Shadow Forest- The Complete Series

by Eliza Grace

“I don’t know, maybe.” I say noncommittally with a slight shrug.

  “I invited Hoyt. He’s coming here and riding into the city with me.” My aunt’s voice trails off and her tone is ‘knowing’.

  “He likes art?”

  “I don’t think so, but when I told him that you’d be there, he said he’d love a little culture.”

  “He did? He’s going because I’m going?”

  “Yep.” Jen spoons loose-leaf tea into the same little cup with outer walls still sticky from my spill. I don’t ask her to rinse the cup off. I want the hot beverage as soon as possible. My brain is starting to get exhaustion-foggy again.

  “Oh, well then I guess I can go. What should I wear?” I can see the back of Jen’s head move and her ears lift a fraction, so I know she is smiling, that her Hoyt bait has worked.

  “I always go in whatever.”

  “Well, it’s your show. You can show up in ripped, paint-stained overalls and people will just call you eccentric.”

  “No, I shouldn’t do that again. Taylor was not happy with me.” Taylor, the gallery manager, rarely looked happy about anything, so this doesn’t surprise me.

  “So, what are you going to wear then?”

  Jen fast-walks out of the kitchen just as the kettle begins to whistle. When she returns, she is carrying a modest navy blue, floor-length dress with a lacey neckline. “This. Isn’t it droll?”

  “Jen, it’s gorgeous!” She’s close enough that I can feel the silky material of the skirt between two fingers and see the intricate patterning of the lace. “Where did you get this?”

  “Taylor picked it out, bought it, and gave it to me when I was in the city. It was so pretentious of him.” Jen tries to hide that she finds Taylor buying her a dress romantic—even though I think he is, most certainly, gay and the dress was nothing more than a dress and him doing his job.

  “But you’re going to wear it anyways?” Letting the material slide between my fingers, I realize the kettle is still whistling like a manic alarm.

  She groans. “Yes, I’m going to wear this dress that was probably made by poverty-stricken children in sweatshops who are paid pennies by the hour, because the gallery ‘has an image’ and ‘I’m the face of that image.’ I am officially a sellout.” Jen does air quotes with crooked fingers when she’s talking about the gallery’s image and I get the impression she’s repeating Taylor’s words.

  “Well, I love the dress. And you’re not a sellout.”

  “Total sellout.” Jen drapes the dress over one of the kitchen chairs and finally moves to silence the teapot. “But it will make Taylor happy.” Again, I hold my tongue when Jen can’t stifle a half grin saying Taylor’s name.

  “I don’t really have anything as fancy as that. Taylor seems to have an eye for fashion. Maybe I should ask him to pick me out something. Isn’t that funny, how guys like him have such good taste in clothing?” Okay, I almost held my tongue.

  “What do you mean guys like him?” She’s frowning at me and, even though I like teasing her, I don’t want to burst her bubble either.

  “Oh, you know—successful with money.”

  “He definitely has money. I think I’d like him even more if he was poor.” Jen laughs. “I swear, if I ever do get married, it will be to some impoverished teacher or musician who is eco-friendly to the point of dumpster diving.”

  “Didn’t you dumpster dive in Boston for half the furniture in this house? You’d basically be marrying yourself—well, when you aren’t selling pieces and able to buy groceries and stuff.”

  She laughs again. “Touché!” And then we are both giggling until tears run down our faces. “Hey, how about we go shopping?” Jen hands me the teacup. It is hot, so hot that it feels like it is scorching my hands when I hold it. Moving to the table, I set the cup down and watch as the tea leaves begin to work their magic—turning the clear liquid into that amber that is so enticing.

  “Where?

  “How about the boutique in town? I always see young girls shopping in there.” Jen sits across from me, nibbling on a blueberry scone.

  “They go there for prom dresses,” I sigh sullenly, thinking about homecoming dances and dress-shopping with my friends.

  “I’m sure they have all types of dresses, Tilda. Let’s just give it a try. We can go after I’ve given the fence a look-over. I’ll probably need to stop by the hardware store and talk to Phil anyways, see when he can get out here to work on it.”

