Black Forest

by Shane Lee

  The rites cape. Monty said, “Judge Mullen, you’re wearing...”

  The short Judge nodded, a solemn, slow dip of the head that was smooth as butter. “Yes, I’m afraid so. A terrible thing today.”

  The door of their house opened, and two small feet padded down the steps.

  8

  It was earlier that morning, right around the time when Monty was heading back home with his two fat chickens, that Judge Mullen was sitting down in his office.

  He always preferred to be here in the early stages of dawn. At home, there were distractions; things to tend to. Unimportant things that took up too much of his time. Here, in the township, before the villagers awoke and got about their grubby business and those knocks started at his door—it was his time, alone.

  He spent it as he often did, thumbing through a ledger, reading it some of the time, but mostly ignoring it while the wheels churned in his head, which rose about a foot-and-a-half over the desk. He had a full head of hair. It used to be a deep black, but was all silver now, even though he wasn’t old enough to be graying. Another mishap of his body.

  Elrich Mullen was not a tall man—he was short and he was stocky. Were he prone to self-examination, he might surmise that his craving for authority stemmed ultimately from the fact that the girls and the boys he grew up with made fun of him when he couldn’t climb the fence of Hollins’ farm like everyone else. This was back in Wilda, the large, coastal town he lived in until he was thirteen and was conscripted to the kingdom.

  His mother and father had been distraught at the summons. Elrich had been thrilled at the prospect of escaping to a new place where no one would call him ‘dwarfie.’ He fantasized about making a new name for himself, one that garnered respect and fear. He’d be a mighty warrior and rise through the ranks of the king’s military until he was on par with royalty himself.

  But his fantasies never came to fruition; when he was younger, they never did. Elrich was disbarred from the military due to his height, something which the king’s recruiter (an ill-fitting title, as recruitment was not a choice, but a mandate) did not care to take into account when telling the young man what his future would hold.

  Elrich had been devastated. The one thing he wanted to leave behind the most—the stigma of his stature—was something he’d bear for the rest of his life. And with that burden built the fury, fury that started with the neighbor children’s teasing, fury that boiled with the sergeant’s laughter at the thought of the short, stiff-legged Elrich climbing up onto a war horse, before dismissing him back to Wilda.

  He might have left the barracks and gone back to his town to live out the rest of his days as a tanner—his family’s business—were it not for a certain overworked advisor who had been looking for assistance.

  The man had been waiting for some young conscript to be turned away so that he could leap on the opportunity to have them for himself, and he happened upon Elrich, who was emerging from the barracks with clenched fists and no lapel pin to mark him as a new recruit. He pounced on the emotional young fellow and offered him a position as his scribe.

  Elrich, who was fortunate enough to have learned how to read and write from his time spent as a social outcast in Wilda, was perfect for the job. The advisor worked him near to death, having him write hundreds and hundreds of scripts and scrolls out, and running them town-to-town with barely time to sleep and barely enough pay to eat.

  But Elrich hardly cared. That was how he broke into the life of kingdom politics, learning the secrets of communication the upper classes held—and the secrets of those upper class men and women, themselves. How to use that to his advantage came soon after, and it was only a few years before he was a military advisor himself. Three years there, then he was a traveling constable. It was during that longest period of his career that he learned what it was like to truly be in control, not to be serving or advising or reporting. The power was his, on the road to town after town, answering only to the Judges.

  Of course, his next pursuit was the position of Judge, which he attained when Irisa had grown enough to need a sitting Judge. And he’d been in Irisa the last five years, the town comfortably in his hands.

  Next would come a larger town. Perhaps a port town, or maybe the big city Wilda, if that crying pansy Judge Tullard went and finally got himself killed by being too lenient on the wrong person. It was bound to happen. And wouldn’t that be a glorious day?

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Elrich’s thick fingers tore the page he was flipping, ripping it almost out of the book. He bit back a curse and set down the ledger, closing it. The torn page stuck out.

