Eyes of the Forest

by April Henry

  “I didn’t get to pick my birth order,” he said mildly.

  “And now Grandmother wants to arrange a marriage for me.”

  “You know Mama and Papa will never make you do that.”

  “You’re right. They just expect me to marry an Indian-American man.”

  Ajay decided to risk it. “How do you think they would feel if I had a girlfriend? Not that I’m saying I do. It’s just a hypothetical.”

  By the look Aprita gave him, he knew she wasn’t fooled by his “hypothetical” question. She did a passable imitation of their grandfather. “Don’t waste your time on such useless matters. Your job is to study and become successful in your career. We didn’t come to this country so that you can worry about friends and love and whatnot.” Then she added in her own voice, “Dating is an American thing.”

  “But we are Americans, like Papa said. We’ve never even been to India. We don’t even know much Hindi. And like he said, America’s a melting pot.”

  “They only want you to melt so much, Ajay. You need to think with your head and not your heart.” Her gaze softened. “What’s her name?”

  “Bridget.” Her name was as sweet as palm jaggery in his mouth.

  Her eyes narrowed. “A white girl? That may be a bridge—or should I say, Bridget?—too far.”

  BOB

  In the Nick of Time

  Rugged and rocky was the coastline. The weather-beaten trail twisted back and forth through the barren land. Overhead, the relentless sun rained down its luminous rays on the man struggling forward. Little did Rowan know that this was actually the calm before the storm.

  Yesterday, after his stolen mount had fallen to its knees and then been unable to rise, Rowan had slit its throat. It had been a mercy, and not just for the horse. After catching the hot, salty blood in his hands, he had slurped it up, the only food or drink he’d had in days.

  But that was yesterday. Now his tongue was so swollen it filled his mouth.

  The pounding waves masked the sound of his pursuers. He did not hear them until they were nearly upon him, astride three heaving mounts. Spinning around, Rowan barely had time to reach back and draw the swords from the crossed sheaths on his back.

  “Prepare to embrace your creator in the haunts of hell, peasant!” thundered the leading soldier.

  “First you must kiss my blade, wretch!” In the nick of time, Rowan parried the soldier’s lance with one sword while his second cut a new, red smile on his attacker’s face.

  Screaming with his smaller, original mouth, the mercenary crumpled from his saddle, sprinkling the parched earth with scarlet droplets.

  The second soldier spurred his steed toward Rowan. “Damn you, you miscreant serf!” he shrieked, riding over his dying companion. His muscular right arm thrust a flashing steel blade at Rowan’s unprotected neck—

  Just as Rowan launched himself with his characteristic catlike grace, not backward, but forward. The second soldier’s sword met only empty air. As Rowan leapt, he sheathed his own blade in the other man’s vital organs. The soldier emitted a groan as he tumbled from his steed, disturbing the golden sands of what would soon be his deathbed.

  Cool as a cucumber, Rowan turned toward the lone surviving mercenary. With a grin, he tossed his remaining sword from left hand to right.

  The man saw the writing on the wall. Putting the spur to his mount’s sides, he tried to swivel about to return whence he came.

  But his steed’s four hooves were no match for Rowan’s two swift feet. And soon Rowan’s scarlet-streaked blade found a new home.

  Bob found himself grinning as his fingers danced over the keys. The writing was terrible, which was perfect. All he needed to do was write something, anything, and tell Derrick it was Eyes of the Forest. The boy seemed a bit simple, so it wouldn’t be hard to convince him.

  Letting go had allowed Bob to write two pages in less than twenty minutes. He’d just starting plunking away. It helped that he was alone. Derrick had gotten up early to drive to school. After taking Bob to the bathroom, he had replenished the pile of healthy food. Before leaving, he had reminded Bob how important it was to write. Really write.

  This was the result.

