by Ben Galley
“Will… will you let him go?”
The Bramble Man kept giggling, its roots continuing to burrow.
“Let my brother go!”
The mirth did not leave the Bramble Man’s eyes, but its face become one of amused shock.
Tad began to convulse more violently. The skin on the right side of his face started to split, unable to contain the roots burrowing beneath it.
“Stop! Stop it!” Knowing that no fairytale king would come to rescue them, he ran across the clearing, ignoring how the thorns of the forest floor tore at his skin. The Bramble Man stopped chuckling, face still showing mocking shock, eyes watching Felton’s every move. Felton made it up to the Bramble Man and started pounding on the creature, barrelling his anger and fear into two meaty fists. Punching the Bramble Man was like attacking a hedge - each blow made the leaves on the creature’s body bend, but they just snapped back into place.
“Let him go! He’s just a boy. Take me. It’s my fault we’re here. Take me instead.”
The Bramble Man was still for moment, as if considering Felton’s offer. Then, the creature pulled itself upwards, seeming to double in size as it inhaled. Only one of its fists of rooty fingers withdrew from Tad’s body, and it pointed them probingly at Felton.
The amber of the Bramble Man’s eyes darkened, and for the first time Felton saw aggression on the creature’s face.
“HE’LL RUN HIS ROOTS DEEP IN YOU, TOO.”
The Bramble Man’s fingers shot forward, five wooden darts embedding themselves into Felton’s chest. The force of their impact threw him to the ground, but he was more focussed on the excruciating pain spreading from the wounds on his chest. He could feel the Bramble Man’s fingers as they bore into him, worming their way under his skin, ripping through his body as they spread out to find more of him to feed on.
His arms would not respond. Wracked with pain, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of Tad. The boy was vibrating, covered now in red welts. They would both die together, their ma and pa never knowing what had happened to them, how stupid and selfish Felton had been.
And then the Magpie King came.
Felton did not realise at first. He was too consumed by his own pain, his own self-loathing. He became aware of a change in his situation when the Bramble Man’s fingers withdrew. Felton sat up, gasping, and saw that the Bramble Man had turned its back to him, and was staring at the trees above the clearing. There, perched on a branch high above them, was a hunched figure that might just have been a man. Most of his body was covered in a black cloak that seemed to merge with the darkness of the trees. What Felton could clearly make out, however, was the Magpie King’s helm, protruding forward in the shape of a bird’s beak, pointing accusingly towards the Bramble Man’s clearing. The helm too was black, but must have been made of a polished metal, as it glowed in the moonlight, a source of eerie whiteness in the depths of the night sky.
“He’ll run his roots deep in you, too!” the Bramble Man shouted at the Magpie King.
In response, the Magpie King leapt from his branch. It took Felton’s eyes a few moments to catch up with the king’s movements. By the time he found him again, the Magpie King had already pulled forth an overlarge sickle, and had used it to slice through one of the Bramble Man’s arms.
Instead of screaming, the Bramble Man giggled again, retreating into the forest, its laughter remaining long after it had left the moonlight.
The Magpie King looked briefly at Felton, then stooped over Tad.
Felton tried to stand up, but stumbled as his movement caused the ruined flesh of his chest to twist and tear.
“Is… is he all right? Will he be all right?”
The Magpie King turned to look at Felton. The eye holes of the mask completely concealed the human inside, making the man seem just as much of a monster as the thing that had been chased away.
“No. No, he will not.”
Walking beside the Magpie King felt like it should have been an impossibility. Stumbling through the morning forest, trying to match the man’s great strides, distracted as he was by his brother’s helpless form held in the Magpie King’s arms, Felton could not believe he was walking beside his ruler, the forest’s protector. Felton wheezed hard as he tried to keep up with the Magpie King, his own chest a rat’s nest of sores. The wounds that the Bramble Man’s fingers had caused would take weeks to disappear, if indeed they would ever heal properly. The Bramble Man had only been able to work on Felton for seconds, but Tad…
If the stories were true, the Magpie King was taking things easy for Felton. It was said that the ruler of the Corvae could leap through the air, as if flying. That he could make his way across his entire kingdom in the time it takes most men to pull on their longjohns in the morning. Now, however, the king walked slowly, cradling Tad gently in his arms. Seeing him like this, and not crouching in a tree, ready to strike, Felton could almost believe the man was human, was just like him, under that mask. The gloved fingers that held Tad tight seemed to be human enough. He walked with the stride of a man, sure, but he never stumbled as he walked along the uneven forest paths. That helm though. Felton’s thoughts changed when he glanced up at the Magpie King’s black, emotionless helm, pointing ever forward, paying no attention to the precious burden he carried.
“I don’t understand,” Felton wheezed, doing what he could to keep pace with the Magpie King’s great strides. “The Bramble Man isn’t real. Tad made him up. Been telling stories about him all his life, but he’s just been making them all up. He can’t be real.”
The Magpie King turned to glance at Felton briefly, the beak of his helm pointed at Felton’s head like a readied arrowhead. Something cold squirmed inside Felton’s belly, reminding him that he was not back safe at home yet.
