by Various
Human shaped. Heavy jacket and fur-lined hat, heavy boots with a portion of pants leg caught in one of the lips-rushed donning as the boot strings dangled untied over the muddy ground. And then a profile and she gasped, although she should have suspected as much. The scraggly gray hair, beaked nose and grim-lipped mouth of Brother Evans chilled her. But more than that, she felt danger as she'd never experienced before. A tingling sensation that spread not within her bones or any organ or cavity, but somewhere inside that was connected to another place; impossible sensation that went on and on as she stood shivering against the sturdy oak, borrowing its strength.
A sudden rustle in the thickets opposite sent his head around and eyes wide, and it was then that she saw he held a large bowie knife in his left hand. A hunter: To rid the world of the scourge of Berwyns, demon spawn that would be the last of their line. Eradicate her, and the God of Light would triumph. Oh, she could just hear the righteous wheels turning inside his head. But it made her heart heavier still, this hatred, this bloodlust. In spite of her instincts, she almost stepped out and faced her condemner, her accuser and would-be executioner, and did take a step beyond the tree, back as straight as that massive oak. Stepped out in time to see Brother Evans stumble back in panic and take flight through the vine-choked pathway not bothering to even go back the way he came. Running headlong into the great tangles of creeper which he thought were phantom hands grasping as he shouted and wailed into the night, finally breaking through and careening through the forest in manic departure.
Lethe looked to the branches overhead; searching for the owl that most probably saved her life. But the branches were bare.
From the tail of her eye there was movement in the thick patches of oleander where Brother Evans had heard his phantasm. She steadied herself, half expecting to see the moon-feathered owl flap and take wing from some hidden point.
But then the motion caught stillness in the form of a shadowy outline and she gasped so hard it felt as if someone had struck her chest. There in the intertwined confusion of vine and tree, was the figure she had glimpsed in the forest as a child, thirteen years ago...
The goatman, she had called him for lack of the word satyr on that day in the forest when she was a small child, green enough that she'd just since been able to use all her fingers on her hand to demonstrate her age; the thumb vital as a milestone. And in that forest, as the sun's rays broke through in bright blades forming colored halos in the air, she'd helped her mother gather walnuts. One nut here, another there, sighting the pretty butterfly-and wondering if she could catch it. So many enticements in the forest and so hard to concentrate on finding the best walnuts for her Grandmere. And off she'd chased the cottontail-just one touch of its silky fur, that's all she'd wanted. But the rabbit had led her down too many paths and she halted at a fallen tree suddenly, the barrier a bold warning that jarred her. Nothing looked familiar as she looked at the pattern of trees, clusters of shrub, and the overgrown trail that had thinned to barely passable. Looking back at the path she was at once panicked. She'd paid no attention to direction. And then the sun had beamed brighter around a cloud and she gasped when the large oak she'd been looking at had a face within the narrow fork of twin halves. The face was almost as grey as the tree bark, his beard short and pointed. There were short blunted horns atop his head-she'd never seen those before on anyone…But it was the legs that erupted from the man's waist that sent her thrashing through the forest, pulling air that suddenly smelled dank and foreign into her lungs so forcefully that it seemed she'd never get enough. Goat legs attached to a man's body! A monster! The birds called out to her as the trees blurred, she followed their sound in faith, for on her ears their shrill caws echoed 'Mama'.
She remembered twisting her ankle in a rut and falling slow-motion to the ground. Gasping sobs lost for a few seconds as she fought to find the breath that was knocked from her; trying to keep away the scary thoughts of the Goatman behind her and would she ever see her mama and Grandmere again? Once, she'd come across small bones in the forest before her mama had quickly pulled her away. Did that happen to little girls who wandered off from their mamas? Forever-with the goatman. Noooo!
