Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  “Looking for a refill?” someone purred. It was a sultry voice that was familiar to Tad, but that he could not immediately identify. A shapely figure reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and he squinted.

  “Ahem! Yes. Be careful of this one, young Surrey.” There was no mistaking that voice, as Daddy popped up on his right, running a finger around the outside of his margarita glass. “A dangerous woman, by all accounts, but a true diamond in the muff, as the saying goes.”

  Tad now recognized Justine, the painted harlequin. Among the others standing near he spotted her large Nordic companion. Now that the Essence was in his system, he could see the aura around them both, as they glowed with a pale, insistent fire. “Poor child,” she breathed, stepping closer and cupping the back of his neck with a warm, velvety hand. “Caught between a cock and a soft place. Enjoying the party, are we?”

  “Very much so,” Tad said, his voice cracking. “Now.”

  Justine pulled him closer. “I know just what you want, my love. You’re just aching for it, aren’t you?” Her voice promising things, the half of which Tad did not understand, but he did not want it the less. I would go wherever this woman led me, whether into a fire or off a cliff. The thought was both thrilling and frightening. He was aware, out of the corner of one eye, of Daddy watching the exchange with his mouth slightly open, draped in shadow, his disturbing eyes protruding from their sockets. Grabbing hold of his shirt, Justine pulled him forward, parting the crowd. Before them was a soapstone structure anchored in the ground that looked somewhat like a birdbath one might see in a public park. It was roughly hourglass shaped, wide at the base, the sides slender and tapered, forming a wide basin at the top with a small hole in the center from which continually bubbled the clear liquid that wasn’t liquid. The fountain was beautifully carved, with scrollwork around its rim and tiny squares, each one depicting a different phase of the moon, like the ones over the doors. Tad, however, did not waste time studying it. He bent over and drank, deeply and without hesitation. The stuff leapt into his mouth with no urging, spiraling down his gullet like smooth, hot fire. Tasting of lemon, copper, mint. Tasting of nothing. Again he felt the irresistible pull, as though the suction would tug him down the drain lips first. Too much. He felt each molecule vibrating, wanting to shoot off in every direction at once. He heard the voices crying out, joined by fresh ones. In ecstasy they spoke, delight, terror, pain. As if each swallow breathed new life into a host that slumbered at his core and in each extremity, or if they were not there to begin with, did the stuff implant them? Cause them to spring up in sudden spontaneous genesis? One more swallow and they would tear him apart. He could not pull away. Justine’s hand on his neck saved him, as she ripped him from the source. Again he could feel his lips curling into a snarl. You’ve created a monster.You are in control. “You are one of us,” Justine whispered. “You glow like a candle. What does it feel like? Describe it to me. Every detail. What does it do to you?

  “I hear voices. Voices in my head. But sometimes it sounds like they’re coming from outside. A barrage, from all angles. I can’t always understand.” His voice was thick, like a person awakened from a deep sleep. “The language…not my own. Voices not my own.”

  “But they are yours, my love. The Essence sets them free, but they are not external. They are from within. Are you frightened?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “Every moment it feels like I’m being torn apart and reassembled. Like Frankenstein. A monster.” You’ve created a monster.

  She reached for him and ran a finger down his chest, to his navel. “But you are not a monster. You are perfect, and you are beautiful. This is your night. This is our night.” Sweet agony, where her fingers touched. Again he was aware of Daddy standing and watching them, and he turned toward him in time to catch the jealousy that the man was not quick enough to disguise. Such a cruel pleasure Tad felt at that moment, brief as it was, for an instant later the expression on Daddy’s face had vanished like a flicker of heat lightning, replaced by the signature mad leer that was the trademark of this particular persona. As Justine slipped away, back to the side of her rugged companion, he was aware of a general commotion about the room, and Stitch’s voice as the man began to speak. He stood in his friar’s robe in the circle of moonlight, in the path and view of The Eye, his hands folded in front of him, his head thrown back.

