Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

The haunted one, naturally, as all nursery tales often had it—haunted and cursed for reasons that varied greatly but still shared a common thread. Had Alarick been nothing more than a lost, frightened child, he’d be able to recite all of those strange nursery verses or recall those unsettling tales that his nurse had always been so fond of telling him as a way of keeping him in line. He wasn’t a child anymore, though, and he felt like death, his mind barely functioning through the thick haze of pain. His mother’s looking-glass had warned against the forest, he remembered, and Amara had told him about the sorcerer-king’s legend.

  That was all, however—just a legend. A story that was so far-fetched even though his reality was deeply intertwined with magic and the supernatural, and he’d never truly believed it.

  Alarick drew ragged breaths as he struggled to stay calm, gazing around him and seeing nothing but trees and shadows. He tried to look behind him, retrace his steps if only by sight, but there was no path anywhere, no clear indication of a way in or out of the forest even though he was sure that he ran through a narrow pathway till he was forced to stop and collapse in pain and exhaustion.

  He blinked, grimacing as pain shot through him. He could hear nothing more than his irregular breathing and the occasional chirping of birds. The forest, otherwise, remained still, and whatever little narrow pathway he’d followed to that point seemed to have vanished.

  Alarick swallowed as he closed his eyes and rested some more. He’d have to move soon and find some kind of shelter, though preferably a way out of the forest. He’d just begun to notice the chill, and he wasn’t sure if it came from the fact that the sun barely penetrated the canopy of leaves above him, or if it came from the nagging sensation of being watched.

  “Who’s there?” Alarick called out in a weak voice and immediately felt foolish. Even if someone were there, hiding in the shadows and spying on him, the chances of him or her being a friendly stranger were unnervingly slim.

  No. It had to be ghosts. This, legends said, happened to be the forest in which the sorcerer-king was buried, unconsecrated. And everyone knew what that meant.

  No blessing, no peace for the soul, especially one that belonged to a man skilled in the Black Arts. Power heaped upon power—surely death would have done more to feed such a soul and reshape it into a distorted image of its previous self than to bless it with eternal rest. He remembered Amara and her curious warning about the dead and how his and Roald’s love made them jealous. Or was it one restless soul that felt such animosity toward them? Why?

  The sorcerer-king then haunted the forest, Alarick had always been told, condemned to roam through the shadowed trees for all eternity. A black pall had been cast over the entire area, and men who wandered in either never ventured out again or if they did, they’d been driven completely mad—to live the rest of their days in the grip of dark dreams till they were forced to put an end to their miserable existence.

  Alarick had always laughed off these stories as stupid superstitions meant to keep children in line, for that was exactly the purpose of his nurse’s never ending variations of the tale. No, there weren’t ghosts to be afraid of in that forest—just the dangers of wandering alone, hurt, and confused, with animals likely skulking in the shadows, smelling his blood, sensing his weakness, and getting ready to attack at the best possible moment. He also felt fear for the too-real man who’d been dispatched to slaughter him, and once he felt up to it, he pursued his course deeper into the forest, choosing a direction solely by chance and hoping for the best.

  At length, whether or not because he’d chosen correctly, a path appeared before him, softly lit by the faint rays of sunshine that filtered through the trees. He stared at it for a moment, unable at first to determine its reality, but the path remained after several moments of confused blinking and muttered remonstrations meant to snap himself back to reality. The path looked almost pretty, the faint sunshine touching it so that it nearly shimmered in the midst of cold dreariness.

  Follow me, the path seemed to whisper to him. Stray, and you’ll never find your way out.

  Alarick was too tired, too much in pain, and too baffled to think more clearly about his options, though he knew that retreating and retracing his steps would mean capture, torture, and perhaps execution—that is, if he could even manage to find his way back to where he’d first entered. The ambush could only mean that something was afoot in court, and he knew too well just how tenuous his position was, how it would do little, if anything, to save him.