  It was early—far, far too early—for someone to be knocking at his door. He pushed his chair back, its legs wearing further into the groove in the floor, and stood to his full height of five feet and three inches. His hair gave him perhaps another three-quarters of an inch, depending on the day. He crossed the twenty-five feet of his office and he opened his door.

  Standing there was a nervous-looking young town courier whose name he had forgotten the day he was brought on. He knew the boy begun his duties two weeks and three days prior, and that was all he needed to know. Judge Mullen saved his attention for people who could further his career or people who might get in his way. This boy was neither.

  Elrich knew, as well, that you caught more flies with honey than vinegar, and reserved his vast capacity of the latter for times when it was best suited.

  “What can I do for you?” Elrich said to the boy, who couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Though the boy quailed at the Judge’s presence, Elrich was painfully aware (as he always was of such things) that the boy was only a few inches shorter than he.

  “I’ve come to say—that is, they thought you should know—”

  The Judge waited with what appeared to be understanding patience while his rage at being interrupted steamed behind the thin mask of his face.

  The boy managed to get past his stammering and get out his thought. “Ma Kettle—Dorella Kettle. She’s dead.”

  “Ma Kettle is dead,” Elrich repeated. “Well, this is a shock.”

  Old sack had to die this early in the morning, unbelievable waste of my—

  “Yes,” the courier said, his panicked tone growing more somber. “The Kettles, they ask that you, um—that you—”

  “The rites, yes. Of course.” Elrich finished his sentence for him so that he might be rid of the boy sooner. “Run back, tell them I will be to the home shortly. I assume she died at home, is that right?”

  The boy nodded, and Elrich closed the door in his face. He stood there, gripping the handle hard enough to turn his fingers white. One more second of talking to that inarticulate roach, and he might have done something unbecoming. He released the doorknob, the ghosts of his fingers fading from the brass, and sat back at his desk. He picked up the ledger again.

  Elrich Mullen was currently in the process of obtaining personal ownership of the majority of the land in and around Irisa. He was wealthy, extremely so—no one understood quite how much, except for him. He kept it hidden. He hid a great many things, including this ledger, which normally resided in a locked compartment of his desk. The page he was currently on had detailed notes about the Cherrywood farm and land.

  Once he owned more than half the land here, he would have the authority to appoint a new Judge for the town, rather than having the crown do so for him, which would take twice as long. And from there, he could move on to his next town—a real city, this time. With four times the population, ten times the gold, and a thrilling amount of important people who would be of use to him.

  He smiled to himself, a small and humorless grin, as he surveyed the information on Cherrywood. The farms to the north of the village were easy pickings. The stupid people here were scared or tired enough of those black trees to take simple, meager offers for their land. There were only four farms left near the Dromm Forest: Cherrywood, Garten, Holcomb, and of course, Bellamy.

  Elrich tu
rned to the latter’s page absentmindedly while his mind filled with the image of Delila Bellamy. She was the only woman in the whole of this unimportant, uneducated village who was worth her salt, and at first, he had seen the value in that. Now, as she continually stonewalled his offers to buy their land, he saw it as a nuisance. A nuisance that grew each passing day into a headache, then into a rage that turned his skin red if he dwelled on it.

  Delila also very much resembled Elrich Mullen’s mother—tall, pretty, dark of hair and stern of mouth. He would never acknowledge that connection, but it was that which had kept his eyes on her at first, an almost instant attraction.

  Now, with her husband dead...well, there was opportunity there. Opportunity to get close to her, now that she’d had the time to grieve. If money wouldn’t be the thing to move her, then he could do it once he was courting her. Would he take her to the city—perhaps the port city Yerta, where he’d eventually own the harbor and all the boats there, and their captains and merchant hires, too?

  Maybe. If she was well-behaved. But to first break that exterior. Perhaps through the children.

  His daydream was cut short as he remembered the messenger boy and his bothersome news, the death of Ma Kettle. He would have to perform the Judge’s rites and talk to the family, which would devour the rest of his morning.

