Black Forest

by Shane Lee

  Monty pulled corn silently. Every time his gaze drifted to the black forest, he pulled it away. Yet he still found himself looking again and again, wondering what exactly had happened to Terra. Even when the sun disappeared, and the forest itself was lost in the dark horizon, he looked.

  His bag was full in seemingly no time; he had been able to fill two to the brim before the light was lost. He hauled it to the large shed by the barn where they stored the harvest, walking with the large bag slung over his back, his shirt wet with sweat. It had been a good evening’s work, even though he had to pull himself out of reverie several times. Luckily, his mother hadn’t noticed.

  He returned and took his mother’s bag—mostly full—and Terra’s smaller one back to the shed as well, closing the door as he left it. His muscles ached, but it was a good ache.

  With the work for the night finished, they all headed to the house. Terra already had her little wooden doll in her hands, keeping it in her pocket while she harvested, even though her mother had warned her she might lose it in the cornfield.

  Terra went in first; Delila headed up the steps after her. Monty stopped before the door, resting his boots in the churned mud at the bottom of the stairs.

  I should go into the woods.

  The thought popped into his head like a fly buzzing past his ear, stealing all his focus. He turned around, looking back to the trees.

  I should go into the Dromm and...and...

  And what? Monty blinked, and he heard his mother’s voice.

  “Are you coming inside?” She was waiting, holding open the door.

  “Um,” Monty started. His mouth was dry. “I’m going to get a drink of water. I’ll be right in.”

  His mother let the door close. Monty walked to the well with perfunctory steps. The small stone well sat between the barn and the field. Halfway there, Monty stopped again, and he was overwhelmed by the urge to look at the forest, though it was too dark to make out the separate trees.

  I should...

  Monty snapped his fingers, the idle habit bringing him back to focus. He couldn’t remember why he was here. With effort, he tore his eyes away from the northern horizon and saw the well.

  “Right,” he said. “Drink of water.”

  He pulled a bucket up and ladled out a mouthful, not feeling very thirsty. More than anything, he was tired. Must not be getting enough sleep, he thought, swallowing the cold water, feeling it chill his belly.

  He managed to finish his drink without the desire to stop and stare at the woods, which shouldn’t have struck him as a victory. It was like Terra’s sudden compulsion with the Dromm had fled her body and come to him, trying to pull him that way.

  That was what Ma Kettle would say, or some other storyteller. He hadn’t heard a Dromm story in a long time, but that didn’t make matter. They stuck to you.

  He’d asked his mother and father, when he was old enough to be curious about such things (so, very young), why the trees in the Dromm were black. He imagined that their gaze to each other then had been scholarly, like they were rifling through a sheaf of stories they knew and had been told for years, deciding which one was best to share with their young son. It was his father who sat down with him in the dirt outside their house and told him the story.

  Of Nal’Gee, the spirit who lived in the heart of the black forest.

  Montille looked down at his son. He himself was sitting cross-legged in the dirt, but he still towered over young Monty, who was just about to turn six years old. His son waited, sitting with patience and looking up at him expectantly.

  “So, you wanna know why the trees in the Dromm are black,” Montille said slowly, drawing it out. “I asked my daddy the same question, right ‘bout when I was your age. I told ya about granddad Montille, didn’t I? ‘Twas a bean farmer...”

  “Dad!” Monty cried. “I wanna know about the trees!”

  Montille laughed. Behind him, Delila rolled her eyes. Montille was prone to teasing, and Monty always gave in to it. She had to hide her own smile in order to set a better example.

  “Right, right,” Montille grinned. “The black trees of the Dromm forest. First thing, Monty, they didn’t always used to be black.”

  “Oh,” Monty said. “So, when you were a kid?”

  Montille leaned back in faux offense. “No! No, no. ‘Fore Ma Kettle was a kid. Before she was born, and before her parents were born, and even before her parents’ parents were born. Hundreds of years ago, y’reckon?”

  “Wow,” Monty breathed.