  Why was Rowan on the coast? What coast? Who had hired the soldiers chasing him? How had he managed to escape the blade aimed at his throat? When had his speech gotten so flowery? Bob had no idea about any of it, but he’d danced on the edge of the precipice before. It reminded him of writing King of Swords, which had almost been an out-of-body experience, as if he was taking dictation. And this time, he probably wouldn’t need to smooth the edges down until all the pieces fit together.

  Suddenly it all seemed so easy. It might come down to how fast he could type. Bob thought he typed about forty words per minute. That was—he multiplied in his head—twenty-four hundred words an hour. And what else was there to do in this room? He could easily write eight hours a day, or about twenty thousand words. His last book had been one hundred fifty thousand words. Theoretically, in a little more than a week, Derrick would be turning him loose.

  But now that Bob’s fingers were no longer moving, reality sank in. Thinking he could write an entire book in a week was the kind of math he did whenever he stepped on the scale and found that for some unknown reason, he’d lost a pound. In a single day, a whole pound had just disappeared! Giddy, Bob would immediately start projecting. In a week, he could be down seven. If he kept it up, soon he would be at his goal weight. Never again would his doctor make those faces about his spare tire.

  But of course it never worked like that. The next day Bob would actually be back to his old weight or even above it, his “loss” erased.

  Still, even if it took him weeks, this was a way forward, one a typewriter encouraged in ways a computer could not. Since Derrick hadn’t provided him with any correction fluid, there was no way to fix mistakes. Without the red computer underline, Bob wasn’t even sure if he was correctly spelling every word. All he could do was concentrate on plot. And why use a single word when four would do? This was freewriting on steroids.

  Absently, Bob reached for an apple and took a big bite. The first day he’d been ferociously hungry, but after a few days without easy access to junk food, clocks, or any reminders of the real world, the hunger had receded. Now he kept having to hitch up his sweatpants. Maybe all the walking had stretched them out.

  He put his fingers back on the keys.

  As Rowan rode away on his new horse, carrying the plunder plucked from the bodies of his foes, he remembered all the burning suns and starry nights he had seen. Was it all going to end here, on sands shifting faster than those in an hourglass?

  DERRICK

  Out of Game

  Rickard ran through the woods, his crossed swords bouncing on his back. This was no longer Camp Tomawaka, a campground with a vaguely Native American– sounding name. And he was no longer Derrick Lavinsky, a teenage boy mostly invisible to the world.

  Here in the mythical land of Cascadia, he was Rickard Starsworn, leader of the peasant rebellion. Despite having a price on his head and nothing in his belly, he would not be swayed from his mission to procure the Sacred Feather. Whoever possessed it could call down the army of gryphons from the sky.

  Cascadia was a world full of magic and betrayal. Of brave fighters, cutthroat rogues, and majestic nobility. One thing it was not—definitely not—was the world of Swords and Shadows. While Derrick’s dad had begun the LARP as a frank homage, over the years, dozens of new plot twists and characters had been introduced. And after the intellectual property lawsuit nine years ago, all overlapping names had been changed. So the game was now called Mysts of Cascadia and featured gryphons instead of unicorns.

  If new players remarked on any remaining similarities, they were reminded to stay in character. If they continued to do so OOG (out of game), everyone knew to deny, deny, deny, just in case R. M. Haldon’s publisher’s lawyers had once again hired spies.

  Even though Derrick’s charac
ter, Rowan, had been renamed Rickard, the general outlines of the backstory remained the same. Derrick had reread the books many times in an effort to understand his character. It was Mountains of the Moon that had revealed Rowan for the hero—or perhaps antihero—he had been all along.

  As Rickard drew closer to the clearing where he would meet Black Fox, the thief who’d promised to sell him the Sacred Feather, he slowed his pace, slipping from shadow to shadow.

  Suddenly a woman shouted behind him. “I call forth a Web Spell.” The spell (represented by a small beanbag filled with birdseed) slapped between his shoulder blades.

  “By Ferdinand’s Beard!” Rickard swore. He was currently without a Resist Spell to counteract the Web Spell. Now his arms and legs couldn’t move.

