The Forest's Son

by Aleo, Cyndy

  The Forest’s Son

  a novel

  Cyndy Aleo

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

  Copyright © 2015 by Cyndy Aleo

  Cover image courtesy SlevinAaron, used with permission. All rights reserved.

  Cover design courtesy Eden Barber.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue: Jakub

  I. Unknowing

  1. Identity

  2. Forgotten

  3. Adrift

  4. Cracks

  5. Closet

  6. Inertia

  7. Chaos

  8. Alone

  9. Fork

  10. Filling

  11. Direction

  12. Expectation

  Puszcza

  II. Awakening

  13. Origin

  14. Unsure

  15. Waiting

  16. Introductions

  17. Opening

  18. Sacrifice

  19. Connection

  20. Floating

  21. Preparation

  Kraków: Donovan

  III. Supplanting

  22. Homecoming

  23. Acclimation

  24. Scattered

  25. Accommodation

  26. Displaced

  27. Anticipate

  28. Neglect

  29. Taken

  30. Faultline

  31. Hunt

  32. Found

  33. Loss

  34. Return

  35. Awakening

  36. Crowning

  37. Ascending

  38. Stranger

  39. Invitation

  Kocham Cię: Jakub

  IV. Leaving

  40. Suitability

  41. Need

  42. Knowing

  43. Farewell

  44. Memento

  45. Comfort

  46. Empty

  47. Foreign

  48. Guardian

  49. Remains

  50. Visiting

  51. Exit

  Dom: Donovan

  V. Ending

  52. Home

  53. Shifting

  Acknowledgments

  Notes & Translations

  Dedication

  For Grandma C., who came here alone with no family and no friends so we’d all have a better life and whose mysterious origins spiked my imagination of where she might have come from.

  Prologue: Jakub

  It begins and ends with a foggy remembrance, a snippet of a half-dream. The words taunt him even when there's nothing else to remember: “Jakub, nie masz czasu na dojście do siebie. Musisz zapomnieć.” Polish? Russian? The language seems familiar, yet not, like he should understand, but he doesn't. His mother has an accent, but she has never spoken anything but English to him, has she? He repeats the strange syllables over and over again, trying to pull out the meaning. “Yah-koob” sounds like a name, but the rest flits away, disappearing into the shock of a blinding headache. With a blink, even the single word he thought he might remember is gone.

  Something like a vow — a promise? something to remember? — passes through his mind briefly, but he can't focus; he’s sure he has an axe buried to the hilt in his skull. Without conscious thought, his body moves as if it has been programmed to follow a routine: The wooden box and its wires go into the cardboard box, then the cardboard box into the back recesses of his closet. He closes the door once the box is stored away and climbs into bed without noticing he is completely naked.

  He gives a moment's thanks for the wastepaper basket lined with plastic bags someone has thoughtfully placed next to the bed before he vomits into it noisily, dry heaving until he can't catch his breath.

  His eyes closed against the pounding in his head, he gropes along the floor until he feels a slightly damp … something. The sharp, rank smell of sweat is obvious, but he needs to wipe his mouth on something, and it's the sweaty something or the clean, soft sheets smelling of sunshine and fresh air. He holds his breath when he swipes at his mouth, but it sets off another round of dry heaving anyway. When it passes, he tosses the cloth away from him. Almost before he can fully pull the sheet and comforter over himself, he's asleep, but the name returns to echo in his dreams: “Jakub, Jakub, Jakub.”

  I: Unknowing

  1: Identity

  He wakes to sunlight streaming in through uncovered floor-length windows overlooking what appears to be some sort of greenhouse. Plants nearly obscure the outside windows, and empty pots lie helter-skelter over almost every available surface of the wooden deck. Scrubbing at his face, he forces his eyes open and looks around the room. The wastepaper basket he vomited into last night is still there, and so is the — yes, it was in fact – t-shirt he wiped his mouth on, but other than that, nothing looks at all familiar in the morning light.

  Oddly enough, the feeling of waking without knowing his own name seems somewhat familiar. He peels back the sheets and unfolds long arms and legs until he's standing, stumbling across the room toward the windows in a pattern that seems as if he's following it for the millionth time, though he has no idea where he is.

  Or does he?

  He searches for anything recognizable as he looks around, registering details as if he's seen this room before but can't match the actual sights to anything stored in his brain. The room itself is comfortable; it's right; he knows it's his, even if he doesn't recognize it. He moves without thinking to a small desk of honey-colored wood built into the alcove on the opposite side of the door from his bed. Above the desk are shelves crammed with books and papers, but on the desk there's a white laptop, open as if it has recently been used, its display scrolling a message repeatedly:

  Your name is Vance. Open the file on desktop: vance.txt

  Vance.

  He rolls the name around in his head for a bit. It seems comfortable, like an old pair of jeans you haven't worn for a while. When you find the jeans again, you remember why they're your favorite. But the name doesn't quite seem like it's his. It feels like he borrowed it from somewhere, and he isn't entirely convinced the message on the laptop screen is meant for him.

