In the waning dusk, the Everglow Wood shows the world why it has been named such. As the sun lowers itself for sleep, the leaves come alive. The greenery illuminates a periwinkle, the host of trees lighting the path that winds through them. Up above, between the gaps of the glorious canopy, the sky turns obsidian. Birds of the night sing their songs in hopes of enticing a partner or prey. Other creatures of fur and fang call out for the same purpose. Our horses trod onward, and neither they nor we are twinged by the faint and fickle flames of fear. The trees thin out. The glow stretches out a bit more, the new space allowing the illumination to breathe. A break in the wood presents itself, along with a sign pointing down the new road: Pelle’s Hut. We slow to take the turn, kicking up dirt once we’re on the new road.
Straight for the most part, it leads to a small house. Smoke billows from the chimney, the windows shine with light, and the door hangs open. Three children, all small, carry baskets inside. A larger figure, tall but lean, exits as we stop. A cautious look shadows his rough and gaunt face, short hair growing wild and dark on his dome and his face clean.
“You gentlemen lost?” he calls out. “Main road is back the way you came. Nothing to see out here.”
“We have a delivery for you from Aloysius and Gesine,” I answer.
Max dismounts and goes to the saddlebags. The man’s sharp eyes watch carefully. From each Max withdraws the bundle within, carrying them over to the man. Glee lights his ecstatic expression as he accepts them with worn hands.
“The tunics, yes!” he smiles. “Just in time, too!”
“Do we have company, dear?” comes a female voice from the doorway. Tired yet curious, she pokes her head out. Her hair, the same dark hue as her husband’s, is tied neatly in the back, its tail hanging over her shoulder.
“These folks are dropping off the tunics, honey,” he turns to tell her.
“Never seen these couriers before,” she says, eying us with that same cautious look her husband had worn. “New to the route?”
“You could say that,” Max suggests as he hands over the bundles.
The woman takes them with a light chuckle, examining the twine that binds the thin white paper. She gives a delighted smile to us, a hint of something in her eyes, though what I cannot tell. That smile then goes to her husband, and he mirrors it. An odd sense of uncanny mixed with a mild paranoid dread drips into my stomach and runs it cold. But for the life of me, I cannot determine why.
“Thank you very much,” she says with a little bow but that same big grin. “We don’t have much to offer but our gratitude.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Max says. “We understand being skint; my brother and I grew up on the streets. But perhaps we could sleep here? Just for the one night; we’ll be gone come dawn.”
The couple exchanges a brief look of worry; their eyebrows quiver quick into a higher position. The mild tension eases, but only a little, when they turn their hesitant and apologetic eyes back to us. Those wide smiles remain, eerie and yellowed.
“You boys don’t look like brothers,” the man suggests with caution.
“We’re adopted,” I answer with a half-truth.
“Unfortunately, we have no room for board,” the man says. “There’s an inn back on the main road, if you follow that north just a little ways.”
“I see,” Max sighs, “but we’ve traveled a long way, and our mother is in need of a peaceful place to rest her old head.”
Nana shifts behind me, leaning out so she can be seen. While one arm stays around me to keep her from falling, the other waves to the couple. Out of the corner of my eye I can even see a delightful mostly-toothless smile. The man and his wife, maintaining smiles that ever phase into odd and awkward things, offer the gesture back to her.
“Sure,” the man shrugs. “Why not? We’ll make some sort of accommodation for you. Please, come on in.”
Like the exterior, everything is made of wood inside: the walls, the floor, the large table and its chairs of varying size. The table is set for five, simple plates and utensils waiting for its five diners. Though the material is the same throughout, the colors vary. The floor and walls are made of a plain brown. The chairs are dark, though the severity ranges with each piece. The table is the lightest color, an off-white bordering on pale yellow. In the center, however, runs a lake of deep crimson brown. It fades at the edges, the heaviest of the stain resting in the center. Its darkness takes residence there, the ovular shape of it all forming a vague shape of an eye. The pupil obsidian is touched by scarlet, its iris a growing red stepping out of the black, the sclera becoming a sick pink until there is only the true hue of the wood. An eerie design choice, I imagine.