  “That’s it.” Montille nodded. “And way way back then, when magic grew like the grass and there were as many strange beasts and monsters in the forest as there were squirrels and rabbits, there was a witch who lived here.”

  “Really?” Monty asked. He had a habit of interrupting his father’s stories. His curious nature bubbled out of him like a tide.

  “Her name was Nal’Gee. And she wasn’t a bad witch, y’reckon? Not like that Cromella or those Halcy sisters that Ma Kettle talks about. She did good stuff. She helped the forest grow; she loved the trees and the little animals, and even the beasties in there what were scaring most folks away.”

  “So what happened to her?” Monty had his little hands wrapped around his ankles, rocking slightly back and forth as he listened to his father.

  “Well...” Montille glanced back at his wife, who had drifted away from them to sit on the steps of the house, working on some sewing. He lowered his voice. “She fell in love.”

  “Witches can fall in love?”

  Montille continued, “She fell in love with a boy from the village. Nal’Gee was old—witches live forever, I’ve told ya that, right?—but she was a beauty. Her magic kept her youthful an’ such. Long black hair, so long it could touch the ground, but it never did. Bright, smart green eyes. Probably would...” Montille dropped his voice to a whisper. “Probably drive any fellow mad with love, just the sight of her.” He tipped a wink to his son.

  “But there was a boy—a man, I reckon, ‘bout eighteen years—that did the same to her. Walter. Had a farm by the Dromm. Matter of fact...” Montille made a show of looking around and scanning the land. “Yep, yep. Used to be right there, by the big rock. Towards the Cherrywood’s, you see?”

  Monty looked to where his father was pointing, visibly excited. “That’s really close to us!”

  “I suppose it is. ‘Course, there’s nothing there now. Was a long time ago. But this man, Walter, he was a darn good farmer. One of the best, even at his age; he could make things grow here that had no business growing. He grew pumpkins and watermelons and tiny little lemon trees.”

  Monty’s eyes grew wide at the thought.

  “Nal’Gee was smitten. It was like Walter was magic, himself—but he was just talented. And he spent a lot of time in the woods near his farm, the woods right behind you now. And she approached him in there one day, and she said to him, she says, ‘What’s your name?’

  “Walter knew of Nal’Gee. Most people, all of ‘em, really, were scared of any witch, so she lived way out away from town in a cottage she made herself. Walter wasn’t scared, though. Musta been the farmer in him,” Montille said with pride. “He appreciated her magic, and sure she was lovely as any lady he’d ever seen. So he told her his name and they talked about all manner of nature. He was in love the next moment.

  “He thought they’d talked for just a couple hours, but it turned out he’d spent three days in that forest lookin’ into her eyes. And when he came back to his farm, it was all wrecked up. His crop was shredded and trampled; his little barn had been burned to ashes. Animals all dead and bled out, lyin’ there. Windows of his house had been smeared with their blood. Everything he had ever had was ruined.”

  Monty stopped rocking, his mouth falling open.

  “Walter wept a while, but not long. The anger took him, swept him up onto his feet and sent him storming back into the Dromm. He knew, ya see, he knew it had to be the witch. Nal’Gee. She’d put some kinda s
pell on him, some enchantment, and holed him up in the woods so she could destroy his farm.”

  “But...but...” Monty protested, distressed. “Why? Why would she do that to him?”

  “Jealousy.” Montille’s eyes glinted as the sun caught them. “Walter thought, for someone with magic power, someone this beautiful, to be all enamored with him, he had somethin she didn’t. Somethin she wanted. And when she couldn’t have it herself, she burned it. Walter didn’t know any good witch, he’d never met one or never heard no story about one. So he thought, she’s got the evil in her like they all do, and it came outta her.”

  “What did he do?” Monty said, suddenly quiet.

  “He went back into those woods and called after her. ‘Nal’Gee! Nal’Gee!’ Screamin his heart out, scarin’ all the birds and squirrels and even the scary big-clawed tree lizards and skin-jays. And she came running; he’d only been gone an hour, but she’s happy to see him again. She says, ‘Walter, I’m here,’ and she came up to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

  “And Walter pulled his dagger from his boot and he stabbed her right in the heart.”