The king turned his head away again, to look back at the path ahead, before speaking. The Magpie King’s voice steadied Felton’s heart. It was deep, authoritative, but mercifully human. “Tales of the Bramble Man reached the Eyrie this summer. I have been keeping an eye on my woods since then, looking out for this new threat.”
“But, that can’t be true. It was all… it was all just Tad. Just a stupid kid, telling stories.”
“A story is a dangerous thing, Felton Herder. We must value them, we must be careful with them. Set one loose on the world, and you lose all control over your own creation.”
Not quite understanding his ruler’s words, Felton’s eyes instead moved back towards his brother, unmoving in the Magpie King’s arms.
“Is he…” Felton could hardly bring himself to say it. “Is he dead?”
“Not dead, Felton Herder, not yet. But he was in the Bramble Man’s clutches for a long time. In the stories that have reached my ears, they say the Bramble Man steals his victim’s minds first. And there are no tales of his victims ever recovering.”
“That’s not true,” Felton said, louder than he had meant to respond. “I mean, Tad never said that before. That’s not part of Tad’s story. He’s just a kid, for the Spirit’s sake. He doesn’t tell stories like that.”
“The Bramble Man’s tale will have passed through many mouths before making it from Gallowglass to the Eyrie. Have I not already said we lose control over our creations? The Bramble Man does not belong to Tad anymore. He belongs to every man, woman and child who has retold the tale, who has added details to the Bramble Man’s legend. He belongs to the forest herself, now, to the darkness in her that picked up on those stories and moulded itself into the thing we saw last night.”
As the Magpie King continued to speak, Felton’s eyes drifted to Tad. His ma and da would be distraught when they saw their son. And Felton… Felton would lose his closest friend. Any time Felton was willing to put up with him, Tad had been there, at his side, wanting to be with his older brother. When Felton began herding in the spring, Tad was the first to volunteer to spend time with him in the fields and the fo
rest, helping to stave off the boredom of their family’s livelihood. Felton knew that Tad loved him, worshipped him, even. Felton was Tad’s hero.
However, if what the Magpie King said was true, Felton would bring his brother home, but he would also never get to speak to Tad again. Tad would grow old sitting in a bed, staring at a wall, being fed porridge that would dribble from his half-opened mouth. No more games. No more stories.
All because his best story, the story of the Bramble Man, got out of control. Because some smart-arse villager decided the story would be better if the Bramble Man left no survivors.
Tad could never have come up with a story so dangerous by himself. If they had known there was even a chance for the story to come true, they would never have let it escape from Tad’s head. If they had known that others out there could add their own details to the story, to warp it from Tad’s childhood monster-
Others can add their own details to the story.
Felton’s mouth dried instantly, his heart catching in his throat. Faint hope blossomed.
“I’ve heard… I’ve heard another story. About the Bramble Man.”
The Magpie King, still walking, cocked his head to look at Felton.
Forehead creased, Felton continued. “That’s not true, what you said. About the Bramble Man, about his victims. I heard they do recover. Heard they do get better, eventually. When they’ve had a bit of time to heal.”
The Magpie King stopped. He continued to look at Felton, clearly curious now.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Felton said, quietly. He raised his eyes to catch the impassionate visor of the Magpie King’s helm, willing the man to believe him, willing Felton’s story - this new addition to the Bramble Man’s tale - to come true. To be true.
Slowly, the Magpie King nodded. “This could work. There are stories like this, out there, in the forest. It would not take much of a push for the Bramble Man’s tale to find the grooves of these well-travelled roads, and follow down them.” His helm tilted slightly, indicating thought. “For it to take, you need a bit of flourish. The victims can’t just mysteriously recover. That seems too convenient. Not interesting enough for others to remember and repeat.” After another moment, the Magpie King’s head raised. “Spring. At the sight of the first flower of spring, their minds return.”
Spring. So far away. The leaves had not yet begun to fall.
As if reading Felton’s mind, the Magpie King said, “You will need that time to spread this story.”
Felton was not shocked at the suggestion. He knew it would have to be him to leave the safety of his family home, to head out among the people of the Magpie King’s forest and spread the new tale of the Bramble Man. His words would weave their way among the people, and - hopefully - among the trees themselves, adding to the newborn legend of the Bramble Man. Making it true.
Letting Tad come back to him.
“It will not be easy,” the Magpie King warned. “You will be alone, and many of the villages do not take kindly to strangers in the winter. You will spend many nights outside, hiding in the dark.”
“But will it work?” Felton asked, anxious, trying not to think of the dangers the king was hinting at. “Will he come back to me, in the spring?”
The Magpie King looked at Felton for a long while, then returned his gaze to Tad again, curled in his arms.
“I cannot say. I cannot say, but it feels… it feels good. It feels that this is a good risk to take, Felton Herder.”
Felton nodded, his chest still aching.
He looked across to Tad, still held in the Magpie King’s arms, and reached out for his brother. Wordlessly, the Magpie King handed him over. Tad felt so still and cold in Felton’s arms, and yet… And yet, for the first time since he had been attacked, Felton fancied he could see the shadow of a smile on his sleeping brother’s face.