The birds became more fervent, urging her on, as she scrambled to her feet and hobbled through the widening path. And by a miracle of the goddess, there her mother had stood in a small clearing, worry pinching her face as they ran to one another. "There's a goatman back there…" she'd repeated over and over to her mother, and the only reply given to her hysterics: "Shhhh, it's okay. It's okay, don't cry."
It's okay, her mother had said and she wondered how deeply she had offended him with that degrading moniker. In mortification, she slid to her knees once again, ignoring the sting where the briars had bitten into her skin earlier.
"Do not be afraid, little Berwyn, least of all, that you should be afraid." he whispered; far away whisper that the wind captured and carried to rest upon her ears.
Then, his cloven hoof pounded the ground. He snorted and his voice grew gruff, "Best to be home and under the Firestar's care." He looked out in the direction that Brother Evans had run. "Evil takes many a form, but it loves to hide behind the seemingly virtuous facade."
After not knowing what to expect from the mythical creature, she stood in mute awe. Only when the satyr's words penetrated her wondrous thoughts did she abandon reverie.
"But what am I to call you?"
He was slipping into the shadows even as she asked and she thought she would be denied an answer, when his voice, no longer coarse with emotion, wafted from the darkness. "Call me… Romulus."
Never had the walk home seemed so short. She hardly noticed the footpath as her shock-filled mind tried to grasp in all detail; the satyr's words and elliptical eyes underneath small protruding horns. Throughout history he'd been called 'devil' for a likeness that drew not on the inner workings of the heart and soul, but physical likeness to the just as mythical Satan. In an ironic world the devil himself would have angel wings! For he was once a purported fallen angel, and all of humanity in God's image, though fallen children…
***
The house's small windows stared blankly at her as she climbed the porch steps. She eased into the narrow hall and passed by her Grandmere's bedroom door. From the hallway she could hear the heavy breath of sleep. She decided she would not mention the night's events for a time, or maybe not at all. She thought she would be up and restless the whole night, digesting the strange and mysterious world in which she lived. But as soon as she grew warm beneath the covers she drifted off into an exhausted sleep.
***
The night before the celebration of Beltane, and at a late hour, there was a loud and persistent knock at the front door. Lethe drew her robes about her and hurried to the hallway only to see her Grandmere already at the door and intercepting the caller, fully dressed. Expecting the knock, thought Lethe. Their voices were low and her Grandmere finished the communication with a nod and a 'good night'.
"Who was that at such an hour?" Lethe asked, and how did you know they would be coming? Always the one question that couldn't be asked, intimidating question that begged to be answered if only she could find the strength and conviction to give it voice.
"Samuel Hodson. Brother Evans' home burned down but an hour ago. They fear he perished in the flames."
Lethe guarded her expression as she shuddered uncontrollably. "I'm cold. I think I'll go back to bed," she murmured and padded down the hall to her own room. There, she lay awake gazing out the window at the completed moon's perfect mold, watching the fog gather, drape, and tease itself across it-or was it the smoke and ashes of a man drifting to the stars. Seemed everything was made up of moondust and madness and Gods that shake thunderous fists at pitiful man.
At next glance the moon seemed to be pulsating, and then it slowed to a rhythm-the same rhythm inside her chest-and the drifting fog settled into a sneering grin on the craters.
***
"…ssshhh, Lethe, you've
worried yourself long enough over this; made yourself sick, you have." The cool dampness of a cloth swiped over her face lovingly. Her Grandmere pressed a cup into her palms and supported her head as she encouraged her to drink. "This will bring the fever down and give you rest."
Lethe grabbed her Grandmere's thin wrist. "I see him in the moon; I see him and he smiles at me, but he's not of this world any longer-how can this be?"
Her Grandmere bent slowly and stared into her eyes. Lethe thought the cataract eye might be following her thoughts, penetrating her skull and siphoning the madness from her. Just when Lethe could take no more of the probing eye, her Grandmere turned away. She looked to the window and the amorphous moon, her voice barely a whisper, "You must decide child whether you want to live in a world of fear. Most of the world does, you know. But there are a few of us who aren't afraid to look beyond the façade; our parents and theirs before them taught us there's more to see and hear than just fables and fairy tales."