  Monty gasped, his mouth wide open now. “He killed her?”

  “He killed her,” Montille repeated, crossing his arms. “He put the dagger in her chest all to the hilt and dropped her to the ground. She died so fast that she didn’ even get to ask why he did it.”

  “But...” Monty frowned, dropping his eyes to the ground. He looked back up at his father. “You said witches live forever.”

  “Witches live forever,” he told Monty, “unless you kill them.”

  “So she died?”

  “She died there on the forest floor, right in the Dromm. Walter left his dagger in her heart and walked away. But that wasn’t the end of Nal’Gee.”

  Montille inched a little closer to his son. “It turns out, y’see, that Nal’Gee didn’t do nothin’ to Walter’s farm. Someone from the village saw him cavortin’ in the woods with the forest witch, and they didn’t take kindly. Told ever’one else, and they got it sorted that he was bad now, too. Evil. In the village, anytime someone got sick, or a cow died, or a roof got a hole—it was always Nal’Gee’s fault, so they said. ‘Course, they were too scared to do anything to the witch herself. But if Walter was a consort, well, he wouldn’t be welcomed in the village no more. And as far as they was all concerned, he was cursed—from his boots to his horse to his crops. So they came and they did it all in.”

  “That’s so mean!” Monty said.

  “Downright cowardly. Folks act crazy when they’re scared, and saints above, they were scared of Nal’Gee. Wasn’t long before Walter learned the truth, though. He went to the village for support and found nothin but hate. People spitting at him, callin’ him a familiar.”

  “What’s a...a family-year?”

  “Familiar,” Montille repeated. “Witch’s pet, sent to do their bidding. The Judge there told him if he ever came back to the village again they’d kill him in cold blood, and he knew they meant it. And his heart turned pure to ice when he realized what he’d done to Nal’Gee.” Montille grew somber and stiff; he was a good storyteller.

  “So he went back to the woods—he ain’t got nowhere else, now. Falls to his knees a’fore Nal’Gee’s body. Her eyes are open and just as bright and green as they were when he talked to her minutes ago, but she’s dead. He takes her hand in his, and it’s cold and limp. He drops it and pulls the dagger from her chest, and all this blood comes out, makes him sick to his stomach. He’s all despair and misery; he knows he’s a murderer.

  “Walter holds the dagger over the bloodstain on her dress, over the wound. He turns it so’s it’s pointin’ at him, presses the hilt down onto her bosom, and he drops down onto the dagger. Hits his heart—man musta had a talent for that, too. And he died right there on top of Nal’Gee.

  “But,” Montille whispered, catching his son’s wary eye, “it takes a lot more than death to escape the wrath of a witch. Nal’Gee was dead, but her spirit clung to her body, hanging on, like she knew she’d have her chance to get revenge on Walter. And when his spirit left his body, she grabbed it.” Montille smacked his fist into his palm, making Monty jump. “When someone dies, their spirit goes to the beyond. Becomes a saint, if they’re real nice, good people. Or down to hell—to the depths—if they’re bad. But if you don’t get to beyond...”

  “What?” Monty said. “What happens?”

  “No one knows,” Montille said. “Not for true. But for Nal’Gee, she snatched up Walter like he was a fleeing chicken and she gobbled up his spirit. Nal’Gee wasn’t ready to die, wasn’t ready to let go of this life here. She ate Walter and took his spirit into hers, but there wasn’t no life in it. He was dead. So she latched onto the tree by her body, and that tree was alive, and she sucked out its life till it was all black and empty. Then the next tree, and the next.

  “She wanted to come back to life, take back what had been stolen from her. She just had to gather up enough strength to do it. But she could only get enough to go from tree to tree, desperate, huntin’ for something she’d never get enough of.