  Lady Katarina appeared in his peripheral vision, then moved to stand in front of him. Her long brown plaits were wound in a coronet around her head. Her smile was cold. Her left hand was hidden under her black fur cloak.

  “Well met, Rickard. Why dost thou run through my forest without my leave? Mayhap you were looking for this?” She revealed what she had hidden under her cloak. The Sacred Feather of the Gryphons.

  More players allied with Lady Katarina stepped from behind trees and bushes, surrounding him. Most faces were familiar. A few not. Clearly, he’d been double-crossed by Black Fox.

  “What kind of a man carries two swords and no shield?” a woman said mockingly. She hoisted her own shield and menacingly waved her sword.

  “The kind of man who falsely fancies himself a fighter,” her compatriot sneered. “And here he is, stuck without even unsheathing a weapon.”

  “He’s not real smart, is he?” a third man said, shattering the illusion they were all working so hard to build. Derrick had never seen him before. He wasn’t an NPC (non-player character), because they were provided with good-quality costumes. This guy’s tunic was just a T-shirt turned inside out, with the hems cut off, and slit halfway down the center. The resulting V had been laced with one of the cut-off pieces of fabric. It was basically the cheapest, fastest costume you could make. He was wearing it over black sweatpants. Around his wrist, he’d tied another piece of fabric, but it did little to disguise that underneath it was a Fitbit. And on his feet were tennis shoes. Tennis shoes! What had the logistics committee been thinking when they checked this guy in? Had they been too busy pretending the apple juice in the tavern was really liquor?

  The advent of the Swords and Shadows TV show had raised everyone’s expectation of what proper garb should look like. It had also resulted in a plethora of Halloween costumes that weren’t half bad, if you didn’t mind polyester fur and plastic instead of metal. Halloween had only been two days ago. Yesterday, November 1, was also known as LARPers’ Christmas, because costumes went on clearance. So this new player character had no justification for his sorry excuse for garb.

  In contrast, Rickard was clad in black wool hose topped by a long-sleeved black tunic. Over that was a sleeveless dark green surcoat. Topping them all was a ruby red mantle fastened at the shoulder with an ornate brooch. After watching tons of YouTube videos, he’d painstakingly sewn the tunic, surcoat, and mantle, and designed the sigil on the mantle. The brooch had been a lucky find at Goodwill. On his feet were black leather slouch boots in a large ladies’ size he’d picked up on sale last summer. Since he had no pockets (they weren’t period), Rickard carried his belongings in a leather pouch slung over the belt around his surcoat.

  Now he felt probing fingers. They belonged to the new guy. Physically putting your hands all over a captive was another lawsuit waiting to happen.

  One of the other players cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Blackheart Doombringer, but thou shouldst say, ‘I search you,’ and then Rickard shall yield his items.”

  Rickard bit back another groan at the new player’s name. The Noun-Verbers (who gave themselves last names like Giantkiller, Dreamseeker, and Shadowwalker) were always the worst. But Blackheart Doombringer? Way to telegraph what kind of character you were playing!

  Blackheart reluctantly withdrew his hands. “I thought he was paralyzed by that Web thingy.”

  Lady Katarina sighed. “Nay, not for a search.”

  Rickard welcomed the distracting discussion about the rules. Because he knew something the others did not. He’d not come alone to this forest.

  With a cry, five people charged from the trees on the other side of the clearing. Well, three people, an elf, and an ogre. Tonight they had all joined Rickard in his quest. An epic battle began to rage around him.

  Someone freed Rickard with a Dispel Spell. He reached back, drew his two swords, and threw himself into battle. Each time he swung, he yelled, “Two!” for the number of damage points a single blow from one of his swords would cause.

  Blackheart was fighting off the ogre. While normally Rickard wouldn’t gang up on a player, he made an exception for Blackheart. But once he joined the fight, the ogre grunted and chased after a fleeing Lady Katarina.

  Rickard circled around Blackheart, who had only a dagger. Unless Blackheart possessed a special spell to increase its powers, a dagger could do just one point of damage.

