Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  “It seems hopeless, I admit…”

  “Oh, you’re the cheerful one. Thanks for that.”

  “Wait, you didn’t let me finish. You keep on saying that since the start of all this you’ve been relying on your instincts. That’s what you have to keep on doing. They’re your only weapon.”

  “But what if my instincts are wrong? You have to understand, I’m out of my element here.”

  She shrugged. “Keep your wits about you. Deal with each situation as it comes. That’s all I can tell you.”

  He stopped pacing and flung himself down on the blankets beside her. “It just seems to me like I’m walking into a duel, unarmed and naked. While my opponent has an entire arsenal to choose from.” And the conversation went on like that for quite some time. They continued discussing strategy, but the more they hashed it out, the more obvious it became, to Tad’s growing frustration, how little he could do to actually prepare himself for what was to come. They did arrive at one decision, agreed upon by both. The confrontation would take place the very next day. Tad would enter the woods again, seek out Daddy in his house, and entreat him once more to free the Surrey family. It was no use stalling. Daddy would only strike out again, and Tad felt that if he had to endure another one of those invisible, probing attacks, he would go completely and utterly mad. And so, when it was fully dark outside, and the scorching heat of the day was somewhat diminished, he let down the ladder again, went back to his room, and lay down to rest and think about the task that lay before him. To extricate himself from a real-life game that had gotten too real. To rid himself of an admirer that had gotten too close, and whose bulging eyes and off-key laughter pursued him through his troubled dreams.

  It was half past ten when he awoke to his mother knocking on the door. “I let you sleep in again,” she said. “I thought you probably needed it.” He came down and ate his cereal slowly and deliberately, lingering at the table. He was in no hurry to get about the business that was to come. But when he could put it off no longer, he went back upstairs and made his preparations, and then ascended the stairs into the attic once more, to say goodbye to Daisy. She insisted on seeing him off in person, so when he crossed the driveway and entered the woods on the right side of the house, he did so waving to a small girl with a pale face and wild, unkempt hair, standing on the porch in her oversized sweatshirt. And then as he began his trek she vanished behind him, and the house disappeared from sight along with her, and he wondered, idly, much as he had on the night of Decadence, if he would see either one of them again.

  Despite his apprehension, and the inescapable heat, it felt good to be out and moving toward a foreseeable goal again. True, he had no idea what was going to come about as a result of this action, but anything was better than sitting at home and waiting for Daddy’s next trick. He paid close attention as he walked, trying to see if he could detect anything in the way of hostility from his surroundings. All that he picked up was a sort of lethargy. The wooden guardians are sleeping. He moved through broken patches of sunlight, watched by sparrows who hopped from branch to branch, their melodious voices in fugue, drifting down to him like autumn leaves. Once the harsh cry of a jackdaw reached him from the bole of a great oak, and at that moment he felt that if he only kept his heart open and his mind free of doubt and fear, that nature could not harm him, despite the pollution of Daddy’s reach that tainted it. He was determined that if this should prove to be his walk to the gallows, he would enjoy it in all its simplicity or grandeur.

  Soon enough he came to the three rusted strings of barbed wire pulled taut that comprised the fence between the Surrey property and the property that he now knew had belonged, at least back in 1963, to a woman named Madeline Crawley. And now? Did it belong to the Grand Potentate, he of the many names? And if so, what was the connection between the two? Had Daddy killed Madeline Crawley? Was hers one of the skeletons in the closet? “Questions,” he said aloud, speaking to a squirrel who sat poised on a nearby branch, clucking to itself. “So many questions.” He reached up, positioning his hands between the barbs, and pulled himself up to crouch on the bottom strand before dropping over to the other side. He had done it so many times now that he’d grown completely proficient at it.

