out.”
“They would have done much worse if I’d let them.”
“They’d have burned me if they could. And all I knew then were a few charms, a few herbs. Just because I wasn’t one of them. Just because I’d seen a bit of the world.”
Hasghat was staring right at him and Horley knew that, eyes or no eyes, she could see him.
“It was wrong,” Horley said.
“It was wrong,” she said. “I had nothing to do with the sickness. Sickness comes from animals, from people’s clothes. It clings to them and spreads through them.”
“And yet you are a witch?”
Hasghat laughed, although it ended with coughing. “Because I have a hidden room? Because my door stands by itself?”
Horley grew impatient.
“Would you help us if you could? Would you help us if we let you return to the vill
age?”
Hasghat straightened up in the chair and the halo of hornets disintegrated, then reformed. The wood in the fireplace popped and crackled. Horley felt a chill in the air.
“Help you? Return to the village?” She spoke as if chewing, her tongue a thick gray grub.
“A creature is attacking and killing us.”
Hasghat laughed. When she laughed, Horley could see a strange double image in her face, a younger woman beneath the older.
“Is that so? What kind of creature?”
“We call it the Third Bear. I do not believe it is really a bear.”
Hasghat doubled over in mirth. “Not really a bear? A bear that is not a bear?”
“We cannot seem to kill it. We thought that you might know how to defeat it.”
“It stays to the forest,” the witch woman said. “It stays to the forest and it is a bear but not a bear. It kills your people when they use the forest paths. It kills your people in the farms. It even sneaks into your graveyards and takes the heads of your dead. You are full of fear and panic. You cannot kill it, but it keeps murdering you in the most terrible of ways.”
And that was winter, coming from her dry, stained lips.
“Do you know of it then?” Horley asked, his heart fast now from hope not fear.
“Ah yes, I know it,” Hasghat said, nodding. “I know the Third Bear, Theeber, Seether. After all I brought it here.”
The spear moved in Horley’s hand and it would have driven itself deep into the woman’s chest if Horley had let it.
“For revenge?” Horley asked.
Hasghat nodded. “Unfair. It was unfair. You should not have done it.”
You’re right, Horley thought. I should have let them burn you.
“You’re right,” Horley said. “We should not have done it. But we have learned our lesson.”
“I was once a woman of knowledge and learning,” Hasghat said. “Once I had a real cottage in a village. Now I am old and the forest is cold and uncomfortable. All of this is illusion.” She gestured at the fireplace, at the walls of the cottage. “There is no cottage. No fireplace. No rocking chair. Right now, we are both dreaming among the worms and the beetles and the dirt. My back is sore and patterned by leaves. This is no place for someone as old as me.”
Creatures: Thirty Years of Monsters Page 23