Lethe swallowed the tears rising in her throat. "He was real and I spoke to him, Romulus. I thought him beautiful, in a different way." And Lethe's fingers tightened around her Grandmere's wrist, "Are there more?"
Her Grandmere's shoulders slumped a bit and Lethe bit her lip knowing there were none.
"All creatures of the goddess Maia have long since perished except for Romulus. He is the last."
"Is that why there is such sadness in him?"
Her Grandmere tried to conceal her surprise, but Lethe had seen it and there was something more…
Her Grandmere bounded from the side of the bed and started for the door. "Romulus brings the message of Maia. She's not happy with us this year, Lethe. If the tides of Beltane are not turned…the Berwyn name will cease to exist. Romulus is the keeper of the balance, and he will take it from us if Maia demands it."
Lethe, for the first time in her life, felt some of the conviction she'd lacked come streaming through her veins. The Berwyn name deserved more than this whisper and retreat. Her voice found strength and she halted her Grandmere with a sharpness she never knew she possessed. "How did this happen?"
"Go to sleep child, we can talk of this another time. You must rest."
But Lethe allowed the strength to grow. "I asked you, Firestar, how?"
She stopped then, and slowly turned to her granddaughter. She looked unbearably tired and Lethe was almost sorry for wearying her further, but she had to know.
"You've rejected the gift, Lethe. As did your mother. Perhaps your daughter will as well, when the time comes."
The words still came as a shock to her, even when she half expected them… and she remembered his words, and they came creeping into her mind from the night in the forest. Do not be afraid, little Berwyn, least of all, that you should be afraid. And another important question that must be answered: "Did Romulus kill Brother Evans?" but the strength was gone from her voice and it broke in fractured whispers.
"No Lethe, but he will die. Not for stalking you into the forest, not that, but for destroying the temple yesterday. It's gone. Hundreds of years that temple stood blessed upon the mountain and now it's been destroyed. Maia demands vengeance. So it shall be done."
Lethe's head moved, barely a nod, but it represented the emptiness in her heart. The temple was gone. Gone. And she was so tired. Too tired for any more questions, too tired for pondering, too tired to contemplate what the destroyed temple meant for them. She didn't hear her Grandmere, the Firestar, leave the room. She heard only one reoccurring thought as it reverberated through her mind: Maia help them all!
***
She dreamt of black forests. Charred and spidery branches reached for her and she heard every tree's moan and husky whimper. Tearful trees and scored earth, stones unturned and scorched as ashes fell around her in disarray. Sacred temple of memories-all she held precious in this life, and where she'd last seen her mother's face before covering the flesh in swathing and carrying the pyre to the river. The Beltane of previous years came flooding back in her dreams as she watched herself grow and stand taller and taller.
And she woke suddenly as the rays of the sun broke through her dream and as the Goddess was whispering something in her ear from one of those years before…something she couldn't recall. But she had no time to think on it. No one had woken her for the ceremony at dawn. How could they not include her! Anger consumed her as she dressed quickly and flew from the house.
Where would they be? The temple was gone… Lethe turned about, trying to think of where the ceremony might be held now. She looked up at the overhead sun, late morning. She'd surely missed the rites. Oh blessed goddess, please forgive me this disgrace upon your day! she said aloud. She ran to the forest, into the green and lushness of healthy living trees. She followed an invisible thread, its mental twine within her soul, pulling her eastward toward Capel Mountain. The more she followed the sensation the more she was convinced it was right. And she realized within moments that she was being led to the destroyed temple.
She rushed on, shoving vines and shrubbery out of the way, wondering if she could bear seeing the temple dishonored and in ruins.