  “I would like to bid you all a formal welcome once again to our little cottage in the woods, friends all, who have traveled here from many places, near and far, to be here this night. This event takes place for the sixth time, and there are some, like myself, who have attended each one since its inception. There are others who grace us for the first time. But it matters not, for if you are here, then there is a reason for it being so, as you all contribute a small slice of yourself to the flavor of the company. We call on you all to lend us your varied skills and talents, your dreams, nightmares, lusts and desires, your spells, enchantments, your pride, your strength, your hope, your craft, your despair. We want it all. We want to hold it close to us and cherish it, we want to shine it up nice and new, we want to breathe fresh life into it and send it on its way, so that all the world can appreciate it as we do, for the next seven years. Whatever it is that you bring to the table this night, we want to see you each spreading your gospel at the top of your lungs; we want to hear it ringing out, we want to learn, we want to know. This is a celebration of many ways of life, and of all that is Decadent. This is my night, and your night, and yours, and yours, and yours. This is a night for rebirth and renewal!” He turned as he spoke, speaking in a clear voice, pointing into the shadows where clusters stood and knelt and sat, their eyes bright, auras aglow. “My gift is the word that I bring, and this is a place of words, where they carry weight, and speech is immortalized not only in this chamber but in the chamber of memory. So I would speak to you now, if you would listen, for the words in me are heavy this night, and I would relieve myself of them. For I would ask you, as this is your night, of what would you have me speak?”

  “Speak of new love, Gatey!” a woman cried.

  “Speak of daring deeds!”

  “Speak of pride and a fall!”

  “Tell of magic and enchantment!”

  “Speak of death!” Daddy cried. “Hem, hup. I do say. A pox on your rebirth and renewal! Speak of doom and despair, a tale as chills the blood. Speak of murder and mischief, and untimely ends! Tell us a tale of the black!”

  Stitch looked from one side to the other. “Is that your wish?” There were immediate cries of assent. How quick they all are to agree with him, Tad thought, standing back and observing. Just as before, when he suggested dancing as the method for the duel. How eager they are to please him. Truly he is the master of the house, and they his subjects. Is he so beloved? Or do they follow him out of fear? “So be it then,” Stitch said. “I will speak to you of the black, and of untimely ends. If you are friends, then listen with your ears, and see with your eyes, and go where I take you. And you need not be afraid, for my voice will guide you back, out of the cold and the dark and the deep water. Silence all, and attend now, the tale of

  The Skeleton Crew

  As they marched up over the crest of the hill, their hair was fair and their eyes were blue

  Their careful passage was straight and true, and every one of their company knew

  Their mission held the gravest import, and of their fellows they were the sort

  Who would not falter at a report, or go to ground as a first resort

  The leaves on the ground made a muffled sound, like a woman’s head as she lays it down

  And all about them the mist and fog that rise in the night from a slumbering bog

  And only the sound of a bloated frog obscured the tread of their nightly plod

  From whence did they come and to where did they go?

  And what was their mission, did each of them know?

  It was only the captain who knew wh
ere they went

  On what clandestine errand the men had been sent

  Their spirits were high, but this much could be said

  The war had been long, and some comrades were dead

  This much was the truth and could not be denied

  That they’d bled for their country, a matter of pride

  But the captain assured them before they’d set out

  That they were expected at the end of their route

  They’d be airlifted home when the task was complete

  With full commendation, their loved ones to meet

  And as they crept forward, the fog growing thicker

  The captain was nervous and urged them on quicker

  They hated to halt, but a downpour ensued

  They were drenched to the skin and were wholly subdued

  But all of a sudden the lookout called to tell them they were approaching signs

  Which indicated that cavernous mines reared up like holes in the mountain’s spine

  And fast they approached the withered pines, so eager they were to end their climb

  The rock-strewn mouth yawned grim and wide and as they hurried to get inside

  The tremulous voices of night birds cried, the trees in shadow all stirred and sighed

  “We’ll rest for a bit,” the captain said “On the friendly rock we shall lay our heads

  But first we’ll check to see we’re alone, and no man or beast calls this cavern home

  I’d know it contains no mortal soul, so hop to, lads, as you know your role”

  So with torches lit, they ventured on, with muskets ready and sabers drawn

  No sign of life in the cave ahead, but a shocking sight to their eyes instead

  A mighty cavern of rough-hewn stones, and piles on piles of human bones

  Stacked to the ceiling in eerie piles, yellowed skulls with their fleshless smiles

  “What sight is this,” cried one of the men, “what accident or what senseless slaughter?”