  He noticed it again as he landed, that all too subtle change in the mighty pulse around him that emanated from the very ground itself, and the living trees and the carpet of dead leaves underfoot, and all the animals that could be seen, and the many more that were hidden from view. Because this is his place, and this is where he holds sway. This is his backyard, his Graceland. And it was here that the confrontation would take place. Did Daddy know he was coming? He wondered this, as he moved forward, but deep inside he sensed that the man must know; he knew of all that took place within his realm, and easy as it was for Daddy to seek him out when Tad was outside and farther away, once he was this close the eye was on him for sure, and he must behave accordingly. He must realize that he was expected. He could not count on the element of surprise.

  He would have no trouble finding the place today. There was no more need for deception. The path was as clear to him as if it was a paved road leading straight through the forest. He was moving slower now, as the atmosphere had changed. It was not yet hostile, perhaps, but things had grown more hushed, more expectant, and he began not to walk but to creep, one foot placed carefully in front of the other, as though he were sneaking down the stairs for one of his nighttime excursions. The birds in the branches had grown quiet, as he came now to the deep and thoughtful places near to the house itself, with its taller, stronger trees, the elemental oaks. His shoes left fine, perfect prints in the mossy ground that began to fade the instant he left them. And just as it had been when he’d first seen it, when it had been the solid, real-life epitome of the most magnificent game that his mind could ever conjure, he caught a glimpse of the building, the solid structure that existed where no habitation should be, Daddy’s house, the mansion of the bizarre, the fulcrum, the axis, the epicenter.

  He left the trees and saw how the grass had returned to the same wild state that it had been in prior to Decadence. In the short time since he had last been here, it had grown an impossible amount. As he struggled through it, sweating and thirsty, he looked at the building and went over in his mind everything that had happened that night, the night that had seemed to last for many days. The place had shrunk back to its normal size; no longer did it tower above him like a cliff wall, flickering and pulsing with life. Again it was as a carcass picked clean by vultures, a dead ruin that waited to explode in a heat of passionate music and laughter, but it was not to be for nearly another seven years. That was its purpose. The podium where the troll-like gate guard had stood was gone. The door was off its hinges again. The mesmerizing Witchlight was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of what had taken place was the litter that covered the porch and the long grass under the windows, the broken glass, the trinkets and empty jugs, the coins and streamers, the rent and tattered pieces of costume, the spilled piles of glitter. He stood on the porch and allowed himself to remember for a moment what he had no trouble identifying as the night of his life.

  Daddy wasn’t there. He knew that as soon as he’d stepped inside the door, and not only because of the voice that might or might not have been his own that whispered in his ear. He could tell, because the house seemed listless. It was dozing, and he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Relieved, he quickly decided. But he was not alone, either. From somewhere close by he could hear the familiar click-clack, click-clack of sewing needles.

  Stitch's Tale

  He stepped cautiously around the corner into the room where he’d sat with his two former friends and had tea on several previous occasions. And if Daddy was his enemy, now, how did he feel about Stitch? It wasn’t a question that he’d even considered yet. He’d been concentrating on one, and now that he was in the presence of the other, he didn’t know quite what to do. He decided to take his cue from Stitch, w
ho was sitting, cross legged, much as he’d been when Tad had first met him, clad in a stained undershirt and ripped jean shorts, sweating as he labored, but with the same calm and unconcerned manner that Tad had come to expect from him. Against the wall near to him was the altar on which Daddy would sometimes sit, with the brass gong and the many candles. The seat at the top of the altar was, of course, empty. “Hello, my lad,” Stitch said, looking up from his work, his hands still moving busily. He was working on what looked to be some unidentified garment made of black cloth.

  “Hello yourself,” Tad said. On a sudden impulse, he walked past the large man and up the tiers to the cushion at the top of the altar, stepping between the candles. He seated himself on the cushion and looked down at Stitch, who raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. “It’s comfortable up here.”

  “You say that now,” the bald man answered, “but see how you feel after you’ve been there for a while.”

  “Where is he?”

  Stitch shrugged. “I don’t keep track of his comings and goings.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll bet he brags to you about his nefarious deeds, doesn’t he, egomaniac that he is? But you don’t approve, do you? You don’t approve of who he is, or what he does?” Stitch didn’t answer. “Well? He’s not around now. What harm would there be in telling me?”