  Nodding and murmuring ‘okay’, I look down at my tea. The color is perfect; the leaves have sunk to the cup’s bottom. Taking a sip without blowing away the billowing steam, I burn my mouth. The feeling is not unwelcome. But the memory of burning is.

  An Unspelling

  I am sitting beneath the shade of the largest oak—where I sat with Matthew until he turned to ash. Jen is trekking across the meadow and towards the fence.

  Even from where I sit, I can see the damage. At least five yards of fencing has been ruined. It doesn’t take Jen long to look at the mess before she’s walking back towards me, slower this time, pausing every few steps to pick a flower.

  When she’s close enough to me, I see that she’s not just holding a wildflower bouquet. There’s something large and roundish gripped in her left fist. “Is it pretty bad?”

  “Worse than I thought. Phil’s going to have his work cut out for him.”

  “It’ll probably be expensive, won’t it?” Thinking about shopping for a new dress, I wonder about Jen’s finances. She’s supporting two people now and I’ve never given the financial burden of having me much thought. Or insurance… surely my dad’s work policy isn’t good anymore. Does that mean she’s footing the bill for rehab?

  “Well, I tend to think of it as ‘better sell a painting this month’.” My aunt chuckles and plunks down in one of the Adirondack chairs. “Yeah, it might be pricey, but Phil’s a good guy; he’ll give me some time to pay. The whole fence needs some work really. May as well tackle it all at once.”

  Hesitating, and then making up my mind, I shrug and smile. “You know, I’m not really feeling up to dress shopping and I’ve got some assignments due soon. Do you mind if we skip going into town today?”

  “Oh, well… Sweetie, I don’t know when else we’d go. Tomorrow’s rehab and I have to go back into the city to do final approvals on the showing layout. I don’t want to push that until Saturday morning. And what if you don’t like anything there? We won’t have time to check other places.”

  “Can I just borrow something of yours? Or maybe I can wear the black dress from the salsa competition last year? It doesn’t really look like a ‘dance’ outfit and I’m sure it still fits and if it doesn’t, I mean I’ll be sitting down so no one is really going to notice if it stretches thin across my butt.”

  Jen’s eyes narrow and she’s looking at me like she’s just gotten wise to why I’m trying to nix going to the dress boutique. “So, you’d rather wear an old competition outfit than go shopping with your Aunt for something new?”

  “Why not? I mean, you’re the one who’s always going on and on about recycling. Mom and Dad paid nearly two hundred dollars for that thing and now it’s just rolled up in a box.”

  “Tilda, I can afford to buy you a new dress.”

  “It’s not about money, Jen. I’m trying to do…” I think quickly, wanting to use something that she couldn’t possibly refute, “my little part to save the world.”

  Jen looks me up and down, tries not to smile, but then finally lets her lips spread in a wide grin. “Using my own sentiments against me. That’s dirty pool.”

  “Hey, I’m just learning how to be a better citizen of the planet. It’s your fault.”

  “Fine. Be a better ‘citizen of the planet’ by separating the trash, but we are going to go shopping this afternoon, we are going to buy you a new dress, and I don’t care how much it costs. It will be perfect.”

  “But—”

  “No, no arguing. Use your salsa dress for some
thing else. If it’s frilly, we can drape it over the studio chaise and call it a fancy throw.”

  I’m quiet for a while, wanting to argue, but also really wanting a new dress for the gallery show. “Jen,” I say hesitantly, “am I costing you a lot of money? I mean, for rehab and stuff?”

  “Yes.” She says matter-of-factly and I grimace.

  “See, that’s why I don’t need a new dress. I have plenty of clothing.”

  “That’s exactly why you do need a new dress, Tilda. You’ve been through hell and back, you never ask me for anything, you whine a bit at rehab, but you still keep pushing forward. You deserve to do something frivolous. You deserve to go to the gallery showing in a beautiful, brand new dress and look so stunning that Hoyt can’t even string three words together in a coherent sentence.”