  The only answer resounding echoes and patter outside of the falling water

  The men were uneasy and crossed themselves, only the captain was unaffected

  This was a man with an iron will, to many a peril he’d been subjected

  “Rest easy lads,” the captain cried “for we’ve faced combat and far worse terror

  I see none alive in these moldy piles; they pose no threat, unless I’m in error

  We’ll rest for a space, when the night is through, we’ll make it in time for the rendezvous

  They posted a lookout as they lay down, and one by one they began to doze

  The sentry was anxious, but for a time, he saw no sign of approaching foes

  And all was quiet, but for the rain, when there was a moan like a child in pain

  He gave a shout, and his bleary fellows, leapt to their feet with affrighted bellows

  Horror of horrors, before their eyes, the skeletal forms had begun to rise

  They looked toward the exit, but none of them flew

  Their way had been blocked by this skeleton crew

  Their heads as they arose hung down like flowers when the root has died

  They sighed like jilted lovers, and the poses that they plied

  Looked one and all like marionettes that twirl and swirl in dark vignettes

  And nibble away at the old regrets that lurk on the shelves of the mind

  That lurk on the shelves of the mind, you know, that lurk on the shelves of the mind

  Their bones were white as wedding gowns, they grinned like sickly circus clowns

  Their brothers were piled in grizzly mounds, and as they stood with clattering creaks

  They one and all gave ravening shrieks like hunters’ hounds when they’ve scented meat

  And spittle dripped from the toothless beaks of this boneyard crew and their fellow freaks

  And they clattered and clapped as they stamped their feet in the hallways

  Where nightmares meet, you know, in the hallways where nightmares meet

  The men stood shaking, their hair upright, each rendered mute by their awful fright

  Not thinking to draw their tools of death, as the foe that menaced did not draw breath

  “We’re done for, lads,” the lookout said, but the captain spat as he shook his head

  “I’ve never backed down from a fight,” said he, “it takes more than bones to silence me”

  And now the ranks of the skeletons parted as their hideous braying once again started

  And forward stepped one who had no head, but held his skull in his hand instead

  So the captain squared up and fired a shot, but the spectral one didn’t mind a jot

  “I’m only bones,” said the headless one, “what life I had has been spent and done

  And never again will you see the sun, for once you enter you cannot run”

  “You’ve built up little walls inside your head,” the specter said,

  “And when they all come crashing down then you’ll be worse than dead

  For all that swirling sickly mess that boils and broils within your chest

  Will burst and bubble with all the rest down here in the deep sepulchral depths

  And you’ll end in a nasty mess, you know, you’ll end in a nasty mess”

  “For it’s your bodies that we’ll consume, down here in the dark and impassive gloom

  For in this place that shall be your tomb, as warm and close as a mother’s womb

  We’ll slurp them down like melon rinds, and giggle and grin as we scrape your spines

  And there’s never a god or a man we mind, we obey no law of the human kind”

  Said the voice now speaking inside their minds, now speaking inside their minds

  And while the country was pelted with rain, the soldiers started to go insane

  They clutched each other and begged and wept, the gods were busy, no pleas were met

  The thunder rumbled, the demon creatures laughed as they bared their skeletal features

  Even the captain, turning pale, knew both mission and life had failed

  Cocking his side arm, he gave a salute, raised the gun to his head and proceeded to shoot

  Having gotten this final satisfaction, the hounds swept in with no further distraction

  The sun arose on a rain-swept dawn in a far off country of fresh mowed lawns

  And neat row-houses and quiet streets where lives are orderly, nice and neat

  And children nurse in their mothers’ arms, not knowing of danger, battle or harm

  At the rendezvous point, the choppers wait, not knowing their charges’ awful fate

  Should they wait for a day or they wait for a year, it will only confirm their darkest fear

  And as for the squadron that was expected, there’s little chance to be resurrected