  “Don’t involve me. It isn’t any of my business. What’s between the two of you is between the two of you.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re sitting on the fence. You’re Mr. Neutrality, huh? Just part of the scenery.”

  “There’s no need to use that tone of voice with me. I’m not your enemy.”

  “You’re saying you’re my friend, then? Is that it?” Stitch opened his mouth to speak, but Tad waved a hand, shushing him. “Be quiet! I don’t want to hear it. Do you know what happened last night? Do you?” When Stitch hesitated, Tad continued his tirade. “It’s not such a difficult question to answer, is it? Yes or no? Well? Yes or no?”

  “Yes! Alright? Is that what you want to hear? I know what happened to your sister. Are you satisfied?”

  “Satisfied!” Tad chortled, slapping his thigh. “That’s rich! Do you think your admission is all it would take to satisfy me? You know what happened; did you know what he was planning before he did it?” When Stitch did not answer immediately, Tad pressed on again. “You did, didn’t you, you son of a bitch? Didn’t you?”

  This time Stitch actually set down his knitting and looked Tad straight in the eye. “Yes. I did know about it. You’re right, he is an egomaniac, the biggest egomaniac in the world, and yes, he does tell me everything, whether I would hear or no. And he knows I don’t approve. That’s why he delights in telling me so much.”

  “Then why? Why didn’t you stop him? My baby sister was in danger, and you did nothing. You took no action at all. You just sat by. Are you as heartless as he is? I thought I knew you, and I always took you for a good person. Was I wrong about you too? What is this paralyzing power that he has over you?”

  “It’s a long story. Long, and complicated. I have my reasons, believe me.”

  “You know something? I do believe you. But if the length of the story is all that’s bothering you, it just so happens that I’ve got some free time on my hands today. Why don’t you spill your guts, big man? Go on. Spin a yarn for me. Regale me with the story of your life.”

  “And why should I?” Stitch countered, becoming angry again in his turn. “What do I owe you that I should tell you why things are the way they are?”

  “How about because it’s the right thing to do. Is that good enough? How about because, if you’re a decent person, then there’s a time when you have to stop vacillating and pick a side. I don’t have to tell you what the right side is, either. You know as well as I do. Stop defending him! I don’t care what it is you think you owe him, he treats you like shit! Stand up to him, or if you can’t, give me the tools I need and I’ll do it myself!” Tad stood up and stepped off the cushion, pointing at the man below him. “You can’t sit by any longer! That time is past!”

  Stitch’s lower lip had begun to tremble. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

  “You can!” Tad screamed at him, in a voice so fierce it startled even him. “You can, and you must! You must!” He felt very strange. It was as though his entire body was on fire. It reminded him, in a way, of the sensation when he’d drank the Essence. He felt that at that moment, he could make the much larger, stronger man tell him what he wanted to know, without laying a finger on him.

  Stitch had put his hands up in front of his face, and was fairly cowering before the fury of a half-grown boy a third his size. “Don’t,” he whimpered. “Please don’t.”

  What it was that Stitch didn’t want him to do Tad wasn’t entirely sure of. He was enjoying this new sensation, though, liking it very much. He felt powerful, and completely, entirely self justified. “You will tell me,” he stated calmly, and as he said it, he knew it for the truth. “I compel you.”

  “What is it,” Stitch pleaded, nodding his head in pitiful agreement, “that you want to know?”

  “Everything. Tell me everything you feel is relevant. And I’ll tell you where to start. You can start by telling me about Madeline Crawley.”

  At that, Stitch’s face went completely pale. “How do you…how did you…”

  “Research,” Tad said, enjoying the dumbfounded expression on the man’s face. “I did a little research.”