The door closes and the three children return, this time carrying platters. They set each upon the red and black: one of fruits, one of mashed potatoes, and in the middle is a platter of meat. The woman hands off one of the tunics to her husband and whisks the little ones back through the doorway from which they had appeared.
“Please, take a seat,” he says with a too-polite tone. It borders on forced, irritated. He excuses himself to change clothes, leaving us in an odd and uncomfortable quiet. We claim chairs for ourselves nonetheless. Whispers of a hushed argument play in the background of our silence, but the words themselves are deafened by a door somewhere.
Max’s greedy and hungry eyes linger on the little meat mountain, while Nana watches the fruits in anticipation. My stomach grumbles, begging to just dig in already. With all of the excitement of the day, we had not taken time to stop and eat. Though I can hear nothing coming from her, I can only imagine how hungry Nana must be. At least she and Max had those biscuits earlier. I doubt they were filling in any capacity, but a little regret crawls into my empty gut.
A thought occurs as I distract myself from the argument and the food: we had delivered too many tunics. The package held two for the adults and four for the children, yet only three little ones seemed to live at the hut. Curious.
The couple’s quiet fight ceases and a door opens. The five of them return, dressed similarly: plain white tunics that stretch down to their calves. The only difference is the flowing sleeves of the adult’s tunics while the children’s hang tighter. The children each carry an additional set of plates and utensils. The table, though wide, is a snug fit for us all. Max, Nana, and I take up a whole side for ourselves. The other adults take their spots at the ends of the table, the man choosing the side closest to me. Sitting opposite are the children, none older than nine but all with the same black hair of their parents. Their eyes differ, two of them bearing the father’s browns while the third has the mother’s blues. But all three keep their eyes away from us.
“Guests first,” the woman says. What little of the smile that remains seems sincere.
I offer a small thanks as Max and I prod chunks of meat. I fill Nana’s plate with a little of each item, Max taking a little more than what I give our elderly companion. My plateful is more moderate. The adults serve themselves next, leaving the last to the children.
“Before we eat, we would like to offer thanks to the Novhina,” the man says as Max prepares a mouthful of potato. My friend lowers his fork to the plate. Our hosts hold out their hands, and each takes a gentle hold to form a chain. With only a brief hesitation we join.
A low jolt sends through my body at the connection, a subtle hum of energy connecting us all. The candles hanging on the walls burn brighter. The bleeding black on the table looks like it would leave a wetness on my fingers if I were to touch it. Under the aroma of the dinner, there is a metallic twinge in the air begging to take center stage. Little details on their tunics become clearer: curving veins widen and narrow at will, the end of each curling in upon itself; in the center of the front, running down the length, is a thick thread with wild barbs flaring out in varied angles and points; at the hems of the arm cuffs are traces of red. The family’s bowed heads cast a shadow upon their faces, drawing snarled expressions on the otherwise emptiness.
Max and Nana follow suit with the reverence. My eyes, though, catch on the small bumps hidden amongst the wrinkles on Nana’s skin. They line the side of her face, small and close yet oddly uniform. They follow her jawline and fill the space from her cheekbones to her chin in a smooth diagonal line. Does the pattern mirror on the side I cannot see? What had caused them? Are they, or even the details in the family’s tunics, even really there?
Layered voices issue forth from the man’s mouth. Underneath his own is a low rumble, a high song, and a chorus in between. My eyes flick to the wife and children, but they remain silent. He speaks:
“O! Great divine host! Infinite thanks we give to You for the land we tend, the seeds we sow, and the fruits we harvest. We also give thanks for our unexpected company and the gifts they bring. We pray for Your continued protection, and that our offerings will be satisfactory to Your holy tastes. Take our hearts, our souls, our essence, and cleanse us of our filthy husks so we may one day bask in Your glorious presence in Locort Ziotum. Fendis.”
“Fendis,” the woman and children repeat, their voices a cacophony.