  For both their bodies and minds were taken, by the powers of the forsaken

  And in the depths of hell’s where all the strangely ghostly creatures walk

  They mumble as they jumble all their thoughts into their nonsense talk

  And talk of tantalizing nothings no one ever thought or knew

  That we may not know either, for they are the skeleton crew

  And we shall someday know them, for they are the skeleton crew

  And we shall someday know them, for they are the skeleton crew

  Stitch raised his head, his eyes alight. “That tale’s told out,” he said. It was probably well that he ended when he did; for several minutes, bad things had been taking place inside the mind of Tad Surrey.Essence, in addition to its physical effects, its lowering of the inhibitions, and its unleashing of torrents of voices, whether internal or external, can make the person who ingests it very susceptible to suggestion, particularly for a first time user as young and inexperienced as Tad was. When Stitch had given the order for those listening to see with their eyes and to go where his voice took them, the boy had taken the advice to heart. So engrossed, or perhaps entra
nced had he been by the narrative, that he hadn’t noticed any of what was taking place around him, not Daddy growing bored midway through the recitation and disappearing down one of the holes to seek out action elsewhere, or Justine leading her man away from the main floor, or any of the other comings and goings in his immediate vicinity. He had been among the ill-fated platoon on their mysterious mission, had trudged soaking with them through the rain, had bunked down with them for the night in the bone filled cave, and he had experienced their terror first hand as the bones had reassembled around them into menacing abominations, aided by some vindictive and unnamed power. He had temporarily abandoned his body, which remained standing in the dimly lit outer rim of The Eye, arms slack, eyes glazed, lower lip trembling, while in his mind he’d been there registering the dire warnings of the skeleton leader before his henchmen had rushed in, sealing the fate of he and his comrades in arms. It had almost been too much for him to bear. As Stitch had concluded his little bedtime story, Tad had been on the verge of shrieking at the top of his lungs; as it was, he stood there petrified, his mind having been left in a dark, unenviable place. There was some scattered applause, the spell having been broken, and some were calling for a more cheerful encore.

  Tad was gradually beginning to register the real world again, or what passed for it in Daddy’s house, when something brushed against his shoulder. Still not entirely recovered, he jumped a foot in the air, but managed to coral the scream that threatened to burst from his lungs; all that escaped was a high pitched squeak. There was no one near enough to have made physical contact with him, and he was confused for a moment, before he realized that it was an aura reaching out and making contact with his, as Stitch had demonstrated to him earlier in the cave below. It was her aura. He could almost hear her saying things to him, whispering sweet nothings inside his head. He could hear the tingling bells of her cap, and he followed them, forgetting his fright. Suddenly nothing else was important. He could smell her. Her aura caressed his. The warmth of their intermingling was a roaring fire on a cold night. He pushed his way gently between two dimly seen shapes, half smiling dazedly by way of apology. He was being drawn to one of the side chambers off of The Eye. She was there. He stopped at the circular doorway, the portal partially open. He pushed his hat back on his head, leaning against the doorframe. Within, the one who’d charmed him was kneeling by a circular bed in the center of the room. The Wytchlight or Foxlight bathed the scene in a sunset glow. The bedspread seeped over the sides of the mattress, covering most of the floor in a crimson puddle. Justine’s blond companion stood with his head downcast, his broad chest heaving gently. His kilt with its gleaming buckle lay nearby, along with Justine’s stockings, gloves and leotard, and her jester’s cap with its bells. She was holding him in her hand, and she smiled with mock coyness as she looked at Tad with her green doe eyes. None of the three spoke. Though a young man, Tad Surrey now knew lust for what it was. There are moments in each life that reverberate throughout our memories, touchstones to which we will always return. For Tad, this was one of those moments. Though not all of this night would be accessible to him afterwards, those few seconds always would be. At the time, he remembered thinking that it would never end, and as it was a moment of anticipation, he almost wished it wouldn’t. But it did. With her free hand, the white-faced, green-eyed enchantress beckoned to him. And he stepped forward and closed the door behind him, though there was a part of him that forever after remained behind, standing there outside the room. And in the time to follow, he sometimes wished that it could be retrieved, but that was not the case, for there are decisions that, once made, can never be unmade again.