  There are no words to say in response. I just nod, feeling more tears—always more tears—and I let Jen hug me tightly. In my mind, I vow to be thrifty at the store, even if Jen gets angry with me.

  When Jen releases me from the hug, the flowers she is still clutching brush my back and so does something hard and smooth. “Hey, I meant to ask what you were holding.”

  “Flowers.” Jen says, purposely obtuse.

  “Duh, I can see those. Your other hand.”

  “Oh, a rock.” She’s sitting back in the Adirondack chair and she reaches out to show me the stone. “It’s carved with some really interesting symbols. Reminds me of this project a boy did in art school. There’s a whole line of them half-buried just past the fence line, but when some of the posts were uprooted and fell, a few got knocked out of the ground. I’ve never seen them before, which is kind of odd.”

  “Can I hold it?” My stomach grumbles as Jen hands me the rock.

  “Sounds like you’re finally hungry. How about one of those scones?”

  “Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Be right back.” She jumps up in a quick, cat-like movement that sends a pang of envy through my body.

  As Jen leaves me, I examine the stone. It tingles in my hand—the way the journal tingled when I touched it. Magic. It is the feeling of magic. The markings aren’t anything I recognize at first, but as I continue to hold the smooth rock, the tingling increases and the etchings begin to shift.

  The side I am looking at now bears the symbol from my mother’s journal—the cardinal points within the eye of a hurricane. And the other side bears a symbol that I’ve only just learned from my late night on the computer—protection. It is much like the symbol on my mother’s journal and on the other side of the stone; two intersecting lines, each termination crowned by a crescent moon, each bisected by a double dash.

  My gaze moves from stone to trees and I see him, hovering just inside the heavy shadowing of the thick forest. It is the witchfinder, of this I am sure. Matthew Hopkins. The man that was, the boy that is, a nightmare I cannot wake up from. I wonder what will happen now that this line of protection stones has been disturbed, now that my belief in magic is unwavering.

  Maybe magic can heal my body since human medicine has failed. But I wonder… if it can repair my brokenness, what will the price be? Is a walk into the woods beyond the meadow worth my soul?

  Yes. To walk again, I’d risk my future, my sanity, even my soul.

  Jen is back with my scone. I realize she’s taken longer than I expected her to, but I was so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed. Her hand holding the baked good is reached out toward me and I find that I do not want to give her back the rock. “Do you mind if I keep this?” I ask, lifting the stone slightly to indicate what I mean. “It’s so interesting. It’ll just be on my desk if you ever want it.”

  “Eh. There’s a whole line of them. Not like I can’t get another one.” It’s funny how people say innocent things nowadays and I think not-so-nice or innocent thoughts. When Jen says ‘not like I can’t get another one,’ all I can hear is ‘you can’t get another one, little crippled niece.’ I try to push the errant thoughts aside quickly, but sometimes they linger like an itch in the middle of my back without anything to scratch with.

  “Thanks.” Placing the stone in the crevice made by my pressed-together thighs, I take the scone she’s offering. “Hey, what took you so long?”

  “All the sudden the house smells like something died in it; rotten food or something. Really, really gross. I was looking for the source, but realized I’d forgotten about your food.”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever eaten meat, so it can’t be that. Maybe a dead mouse?”

  Jen shudders. “Please don’t say that.”

  Looking down at the food in my hand, I grimace. “I think I’ve lost my appetite. Want me to help you find whatever stinks?”

  Jen nods and I hand her back the scone so I can wheel myself towards the ramp. I hate trying to use the wheelchair in grass, even when it’s trimmed short like in the immediate backyard.

  When we enter the house, the stench hits me in the face like a sledgehammer. I’ve smelled this before, for a fleeting moment during Matthew’s first visit. This time, the acrid rotten meat stench is tainted by the smell of charred human flesh.

  The Boy That Wasn’t

  Jen is searching the kitchen for spoiled food or a dead mouse, anything that might be causing the awful smell. I know she’ll find nothing.