  “By all the Gods and Fates,” Stitch murmured. He swallowed, trying visibly to collect himself. “Alright. Alright. I will tell you. I’ve wanted to, believe me. Please sit down, and I’ll do the best I can.” Tad took his seat on the cushion again, and Stitch took up his knitting again with trembling hands. As his fingers resumed their long practiced motion he became calmer, though it was more than a minute before he spoke again. Tad could see him trying to arrange his thoughts, and he didn’t rush him anymore. He knew he was going to get what he wanted, and eventually Stitch began to speak. “I’ll start with me,” he said. “Because even though this isn’t really my story, I’m all tied up in it, and by telling you about myself, Madeline will work her way in. And James too. And the house, because I’m sure you’ll want to know about that, and the Essence, and the rest of it.” He looked at the far wall, the needles in his hands clicking and clacking, and a thin, languid smile settled on his lips, as if even the thought of his tale was wearisome to him. “My story begins in England...London, mostly, something like sixty years ago. Maybe a little more, or less, I really can’t say. I don’t know how old I am, exactly, or when my real birthday is, or where I was born. I’m an orphan, you see, and my earliest memories are of the monastery outside Manchester where I ended up, who knows how. I never knew my parents. Those recollections are like dark patches in my mind that I can’t disentangle and make sense of, and I wouldn’t want to. What I can recall most easily of that time is the fear. I lived with it, and it was constant, it was total. It was everything. I lived without hope. All I knew was suffering, physical and mental, the anguish that comes of a lack of proper food, and being beaten half to death when any notice is taken of you at all, and being fondled in stone rooms by beady eyed clergymen with probing fingers. When this is all you know, persecution for no other reason than because you are alive and no one wants you, then you develop an adult mind, though you are still a child. I suppose that is the only reason I was able to survive, when I escaped. That episode I can remember at least partially. I remember I seized my chance and went over the wall, in a blinding rainstorm, and landed in the flooded lane, and swam out over the fields and slept like a drowned rat in some sodden haystack. And then I was on my own, young as I was, and they never looked for me, or if they did I wasn’t aware of it, for they never found me.

  From that point on I was a street urchin, a wanderer who slept in doorways and sewer tunnels. I picked pockets, begged for change, and I was constantly on the run, aloof, wary, trusting no one,
a filthy, bedraggled creature, thin to the point of starving, not like now, he added ruefully, looking down at the bulge of his stomach. It was the latter half of the 1940’s, and much of Europe was in shambles. It was a time of rebuilding. In the monastery, before I escaped, I was too consumed by my own troubles to take much notice of the world’s climate, but what drifted through to me was a confused impression of panic and hysteria that was closely akin to what I myself felt most of the time. I thought that fitting, I remember- the idea that the world was in as much of a turmoil as my life was. But as for the reasons behind it all, and the details of the conflict, I knew next to nothing until I was out on my own and struggling to survive on the streets. Then I heard about the Axis powers, and the Allies, and the atrocities of combat, and the wholesale slaughter, and the ideologies that would come to reshape the world. But all of it mattered little to me. I was more concerned with filling my belly. The details of my life at that point are unimportant in the context of this story, so I will spare you from them. All I will say is that I became hardened, and I saw things that no one of that age should have been asked to, and the more I saw of the world, the more it saddened me. I was able to move about, and I found that I wanted to; wanderlust, perhaps, or a simple desire to escape my past and see what else a life such as mine had to offer. From Manchester I traveled to Portsmouth, eventually crossing the English Channel. I spent time in France, living at one point in an orphanage in Strasbourg near the German border, when I was detained by police and placed there. But I soon fled from there as well and headed south, living with families of refugees in Switzerland. I found my way east and spent time in Hungary and Romania, picking up snatches of languages here and there. But these were desolate lands, and there was nothing for me there. What matters most of that time period are the survival instincts that I honed. I learned how to live off of nothing, to lie as easily as I drew breath, and to take advantage of the gullible and any who I perceived to be vulnerable or weaker than myself. I became a young hoodlum, and if you judge me harshly for that, it doesn’t bother me. It was out of necessity. I was doing what I had to do.