  Rickard feinted with his right hand and then swung with his left. “Two!” he shouted, lightly tapping Blackheart’s shoulder. Even though his sword was basically just PVC pipe wrapped in foam, it was against the rules to use any force. Injuries playing Mysts of Cascadia were rare, mostly just sprained ankles from tripping in the woods.

  Blackheart did not grunt. He did not take a step back. He did not act as if anything had happened. He just rushed forward, swinging his dagger at Rickard’s face, a forbidden target. He didn’t even shout, “One.”

  Rickard easily evaded the blade, then whirled his left sword over his head and lightly tapped the same spot he had earlier. The sword in his right hand touched the matching spot on the other shoulder. “Two and two.”

  From the other man’s sour expression, Rickard could tell he’d just used up all his points. According to the rules, Blackheart was now unconscious and bleeding out. Grumbling, he dropped to his knees but went no further. “Well, I guess I’m dead now.”

  “Then thou hadst better look it,” Rickard said through gritted teeth, nudging him with the dull point of his sword.

  BRIDGET

  Stand on the Bones

  “Leave us,” King Tristan said to his guards.

  “But my lord—” one began.

  “Never question me. Is that understood?” His voice was quiet and all the more dangerous for that.

  “Yes, sire.”

  He did not speak to Margarit until the guards’ footsteps had faded away. “The people want to see red running down the headsman’s axe. Even now there are peasants sleeping next to the stone so that they can feel your blood freckle their skin.”

  Bridget paused. For the past week, she’d been reading King of Swords aloud to Ajay at lunch. A fast talker, she’d already gotten through a big chunk of it. “Just a sec.” She took a bite of the roti—a type of flatbread—that was part of his contribution to their unspoken trade of food for words. For a moment, she stilled her bouncing knees (sitting outside, she was always chilled, but it was a small price for spending time with Ajay) while she scribbled down the page number and Is blood lucky? in her notebook.

  With each passing day, the weather had gotten colder and the outdoor tables less populated. Today it was in the low forties. The only other people outside were a couple in the far corner, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Bridget and Ajay were sitting side by side, their backs to the cafeteria. On Friday, Ajay had declared that seeing their classmates distracted him from the fictional world he was trying to enter.

  Today’s chapters, full of cruelty and betrayal, had been some of her mom’s favorites.

  Better the headsman’s axe, Margarit thought, than the oubliette King Tristan favored for his worst enemies. The single way in or out was via an iron grille in the ceiling. Once you were inside, it was on
ly wide enough to allow you to stand. Its name came from the French oublier, meaning “to forget.”

  The year before, Tristan had ordered his own nephew, accused of plotting to overthrow him, lowered into the oubliette. The poor boy had been forced to stand on the bones of those who came before him. His screams were whispered about throughout the kingdom. Death, when it finally came, had been a mercy.

  “Brutal,” Ajay muttered, then added, “What’s the matter? You look sad. Sad and cold. The sad part’s new.” He nudged her thermos of pumpkin soup—he now brought thermoses for both of them—into her hand. A curl of steam rose from it. “Drink some of this.”

  She took a sip. “Oh, that’s good. What’s the secret ingredient this time?” With Ajay, there was always at least one.

  “Fresh coconut and kalonji.” When she looked confused, he added, “Sometimes they’re called nigella seeds. Or black onion, even though they’re not related, because they’re black and taste like toasted onions.”

  Bridget smacked her lips thoughtfully. Now she could taste both, the sweet and savory notes.

  As she took another sip, he said, “You didn’t answer me. What were you thinking about when you stopped reading?”

  Sighing, she tried to adjust her coat to cover more of her legs. “About my mom. This was one of her favorite scenes.”

  “How old were you when she passed away?”

  “Twelve. Right before End of Forever came out. But sometimes I wonder—what if Bob had just split the book in two and put out the first part earlier? Maybe she would have made it a little longer.” It was suddenly hard to swallow.