  “Nal’Gee ate the tree spirits until every single tree in the forest was black. Then she ate the spirits of all the beasts and the monsters, creatures that knew her and trusted her—until she drained them all, and that’s why you don’t see those no more. And when there was nothin’ left—no green trees, no beasts, nothing—she fell away into her long rest, waiting for the trees to grow again, for the beasts to come back, so she could get their lives again and again until she’s strong enough to come back to life.”

  Montille had been leaning in toward Monty; now, he sat back, his story almost to a close. “That’s why the Dromm trees are black. And why they don’t grow taller, or get any leaves like the other trees—soon as they might, Nal’Gee pulls it back out of them, and leaves them just barely alive, just to make more.”

  “So she’s, she’s—she’s still in there?” Monty turned toward the forest and then back to his father, fast, like he was afraid it would see him.

  “She is,” Montille told him, standing up. “But she’s just some will-o-the-wisp, buried deep in the ground. Couldn’t hurt ya. She can’t even catch the squirrels.” He laughed, putting his hand on Monty’s shoulder. “Don’t be too scared, now, Monty. You just stay away from the Dromm and you’ll be fine. All right?”

  Monty nodded fiercely. “Okay, dad.”

  Standing by the well, Monty smiled to himself, remembering how mad his mother had been that father had told him that story. That she insisted he would have nightmares for weeks. He did, for a day or two, but that had passed. His father could scare him and reassure him with remarkable juxtaposition, and anytime he got scared after that, Montille would ask him, “Can you beat a squirrel in a fight? Uh-huh? Then you can beat Nal’Gee.”

  He missed his father, suddenly, powerfully. Montille had fallen ill without warning and wasted away in a matter of days. No one understood it; not his family, and not the doctor in the village. One week he was with them, harvesting barley and carrying Terra on his shoulders, and the next week he was gone.

  It wasn’t fair, and the time that passed didn’t change that. He wished he could change it; wished harder than he had in many, many months. That things could go back to the way they used to be. That he could hear the rest of his father’s stories, about the Dromm and the saints and the ancient kingdoms.

  He swallowed and emptied the rest of the bucket back into the well, the water splashing deep in the ground with a hollow echo. The well stones were cold. Monty took his hands off them and walked back to the house. It was dark, and the harvest would be waiting when dawn broke.

  6

  The next morning was the same as any other had been around harvest time, if perhaps more efficient, as the air was getting noticeably colder and Monty knew that the first frost could be coming any day. He moved quickly through the rows and filled bag after bag. The harvest was always the hardest work, and it la
sted the longest; a combination that led to a sore back and, typically, a very good night’s sleep.

  But not that night.

  Monty awoke alone and cold. His feet, in particular, were freezing. It was only while he stumbled backwards that he realized it was before sunrise, he was outside, and his feet were planted in the cold dirt outside of the Dromm.

  He fell down, landing hard on his elbows. He groaned. Over him, the Dromm loomed, towering and silent.

  What in the—how did I get out here? Monty blinked, like it was all a mirage he could make disappear.

  “No. I’m dreaming. This is a dream,” he assured himself. It was the only thing that made any sense. But had he ever been this cold in a dream before, with such vivid detail? His feet felt like ice blocks, stupid and heavy. He brought his fingers to the ground and curled them into the dirt, and that felt real enough. The air was snappy cold and smelled...horrible. It assailed him with predatory quickness, and then he was coughing, hacking, backing away from the trees on instinct. This was that smell he’d run into when he found Terra in the Dromm, the one that disappeared from his senses shortly after. He prayed that would happen now.

  Holding his breath, he scrambled to his feet, and then he retreated from the Dromm until he could breathe in clean air. His eyes watered and his throat burned.

  He wasn’t dreaming.

  Something is not right.

  Monty hadn’t feared the Dromm forest in a long, long time. But now that icy tendril wound its way through his belly and chest. He looked at the forest not like thousands of trees, but as one big entity, staring down at him with an eye he couldn’t see. He felt watched; almost smothered. The air was clean, but it was heavy. It was cold and it stuck to the insides of his lungs.

  Should’ve just gone to the woods, Monty, a thought ran through his head. Should have just gone in before, like you wanted to. Now the woods are coming for you.