Lethe burst from the trees into the clearing where one stood for Beltane. Aida Berwyn looked to her as if waiting for her arrival to begin. But over the wood pile and lodged to the sacred pole that had withstood the destruction of the temple, was another.
Above the unlit coals and splintered wood, a sarcophagus was suspended in the shape of a man, framed by twisted twigs of the mighty oak. An arm reached out from the cage of entwined branches, rigored fingers that clawed the air in her direction, charred and crimson flesh that moaned and strained against the Holy Oak. Feral eyes that had lost what little humanity there was to lose stared out at her with seething hate. She knew the face that peek-a-booed within the spaces: Attacker; destroyer of ancient temples; blasphemer against the sacred Goddess. Although he was now almost featureless, she knew him well. And she stared at the white pustules that covered his destroyed skin; blisters that as he struggled inside his prison, began to burst, oozing and shimmering as if his whole body wept.
Her Grandmere took her hand into her own. "He will make a fitful gift to the Gods, Lethe." Then, she squeezed Lethe's palm and, "I will ask only this one time. Will you honor the ways of Maia to restore our name?" And Lethe nodded, decision made, forsaking neither her mother nor Grandmere but hearing the breath of trees within her own swelling heart.
Aida Berwyn smiled. "His time on this earth is almost over. Soon, though, Maia will arrive and she will enact her own justice. But for now, you must finish this." And through her Grandmere's hand to Lethe's hand ran a current that brought each nerve in her body alive. Lethe thought it was not unlike the sensation she'd had that fateful night in the forest, but a hundred times stronger, yet it carried with it none of yesterday, only the present, and the feeling of home.
From a place faraway, she heard her Grandmere's soft voice. "You, Lethe, are now the Firestar of the May Queen. It is your duty to light the pyre and lead us in dance around the May Pole."
And with the strength of convictions new, she held her palm out level with her eyes and lit the fire ablazing.
SUSANNE S. BRYDENBAUGH
Susanne S. Brydenbaugh is the author of over 80 short stories and poems published in both the genre and literary small press. Her most current work can be found in the following anthologies: Cemetery Poets: Grave Offerings, Atrocitas Aqua, Femmes de la Brume, and forthcoming in such anthologies as: Scary! Holidays to Make You Scream, Scriptures of the Damned, Double Dragon Publishing; and Experiments of a Different Vein. She is finishing her first novel, Midnight Cry, for publication in late 2004.
Other than writing and reading voraciously, she enjoys the outdoors, craves music, and is a classic car enthusiast. She lives in the southern U.S. Her website can be found at: www.mywriterstooth.com
VETERAN'S DAY HORROR TALE
Originally known as Armistice Day, Veteran's Day stems from the end of "The Great War", now k
nown as World War I. The cease-fire agreement between Germany and France was signed in Rethondes, France on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, at the eleventh hour, in 1918. This of course led to the notorious Treaty of Versailles, and World War II, but for some time it was celebrated in remembrance of the great peace brought by the day. For many survivors of battle, it often proved a time to remember the suffering they had witnessed.
President Wilson declared the first Armistice Day November 11, 1919. Originally business would halt for a two-minute period starting at the eleventh hour, followed by speeches and parades. In 1921 church groups swayed President Wilson and he named the nearest Sunday Armistice Day Sunday, for events focusing on international peace. While the Federal government can't declare national holidays-each state determines its own schedule-Armistice Day was declared an official holiday in the District of Columbia and for Federal employees in 1938.
In 1953 the town of Emporia, Kansas referred to the day as Veteran's Day in recognition of veterans of both World War II and the Korean War. On June 1 of the following year legislation was passed by President Eisenhower officially changing the name to Veteran's Day. The 1960's and 70's saw rapid fire exchanges of dates on which the United States celebrated Veteran's Day, leading to some confusion and frustration for citizens. Due to legislation passed by President Nixon, Veteran's Day continues to be observed by the Federal government on the second Monday of November.