  After walking for some time without incident, he found thick, moss-covered roots into which he settled himself for a restless nap, and he soon awakened to sore muscles and a bad headache, his stomach gurgling its protests.

  Alarick sat up, groaning, and looked around. “I’ve no idea where I’m going,” he said, his spirits faltering. His gaze settled on the path that had taken him that far, and it was the only thing that afforded him some measure of comfort at the moment. If a path was present in the middle of a forest, it surely meant that someone must live somewhere in it and had carved the path in the grass and earth in order to reach the world outside. Or at the very least, it had been created by men who ventured in and out all the time—hunting forest animals, perhaps, or foraging for vegetation that was known to thrive in such a dark and cheerless environment.

  “Yes,” Alarick said, rubbing his arms with his hands to ward off the chill. “That’s it. There’s nothing supernatural about such a simple thing as a path through the forest.”

  It sounded very good and reassuring in his mind, anyway.

  So he staggered to his feet and moved forward into the gloom as it whispered its welcome to him, asking what he’d done to deserve this.

  “What? Is someone there? I can hear you!” he called into the darkness, and the decaying trees bowed before him. Alarick blinked, rubbing the remnants of his nap with his fingers. “Who are you? What do you want?” He swallowed, whispering, “What’s happening to me?”

  Your Highness, one can’t realistically choose his parents, can he? the dreary forest replied. Come here and rest with the shadows, and we’ll comfort you with stories that won’t mislead you with false hopes—unlike your ageless and tired nursery tales.

  He’d reached a point where the sun couldn’t find its way into the forest anymore. Alarick, shivering in the darkness, wandered farther into the forest’s bowels while the trees whispered their tales and caressed him with their rotting branches. An odd light, soft and cold, illuminated the path as it wove its way through ancient trees. In that part of the forest, the leaves and branches above were too thick, the canopy quite impenetrable against the sun’s rays beyond, yet there it was, a ghostly light that coaxed Alarick’s feet forward.

  * * *

  There was one of a princess who’d been plunged into a century-long sleep by the pricking of a finger. “Curiosity killed the cat” had never been a lesson ingrained, alas. Briars grew around her palace, entombing everyone within, while she slept in luxury in her pearly turret. Foolish noblemen tried their luck and were eventually caught in the brambles, where they were stabbed by a thousand sharp thorns, bleeding to death. And there their corpses hung in silent guardianship over their virgin princess. She continued to sleep and dream while her body carried on with its natural functions, and she was a mess of organic filth in a soiled velvet gown. Time passed, dust piled up on her, and she eventually suffocated under its heavy layers. And so she passed on and faded in time as do the others—innocent victims of her own spoiled nature.

  This isn’t fair! their corpses cried out, but no one heard, let alone listened.

  There was another of a girl who was abused by her stepmother and stepsisters. She yearned to be at the prince’s ball and was given a chance by a meddling fairy godmother. Be sure to be back by midnight, child, the crone said with a firm shaking of a gnarled finger. Otherwise, the magic loses its hold, and you’ll be transformed back to your bleak, soot-covered self. “Yes, yes,” she cried happily and danced th
e night away. But she was a silly, giddy little creature, and she forgot about the crone’s warning—so much so that when midnight struck, she lost her pretty ball gown and her pretty dancing slippers, and she stood before her prince in her rags, reeking of filth and the pigsty. He visibly flinched and shied away from her, and she was kicked out of the palace, weeping at her own carelessness, while the prince was seduced by one of her stepsisters. Yes, the one who’d never had the advantage of a fairy godmother.

  “This isn’t fair! ” she wailed, but she had no one but scampering mice and lizards for company.