  He follows the directions anyway and opens the document, hoping for some clues. He isn't disappointed.

  Your name is Vance Welburn. There's a video file on this computer (vance.mov) that explains everything, including showing you where things are in the house. You live with your mother. If you need to repeat this procedure, the box is in the closet. And if you have class today, Donovan will walk you through a quickie version of your schedule upon arrival at 7:20. Check the calendar. I… you… we… whatever… mark it off in case we have to reset again.

  If the red Xes can be trusted, the calendar tells him it's a Tuesday, which is probably safe to assume is a class day. The clock on the laptop screen reads 7:13, giving him exactly seven minutes in which he's supposed to find clothes, ready himself to meet someone he has no recollection of, and get downstairs: an impossible goal.

  If everything was planned to the point of letting him know his name, why wasn't an alarm set at least?

  His quick scan around the room reveals no dresser, so he starts opening doors hoping for a closet. A door next to a second alcove that holds the bed he'd slept in opens to a set of bare wood stairs, leading to a presumed attic, but probably no clothing. Another next to it leads to what must be a bathroom shared with another bedroom, judging from the door on the other side. There are no sinks: just a toilet and a bathtub with a shower, the walls, floor, and shower covered in t
he same deep blue tile. A third door, located next to a small blue sink, not unlike one you might find in a hostel or college dorm room, is the hoped-for closet, walk-in variety, Inside, he finds clothes hanging from a rod, as well a dresser. He looks to the back wall of the closet and spots a box, possibly the one referenced in the note.

  He estimates he has less than five minutes remaining, which leaves no time to inspect the box. A t-shirt and the first sweatshirt and pair of jeans he can find will have to suffice.

  The calendar says it's October, and without being sure what kind of climate he lives in, he has to guess it will be enough. There's no hint about jackets, and he hasn't seen one in the closet or anywhere in the bedroom, any of which would have been helpful. A plain, black backpack on the floor next to the dresser will hopefully have whatever he needs for classes.

  He dresses hurriedly and has no sooner pulled on a pair of well-worn black boots he finds next to the desk when pounding begins downstairs. There’s no time left to check his appearance in the mirror, and now he has to find his way downstairs to locate the source of the noise, which has to be the promised Donovan.

  Once outside the bedroom, he sees more of the same golden hardwood floors that are in the bedroom. His boots thudded on the bare wood stairs, he shouts, not sure whoever is pounding will even hear him.

  “I'm coming! I'm coming.”

  He follows the sounds to an entryway: a thinner inner door made of a single pane of glass opening to a small, dark mudroom with piled sneakers and boots he trips over on his way to trying to open the steel outer door.

  He throws the door wide, expecting … probably a friend — male. What he sees instead is an odd-looking girl looking angry. He takes a minute to look her over while wondering who she is and why the promised Donovan hasn't arrived. She has light-brown hair, cut in a rather severe looking bob-thing — he thinks that’s what they call it — that reminds him of pictures of flappers from the 1920s. If it bothers him for a second or two that he can remember flappers but not his own name, he shakes it off before continuing his appraisal.

  She has fire-engine-red streaks through the light-brown hair, a ring in her lip, and eyes that may have been gray or green, but the thick, black makeup caked all around them makes it hard to tell. Her clothing consists of tight jeans, generic sneakers, and a charcoal gray t-shirt with an image of what appears to be a green zombie Care Bear. If she is a friend of his, it's enough to let him know he probably isn't very popular. Based on her appearance, odds are, he's probably an outcast. Then again, she could be here for anything, and he shouldn't be making judgments based solely on people look.

  “What the hell, Vance? You're supposed to be ready when I get here. Why am I having to pound on the door and wait?”

  He stares. The instructions promised him a Donovan would arrive at 7:20 to pick him up. Instead, he has this girl. Is she here instead? Is the file wrong? He considers the possibility that the information he’s been given is out of date.

  “Again?” she asks.

  He can sense her impatience, but he doesn't know how to explain that he doesn't know who she is or why she's here.

  Either she's psychic, or his confusion is familiar territory for her, because she answers his questions before he can even formulate them.

  She begins with a deep sigh. “I'm Donovan, which you undoubtedly have forgotten for the hundredth time or more. I can tell by how addled you are that's probably the case. One of these days, I'm just going to get myself a name tag like those idiots at Disney wear. Then I can greet you every fucking morning. 'Hi, I'm Donovan, your best friend. Welcome to the magic kingdom of your mind once you've fried the hell out of it doing god-only-knows-what. I'll be filling you in today on your entire life during the 20-minute ride to campus. As you might imagine, we'll just be passing over the high points, so please try to pay the utmost attention to your host and follow along. We also ask that while the car is in motion, there be no eating, drinking, smoking, or flash photography.'

  “Now get in the car so we can get started. I have to explain who you are, what you have to do today, and why your brain resembles an anti-drug PSA in 20 minutes or less. Even Domino's couldn't manage that.”