The family releases their hands from one another and us. With the chain broken, the world returns to normal. The energy dissipates with a gentle breath over a small flame. The candles burn nearly dark in comparison. The paint on the table dries. The aroma of the food, lone and delicious, wafts amongst us. The tunics are plain white once more, and Nana’s wrinkles are otherwise bump free.
The potatoes are soft and creamy, blended with a sweet butter. A splendid surprise, to go without saying. The fruits, a cut up variety of apples, pears, and even a few grapes, are ripe and beyond delicious. The meat, a savory salted pork, melts in my mouth. The dinner is made with tender care, focused craftsmanship. I crave more before I have even made a dent in my pile. A hunger bordering on mouth-watering lust fills me, but I pace myself and enjoy my serving. To ask for excess would be rude.
“This is fantastic, ma’am,” I compliment the woman between bites.
“Yeah, much better than Kym’s cooking,” Max admits with a mouthful of pork. His eyes go wide for a second, flashing over to me. “Don’t tell her I said that.”
“Thank you,” the woman says with a small but satisfied smile. “We grow our own crops behind the house, and we do our best to take the best care of our plants.”
“The pig must have been spoiled,” I think aloud. A quiet follows. With a glance I catch a glimpse of mild panic between our hosts. Their jaws pause in that moment as they send thoughts back and forth. The two of them continue as normal in the same second, donning those pleasant masks once more.
“It was practically family,” the man says to break the silence. “But she was getting too old, so it was her time. Nearly broke me to do it, to kill the girl, but it had to be done.”
An intriguing yet cold air plays around the man. There is sincerity in his words, without a doubt, but a devious feeling lingers amongst the truth. His eyes focus on his plate, avoiding mine and all the others. A chunk of the meat hangs on the tines of his fork as a slight hesitancy trickles into him. He exhales a breath akin to a regretful sigh before he consumes the piece.
“This pig sounds very important to you,” I muse with a not-so-hidden curiosity. “How old was she?”
“Thirteen,” the woman answers, a sad chill in her quick response.
“We had a pig once,” Max says as he chews. I glance over to him, surprised he even remembered. “Way back in the day, we had a little farm. Wasn’t much, a couple chickens and some crops mostly. Usually got everything we needed from the market. But one year when we were little, we got a pig. Don’t know why, but it just showed up one day. We named him Colonel Oinkers. Good pig. And then one day, maybe a week or so later, he was gone. Had some good ham that night, though.”
“Our pig’s name was Penelope,” the smallest child answers. A little girl, her dark hair is tied in loose braids, her blue eyes almost glowing on her pale face. No older than five, little waif of a thing.
What strikes me more than her tiny frame is the genuine mournful tone in her voice, much like her father’s. She avoids taking a bite of the pork. She pushes it around her plate, opting for a forkful of potato instead. The other two children, only a couple years separating them all, also haven’t touched the meat.
We fall into an uncomfortable silence. While the children quietly boycott the main course, Max devours it. Nana eats slow but with determination. The other adults resume normal rhythms. A strange warning sounds an alarm in me as I look to the pork once more, but the thunder in my stomach roars louder. On the edge of my vision I find the smallest girl watching me with a painful, tear-rendering plea.
“So,” the woman says when the quiet becomes too much, “what do you boys normally do when you’re not traveling with your mother?”
Max and I share a look as we chew, both of us wondering how to answer the question. These people, odd as they may be, do not need to know of our capers. They don’t need to know of the events that have landed both of us (mainly myself) behind bars. They don’t need to know of the bodies on the road back to Fiona’s Rest.
“Guards,” Nana says in the vacancy, her lips smacking with the fruits’ juices. She smiles at Max and me, a glint of sincerity in the few teeth remaining there. She adds in a pat on both our shoulders for good measure. “Good boys.”
“Where are you normally stationed?” the man asks after finishing a bite.
“Hemwood,” I answer a little too quick. “Nice town, quiet for the most part.”
“Usually only take late night drunkards to a holding cell to sleep things off,” Max adds.
“Hemwood,” the man muses. “Never been there. Too far south for my taste.”
“Not to mention that school of theirs,” the woman just about spits. She doesn’t look up from her plate, glowering at her potatoes.