Felton raised his eyes, the surrounding trees now familiar to him. Home was not far away, and he would soon be back with his family, to celebrate and commiserate with them. But for one night only.
Tomorrow, Felton would strike out alone into the forest.
Tomorrow, Felton would begin to spread his story.
Head to benedictpatrick.com to discover more stories by Benedict Patrick.
3
A Tree Called Sightless
Steven Kelliher
Most of the children were frightened by them. Maro only found them ugly.
He looked as much at the bark that surrounded them as he did at the black pits they held for eyes. As much at the other children spread out among the moss and shallow streams of the forest plateau as the sires and elders that stood close enough to protect and far enough to appear indifferent.
The tree rose to the height of a small mountain. Its covering was black and ashen gray. Dark caves marred its surface like scars, and each one was home to one of the unseeing and all-seeing crows that gazed out at the children with hungry and cold intent. They were mothers and daughters and sisters, but never lovers. They had once been called Willows but had used their gifts of sight too much.
Now, they leaned and stretched their sinuous necks. They dug their claws into the borders of bark that encased their hovels and threatened to trap them for eternity, or until the next foolish Willow stretched her sight too far and was cursed to live among them. If there was any comfort Maro took in such a dire and deathly sight, it was the discomfort it called up in any of the score of adults who could’ve been his sires.
He smirked as he watched them, just as he smirked when the former Willows fixed their collective regard on him. He didn’t really care, he told himself. After all, this was what he’d been raised for, trained for, abandoned for. Still, he’d have preferred not to be naked, such was the bite on the edge of the breeze.
Maro was the greatest fighter born on the Emerald Road in generations. The greatest by far since the Sage that once held these lands had departed and left his children to war with the rest. On this day, when he passed below the roots of the great tree known as Sightless and its many eyes that were truly one, Maro would win. He would claim the sword the Sage had left behind, and he would kill children who might’ve been his friend had he been born more fortunate of place and less fortunate of skill.
They all knew it. All that remained was to see it done. Worthy didn’t factor into it. Maro would fight because that was what he knew, and if the Emerald Blade let him do a great thing better, he would claim it and point it toward whomever needed killing next.
For the tribe. For the Emerald Road. For nobody in particular.
“You are not among the Chosen, Brega Cohr.”
Maro allowed his gaze to drift lazily toward the speaker. Too lazily, he knew. One of the Willows in the branches above raised her brows at him, noting how he took care to look as if he didn’t.
Shahn was the best fighter Maro had ever seen, other than himself and those youths spread among the dips and eddies of wet grass and mud. He was tall and lean and bore the scars of wars with the neighboring tribe and all its Raiths. He looked down at the prince of that other tribe, a boy the same age as Maro without half his skill.
Brega went from beaming to seething in short order. He had dark olive skin and yellow cat’s eyes. He was short and bunched and stocky, all violence that would only ferment with age. He looked older than he was, and the mother who stood behind him tripled his hateful gaze. Shahn did not look away, but his look told Maro he knew it would bring trouble someday.
“Convenient,” Maja said, her dark eyes sparkling as she stood behind her son in a way none of the warriors of the Emerald Road did. “Convenient that the only Chosen were born among the Willows and their guards.” She swept her gaze past Shahn and out to encompass the Willows in their high-hanging branches. Some bared their teeth when she alighted on them. Most only stared with unconcealed hate.
They could not act, though they wante
d to. This was a place of peace, whose only violence would be done by children beneath the sodden roots of the towering behemoth before them. Once and then never again, for the sword would have been bestowed and there would never be another of its make or like.
Still, the threat of violence hung on the air. Maro quirked a brow at Kai, a young girl who had been his only better on the training grounds before he surpassed her. Another would-be friend he would kill before the day was through, because the world was not made for children, but rather of them and the sins thrust upon them.
Behind Brega, Maja twitched with the need to act. She was no Raith, but Maro had heard tell of her skill with those clawed gauntlets that hung from her belt. She was large for a female, Brega having inherited much of her bearing and lack of poise. Shahn squared himself toward her and then bladed his body to give her an undiminished view of the Sightless and all its watching eyes.
Those black beads were on her, now, and though Maro had always known Maja to be fearless, he thought he saw something close enough to fear when she felt the full weight of the former Willows on her breast and brow.
“Whatever Raiths you have nesting in the trees,” Shahn said. “Call them off. This is not a place for blood, nor the time.”
“With that blade,” she said, “you will be able to kill us all.”
“You started this fight,” Shahn said, unwilling to deny the claim outright. “And whomever wields the Blade will make his or her own choice.”
“If choice is left to him,” Maja hissed. She stared at Maro as she paused, like he knew she would. “For all we know, the Sage of Center put himself in that blade. For all we know, he means to wear the skin and skill of one of our own, to bend us to his will. To bring us to heel.”
“Had he wanted it,” Shahn said, “he’d have done the very thing himself. None of the rest could stand against him at his full might.”
“Just as none will be able to stand against his heir.”