  He follows her like a dog brought to heel, walking behind her to a beat-up old Saturn that may be blue or black; he isn't quite sure. He climbs into the passenger seat, kicking fast food wrappers and empty cigarette boxes aside. If she’s the one with answers, he's not sure he wants to hear them. She doesn't seem … friendly. He can't help but watch her, however, hoping to remember something — anything — about her.

  “You aren't going to remember, you know,” she says as she starts driving. “You can stare at me all you want, but it's not going to come back to you. Like, you'll get some of it back. You always do. But not the important stuff. Not why you keep doing this to yourself. At least, not that you ever tell me.”

  He sees the cigarette shaking at she lifts it to her mouth, the ash floating off like tiny bits of confetti celebrating nothing.

  “I wish you would,” she adds in a voice so quiet he’s not sure he hears her correctly.

  “What you said before, though, when you were angry, that sounded familiar," he says. "The bit about the flash photography.”

  She sighs again, and it sounds like her is patience wearing thin.

  “Of course it does, you dumbass. It's the crap they say whenever you get on any moving vehicle at Disney. You probably heard it when your mom took you or something.”

  His mother. He sits back against the seat with a loud huff. He has no recollection of a mother, and he notices Donovan mentioned no father. How do you forget your own mother? Why can't he remember anything, and worse, why does this seem to be a regular occurrence? What kind of person is he that he leaves himself notes about who he is, and his best friend is a girl with a boy name who isn't at all surprised that he doesn't have any idea who he is — much less who she is — when she picks him up in the morning?

  She interrupts his thoughts.

  “So here's the deal, or at least what I know of it. You know something you either aren't supposed to know or don't want to remember, or some combination of the two. Whatever it is, you haven't told me; that's for sure. Therefore, about every couple of months — sometimes more often, sometimes less — I come to pick you up or call you only to find you've somehow managed to zap the shit out of your brain and have forgotten whatever you start to remember. Unfortunately, you screw up a lot of other things, too. Like knowing who I am. And a lot of the time, your own name.”

  He leans forward as far as the seat belt will allow and scrubs at his face with the heels of his hands. Patches of razor stubble scratch against his palms, and he feels a burning sensation at the back of his neck that could be the result of something he's done to himself, or just the feeling of Donovan staring daggers at him. How tedious it must be to tell your best friend the story of his life over and over again.

  “How do you know I do it myself? The forgetting, that is?”

  “Just a guess,” she says. “You'll tell me about dreams you’re having over and over again, or you'll remember more about your life, and then within a few days, I get this lovely morning greeting when I pick you up. I should’ve known it was coming.”

  “Is there anything else I need to know before we get … wherever? School?”

  “Not much,” she says. “You've been doing this for over two years now. You acted weird even before that, so it's not like a lot of people talk to you anyway. With the head-zapping and the vacant stares, though, I'm about the only friend you have left. Everyone from high school thinks you're either crazy or on drugs. They're used to it. I think they're just hoping they aren't on any list you might happen to be making for whenever you finally snap.”

  “There goes any hope I might have had of being elected homecoming king.”

  He jokes, but his life sounds dismal. No friends other than this odd girl who's angry with him. Recurrent amnesia. Why didn't he kill himself and get it
over with instead of this? There can't be any quality of life involved in an existence like this.

  She humors him with a laugh, but the tightness of her jaw contradicts it. Before he realizes it, they’ve arrived at what appears to be a college, and she parks the car behind a building, announcing their arrival in the same sing-song voice she'd started off with:

  “Thank you for traveling with us, today, Mr. Welburn. We hope you had a pleasant journey. If you open the glove compartment in front of you, you'll find a stack of papers, which consist of copies of your class schedule and directions to each classroom. “

  He gapes. He has no way to thank her.

  “No need to thank me, dude,” she says. “You're the one who stashes them there. In a few days, I'm sure you'll put them back for the next time.”

  She hops out of the car; the slamming of the car door the only sign of what must be seething anger she won't let him see. When she turns to face him, he can see her shaking. He thinks she must be crying before he realizes she's impatiently tapping her foot. She’ll wait for him; her role in this repeating performance set. She's not about to let him hide out in the car to contemplate the whys.

  Slowly, he reaches for the door handle, but before he can make his way out of the car, she startles him by pounding her fist on the window.

  “Get out of the car, Vance. You aren't sitting there all day,” she yells, audible even through the closed windows. “Life goes on here, and you need to figure it out again. Just like you did the last time and the time before that and the time before that. If you think you don't want to deal with it, try to remember I'm the one who has to cover for your sorry ass every time, and I'm the same one you forget every time, no matter how much I do for you. Get. Out. Of. The. Car.”

  In less than a second, he evaluates his choices and comes to the conclusion that he has only one. It seems he has only one friend in the world, and that's Donovan. If he loses her, he'll have nothing, at least according to the version of the story she's given him. That doesn't sound like the wisest move, and right now, he needs at least one person on his side.