  There was another of a girl in a red hood and cape, who’d been given the thankless task of taking a basket of baked treats to her ailing grandmother. You’ve no choice, sweet child, her mother sighed as she pushed her daughter out the door. Go to her and be the obedient girl that you are, and we’re sure to be blessed with our rightful share of her money someday. The little girl skipped into the woods and there met a wolf, who planted himself in her path, grinning and foaming in the mouth. She smiled to herself. Ah, here was a wolf who’d try to trick her into showing him her grandmother’s cottage. She knew that he aimed to enjoy both her and grandmother for his meal, but she was cleverer than that. So she met him, a ready response poised on her lips, one aimed to thwart his efforts. The wolf sniffed her once and then devoured her in one massive snapping of his jaws—basket and cloak and all. Silly child. Who gave her the preposterous idea that wolves could talk?

  This isn’t fair! she sobbed in the wolf’s belly as he lay down contentedly and cleaned himself.

  There was also another about a brother and sister who’d gotten lost in the woods and had stumbled across a pastry cottage, but that was a tale that could wait.

  By the time the forest’s tales of shattered hope faded, its ghostly whispers drifting with the breeze that suddenly picked up, Alarick had fallen to his knees against an old tree, and among its misshapen roots he vomited what little he had left in his belly.

  He waited after a few moments, heaving and sighing and spitting the vile remnants out of his mouth before leaning an arm against the black trunk and resting his head against it as he waited for the dizzy spinning inside his skull to stop.

  For all the pain and surging waves of nausea that swept over him in increasingly softened intensity, Alarick whispered, “Roald…please be safe…”

  If he were of a more religious bent, he’d surely pray for his lover’s safety, but Alarick’s faith lay in free will and autonomy despite the occasional doubt brought on by odd turns of Fortune. He sniffled, wiping his nose against a sleeve, as he pulled away from the tree and stared in horror at the path that had led him that far.

  Perhaps it was time for a conversion, Your Highness?

  Alarick shivered at what felt like the brush of icy lips against the nape of his neck, even giving it a light, playful swipe of a tongue that seemed even colder, deader. It was all Alarick could do to stumble to his feet with a little cry of disgust and to hurry back onto the path, feeling nothing now but a certain reckless abandonment as he placed himself in the mercy of a cursed forest.

  * * *

  After what felt like a half-blind walk through eternal, dark dreamscapes, Alarick reached a clearing in the center of the forest. There he found a cottage standing—a pretty, ornate little cottage of red wood and black stone, whose carved patterns reminded him of ages long gone. Serpentine animals entwined with graceful, hooded figures and beckoned to him as they squirmed against each other on the walls and foundation, making the cottage look as though it shifted and shivered, breathing in shallow, rhythmic gasps.

  Shadows—must be the shadows playing tricks on Alarick’s mind. Carved shapes weren’t alive, after all. It was all in his head, all in his head. He was simply delirious from shock, exhaustion, injury, grief, and hunger. And those damned trees and their tales weren’t helping, either.

  He hesitated before the door, but one of the figures on the wall reached out, grasped his wrist, and pulled him in. He heard nothing but the sound of ancient wood crackling as fingers curled around him, while a misshapen wooden arm wrapped around his waist, ensuring that he wouldn’t run away. Not that it mattered, really, for Alarick was close to fainting at that point, and he didn’t even struggle as he was pulled inside the cottage, the door closing softly behind him.

  * * *

  Roald wandered far and wide, stopping on occasion to rest himself and to gather berries and dig up root plants for sustenance. His memory remained a blank, and he continued to puzzle over his knowledge of certain things, particularly what he needed to do to survive without money or basic comforts and amenities. Someone had taught him how to forage for food, how to protect himself against deprivation in the wild, in the face of danger, even. Yet he still couldn’t pull up a single shred of his past to satisfy any question he had.

  When he found a river and stripped off his clothes to plunge in, Roald froze in his tracks and stared long and hard at the gently rushing currents.

  “Someone,” he murmured, frowning and feeling helpless. “Someone should be here.”