“Which school?” my curiosity announces itself. There had only ever been one I would pass during afternoon strolls through the town, and nothing about it seemed ominous or disturbing. Perhaps the woman held a grudge against it from her younger years, or maybe schools in general.
“The fancy one in the sky,” the younger boy chips in.
“They study magic,” the older boy adds. “We’re not allowed to go.”
“There’s nothing you can do with magic that can’t be done with good, hard work,” the woman interjects, offended. “Magic only makes people fat and lazy and content. It’s no good.”
A glance to the children reveals pouting lips and sad eyes. My heart sheds a tear for them; though I did not have much interest in learning any spells growing up in the Tower of Lost Children, it was forbidden to us regardless. Orphans, as the Baroness often reminded us, were not worthy of such ancient and powerful magnificence. Kym, naturally, sought it out as soon as she could. Growing up, I never knew there was a place you could learn any of it. I had thought, with the naivety of a child, you needed to find someone who already knew magic. It wasn’t until our little group arrived in Hemwood, and when we saw the floating island blotting out part of the clear summer sky for ourselves, that we learned of it.
I don’t have the desire to argue with her, so I let food play on my tongue instead of words. Cue another silence, as awkward as the last. All but the children clean their plates, Max even allowed a second helping. I catch a glimpse of annoyance in the father’s eyes aimed at his three little ones. Chunks of pork remain in front of them, untouched tiny plateaus amongst the ruins of sweet and starchy kingdoms.
“Finish your food,” he commands with a quiet furor.
“But it’s Penelope,” the older boy whines. “It’s not right.”
“What’s not right is wasting a meal,” the father counters. “Eat.”
“She wouldn’t want this,” the younger boy says. The girl cries soft and ashamed.
“She wouldn’t want you to dishonor her by refusing to eat her.” The man’s voice grows with his rising anger. His fingers curl inward into fists, the knuckles white with the strain. His face fades into scarlet at the subordination. “I won’t tell you again, now eat, all three of you!”
“We should have given her body back to nature, let the scavengers have her,” the older boy fights back, his own convictions filling him with determination.
“That’s enough,” the mother’s calm yet stern voice cuts through the tension. Remnants hang in the air, high temperatures refusing to die down between the father and son, but a new silence comes. Brief, jarring, and accompanied only by the sounds of Nana suckling on the juices of the various fruits.
“We have guests,” she says, smooth as marble. “We do not argue in front of them. You can discuss the matter tomorrow. For now, clean up and go to bed. All of you.”
The last bit is directed toward her husband, daggers from her eyes. One by one, they obey. The children take the plates and the cutlery, while the father takes nothing but his bad attitude. A breath eases out of the woman once the quartet disappear through the doorway. It comes out easy with a hint of a chuckle. She relaxes in her chair, her pointer finger and thumb caressing her temples.
“Children, the lot of them,” she smiles. “They drive you crazy, don’t they?”
Nana nods, pinching a grape between her fingers before plopping it into her mouth. She savors her last piece of fruit with a satisfied smirk.
“My apologies,” the woman breathes, sitting upright once more and casting her gaze upon us. “Their manners have been growing thin lately. The loss of Penelope has really hit them hard. They didn’t offend any of you, did they?”
“No skin off my nose,” Max says, cleaning his teeth with a fingernail. Nana shakes her head as she chews on the last of her grape.
“No, ma’am,” I offer. “Families fight sometimes. Can’t be helped. Hopefully the pain of losing your pig ends soon.”
“Thank you,” the woman smiles. “I don’t think I caught your names. Awful host, aren’t I?”
“Not at all,” Max says, kicking back in his chair and teetering on the two back legs. “We’ve had far worse.”
Without a word or any other hint, I know of what Max speaks. Memories of the house outside Swordbreaker Valley come to mind in a horrific flash. I bury them back where they belong, deep within the confines of my brain. No need to conjure up images of the beautiful home overlooking the lush lowlands in the east. No need to drudge up the seductress’s sensuous frame and voracious appetite. No need to recall how she tried to teach us the metaphor of the area’s namesake.