  Part of me is relieved. If Matthew has been here again, then he is not dead, he did not burn in front of my eyes without a single flame in sight and he did not turn to ash. He isn’t the boy that wasn’t, because somewhere, somewhere out there in the forest he is alive. Or alive in some fashion that is different than my alive.

  The smell has really seeped into the house though, permeating the curtains and the carpets. Last time, it only lasted a moment, this time it is unwilling to depart—even with all the house windows open, the fans on full blast, and Jen spraying air deodorizer like an obsessed person. There’s a reason why it’s so strong this time and I feel it must be connected to the stone line, to the fact that it has been severed.

  There was power in those stones, protecting the house and its inhabitants from him. Now… it is gone.

  “I’m sorry, Tilda, but I have got to light some candles. This smell is not going away.” She looks at me, an apology but also pleading in her eyes.

  I have not been around candles since the accident. “Jen…”

  “Tilda, I know. You hate candles. You think what happened was your fault, but honey, shit happens. Awful shit happens. I’ll only light a few and I’ll blow them out as soon as the smell goes away.”

  Nodding warily, I watch as my aunt begins to pull out candles that she’s hidden away in dark corners, nooks and crevices. All out of sight to keep me from seeing them. In the blink of an eye, Jen has assembled a dozen candles of various size, color and fragrance. “It’s going to smell even worse if you light all those different ones.”

  “I’m not going to light them all. I told you only a few. I just want to pick something that won’t make this stench worse. Like,” she picks up one of the tall candles, “cinnamon bun and rotten meat smell? No thank you. Oh, definitely not citrus. It’ll smell like shit-trus in here if we use that one.” Jen reads each label and eventually chooses four out of the dozen. “Okay, lavender, freesia, plumeria and roses.”

  “So instead of shit-trus, it’s going to smell like a flower shop and a butcher shop? Awesome.” My voice is pissy. The sight of so many candles is making the memories come back; the visions are on a round-about that will not exit—they just keep circling and circling and circling.

  “Do you want to go in another room?” Jen is holding a long, lean lighter—the kind you use to fire up a grill.

  “No.” I answer curtly, determined to stay in the room with the candles.

  As Jen flicks the lighter, it sparks and then sends a torch-like flare above the candles and towards the wall. She almost drops the lighter, cursing and looking confused. “You okay?” I roll over, trying to see her hand.

  “Yeah, sin
ged some knuckle hair. Don’t know why that happened. It’s a brand new lighter.”

  It happened because I’m here. Because it was my fault. The universe doesn’t want me to forget. “Yeah, super weird.”

  With a determined look, Jen turns back towards the candles and flicks the switch again. This time, it sparks and a thin inch-long orange-hued flame appears. It is a tame thing that doesn’t make fear form inside like a dark, tumorous mass inside my stomach. No, the fear is only pea-sized, but it is there—and I am the princess that must sleep atop it. And no matter how many cushions I apply, it will always be there ready to bruise and batter me.

  I can’t take my eyes off the flame. I want it out. I want it to go out. I feel a tingling. I feel a shaking. I don’t push it down.

  My eyes widen when the flicker blows out and Aunt Jen curses. She shakes the lighter a little and flicks the switch once more to bring the flame to life. She lights the candles quickly before it can go out again.

  “Alright, all lit.” She goes to hand me a lit candle and I roll my wheelchair backwards abruptly. “Um… right, sorry. Guess you wouldn’t want to take one into the den for me.” Her voice sounds like she is trying to joke around.

  “No.” Another curt answer from me, but I don’t care. There are candles near me, their wicks brightly lit. And I am in a car on that roundabout with my eyes squeezed tightly closed, trying not to see the pictures whizzing past me.

  “You’re not okay, are you?” Jen is still nearby; close enough that I feel the material of her loose, casual blouse brush my upper arm. I open my eyes and crane my neck to look at her. Her expression is half-joking and half-apologetic.

  “Do you really expect me to be okay? I love you, Jen, but sometimes you’re about as sensitive as a rock. I hate candles. I hate them. And I’m in a wheelchair. Do you realize how difficult it would be for me to carry a candle into the den?”