  He walked on till he was waist-deep in the warm, comforting water, enjoying the relaxing massage of the river’s movement against his body. Still, however, the strange unsettling feeling kept its hold on him, and it was all he could do to stand there for a moment and stare at his reflection in the water, feeling his head throb from a growing ache as he forced his mind to recall something—or, rather, someone.

  When nothing surfaced, he plunged into the water and swam for a bit, luxuriating in the weather and the river’s soothing cloak. When he emerged, spluttering and coughing happily and blinking water out of his eyes, Roald quickly looked around him, a cheerful invitation to join him in the river poised on his lips. The words melted and faded, however, when he realized that he was alone. He raked his fingers through his wet hair, combing them back, as he scanned the area for the dozenth time.

  “What’s wrong with me?” he asked, his spirits sinking under the weight of confusion and loneliness. “I’m alone in this. Alone. There’s no one else who should be with me but—”

  He stopped before completing what he needed to say. No, he was bound to that goddess, intended for no one but her despite his instinct’s protests and insistence that it wasn’t so.

  Roald dove back into the water to silence all the warring voices in his head, allowing nothing but the river to fill his senses and to take over his world. Once his mind had finally been subdued by the water’s seduction, Roald surfaced and jogged back to his clothes, dropping to his knees on the grass and tilting his face to meet the sun. He decided to let it dry him with its warmth. There was time enough for everything else.

  Before long, Roald was back in his clothes, rested and content, and headed down a road that led somewhere.

  He eventually reached north—or west, he couldn’t rightly tell—and found a lush meadow. White, jagged peaks and a generous scattering of pine trees marked its perimeter, which was a great distance away. Wildflowers peppered the grass, while a clear, winding stream snaked through the area and reflected the sky. There he spotted a small group of women laying flowers at the roots of a willow tree. Roald frowned as he paused, and he swept his gaze around him.

  “Willow tree?” he murmured. “How odd. It seems to be the only one in this meadow.”

  The women spoke in hushed and awed tones, and they reverently placed their hands on the tree’s bark as though consoling it.

  Roald watched them in curious silence for a moment. He thought of going up to the women and talking to them, but he remembered what the goddess had told him about communicating with people he was to see on the road. A part of him seemed to fade, lulled into a sleeping state of some kind, while another part of him was roused. A small, childish part of him—long neglected, perhaps, and left in the distant past, where all things childlike were kept, gathering dust in time—had awoken, and an infant-like curiosity took a hold of him.

  The air around him picke
d up, and he felt its gentle touches against his face.

  “What are they doing?” he asked the wind.

  “Comforting one who used to be like them,” the wind said. It had a sweet, haunting sound that seemed to come from a distance, like a gentle chorus of a dozen soft voices in perfect harmony.

  “What happened?”

  “The gods punished her for being desired by one of them.”

  Roald listened and pondered, his frown deepening. “Nonsense,” he said. “How can one be punished for something that she couldn’t help?”

  “Well, one doesn’t exactly reason with the gods,” the wind replied, its dozen voices now sounding matter-of-fact and a bit scolding. “Have you even tried?”

  “No. Then again, I haven’t had just cause to argue with…” Roald’s words faded before he could utter another one. He felt his face warm, and he was sure he’d just blushed.

  “Indeed. No just cause?”

  Roald, his confusion back, chose not to pursue the subject and simply watched the women speak to each other some more as though turning to each other for comfort before moving off, their heads bowed in apparent grief.

  “Will she be turned back to the way she was before?”

  “No—unless the gods who brought this on her repent their harshness. If you know how immortals work, that means never.”

  “Then why do those women come to her still?”

  “They have hopes that someday she’ll be granted mercy—even if her punishment was never once warranted.”

  “Hope…” Roald wrinkled his brows.

  “Yes, hope. Mortals are odd creatures in that sense—flawed yet hopeful. One can study them through millennia and still get nowhere near full understanding of their nature.”

  Roald silently toyed around with that idea: hope. It certainly felt good, clinging to it.