“I’m Rokkoh,” I announce. “That’s Max, and this is Nana.”
“Pleasure to meet you all,” she says with a sly grin. “I’m Silke, the oaf is Pelle, and our children are Hagen, Josah, and Elysiha. We’re happy to have you, despite the inter-familial uproar. We don’t get visitors much, and we board even more rarely. But it’s nice to have some company every once in a while.
“Tell me about that horrible host,” she demands with an easy voice. “I’m a sucker for a good story.”
“It’s not really a tale to tell in the presence of a lady,” Max hesitates for a moment, a look of regret in his eyes. Perhaps, like me, he would rather forget about that long, terrible night.
“Lady,” Silke repeats with a laugh. “Won’t find any of those until you’re deep in the Everglow Wood. And even then, they’ve got talons.”
Nana holds up her hands, curved and sharp, and gives a soft grah. Bemused, a low and slow rumble of a chuckle rolls out of Silke’s mouth. Her eyes linger on the old woman, who offers a childlike smile in return. Something burns in her visual grasp, the youthful flutter of happy wings dancing around careful yet strong fingers.
A question from before the meal nags in my brain. The mathematics don’t add up. There were two tunics made for the parents, and four for the children. Unless one hid somewhere out of sight, there had been only three at the dinner table. This curiosity trickles down from my crown and onto my tongue.
“May I ask you something, Silke?” I preface.
“Within reason,” she answers, that coy tickle on her lips again.
“You have three children, yes?”
“Last I counted,” she chuckles soft and low.
“Why did you order four little tunics, then?”
The question pauses her amusement for a moment. I catch Max’s confused look out the corner of my eye. Nana even seems intrigued. Yet Silke smiles on, sharp eyes aimed at me. The beat doesn’t last long, but the silence it brings stretches on for years.
“Do you have any children, friend?” she retorts.
“I have Max,” I reply, cracking a smirk of my own. He simply shrugs with a slight nod.
“Messes are one of a child’s most loyal cohorts,” she muses. “My children are no different. The fourth tunic was meant as a spare had any of them had an accident of some sort. We would have splurged on one for each, but the goods we had bartered with would not have made it a fair trade.”
“Ah,” I nod. “Makes sense. I was only curious because, by the sound of how much you loved her, I was thinking perhaps the fourth had been for Penelope.”
Silke laughs then, a rich sound that bounces off the walls and ceiling. But in its boisterous billowing is a quiver. Hidden amongst the overcompensation. She lets it die quick, fiery eyes playing on me for a long second.
“I’ll have Pelle prepare our spare room for you three,” Silke moves on as she stands. “There’s only one bed, though, so it might be a little cramped. You boys might need to either bunk with your mother or find a comfy spot on the floor. One of us will come get you when the room is ready.”
She disappears into the back of the small home then, tending to some unknown task. Nana runs the pointed nails of her boney fingers over the wood of the table in slow rhythmic taps. Max analyzes with great interest some dirt under his nails. My eyes go from them to the dark hallway beyond the doorless frame. There are no voices now, no attempts to keep a fight quiet, no hushed instructions to be polite to the guests, no goodnights to the children. A veil of silence separates the dining room from the rest of the house, it seems.
“Are you sure we should stay here for the night, Max?” I ask in a whisper.
“Don’t see why not,” he answers less quietly.
“These people seem a little… off.”
“They’re hermits,” he reasons. “Just a little out of touch with sociability. They’re harmless, I’m sure of it.”
Some wooden thing behind us creaks. Shifting in my seat, I turn to face the sound. A figure cloaked in white stands in the doorway. Gripped in one hand is rope, in the other a club. The face, though, demands attention. Curtained by long black hair, the flesh is long-weathered leather, dark brown, wrinkles within the wrinkles. Below the eyes and around the mouth, it sags from the weight of itself. Old, dead skin. Petrified, revolting, scowling. Caught in its image, paralyzed, the club connects with my head, and I sleep.
Continue to Chapter Eight
Tyler Gohde 