  He closed the ledger and locked it away, leaning back in his chair to collect himself and assume the facade of the people’s Judge.

  Elrich arrived at the Kettle’s twenty minutes later, wearing his long, black cape. It was the cape worn for the rites of the dead, and it caught the looks of villagers who were up and about. Everyone knew what the cape was for; no one knew who it was for. But when they saw Judge Mullen walk into the Kettle’s, they had a fair guess.

  The store was unmanned. Elrich moved through the shelves and baskets to the staircase at the back that led up to the house. A thick book hung under his arm, one of regulations, rites, readings, and other abiding minutiae. He had it memorized, but he looked more official reading off the written page.

  He was greeted at open door by the Kettle parents.

  “I am so very sorry,” Judge Mullen said to Audrey and Henry Kettle. “Your mother was so loved here in Irisa. It will be a solemn honor to perform her rites.” Delivered perfectly and crisp, as always. He’d said something similar dozens of times, to dozens of grieving families. He hardly heard the words leave his lips.

  “Thank you, Judge Mullen,” Henry said. His wife—Ma Kettle’s only daughter—was in tears, while Henry was more composed. “If you’d like to come in, we’re still waiting for Priest Erick to arrive...”

  Elrich froze, but only for a second. He reanimated his smile and walked in past Henry, all the while cursing in his head, The godsforsaken priest isn’t even here yet? Why hasn’t one of the little brats gotten him in? The Judge’s rites shouldn’t be performed until the soul was sent by a priest, and now he was stuck even longer in this hellish, overcrowded home with seven Kettles and an old woman’s dead body. They shouldn’t even have sent for him until the priest was gone!

  Easy. Easy.

  The calming voice in Elrich’s head whispered at his rage. It had to do that more and more, lately, as bogged-up land deals and an influx of papers and requests to his door piled up on him. When things weren’t going to plan, his insides began to burn.

  “We found her—we found her this morning,” Audrey spoke from behind him, as Elrich surveyed the home with silent, invisible contempt. “I...found her. She’s just...she’s not right at all.”

  “Not right, you say?” Elrich repeated, staring a hole into the far wall. It was bare and unwashed, void of art or window or paint.

  “Not right,” Henry repeated. “Maybe you ought ta...Judge, sir, I mean, if you would like ta, ta see the...see her body...”

  “While Priest Erick is yet to?” Elrich inquired, turning around to face the couple. Henry had his arm around Audrey’s shoulders; she stood a foot underneath her husband’s enviable height, and half a foot above his own. “You know that the priest should be quick to see the body, of course. Lest the soul escape.”

  “She’s got no soul!” Audrey shrieked in a violent, throat-tearing cry, before dropping to her knees on the floor and burying her face in her hands.

  Elrich seethed, but Henry was too distracted by his wife to notice, and when he looked up from her, Henry saw a patient, understanding man.

  “Saints, I’m sorry, Judge Mullen, your Honor,” Henry said, crouching beside Audrey and holding her. “She’s a right mess, has been all day. Under the circumstances...”

  “Mm.” Elrich nodded. “It’s...quite...all right.”

  Henry swallowed, his long neck stretching. “She means, though...Dorella, Ma, she’s...empty.”

  “No soul?” Elrich mused. “It is not a kind thing to say. Though I suppose, in her grief...”

  Henry shook his head, standing up from his wife. “I’ll show ya, sir. You’ll—you’ll hafta see it anyway, I guess.”

  “Lead the way, then,” Elrich said, turning so that Henry could move past him. He followed him through the rooms and halls of the upper floor, which was larger than it seemed. They walked past several of the Kettle children, who were all in various states of mostly quiet distress. The home was rather silent for being so occupied.

  “She’s in here,” Henry said, his voice cracking a bit. The door they approached was shut tight. “Told the kids not to go in. They’re good, they...they listened.”

  Henry grasped the knob and pushed, the door sticking in its frame before swinging inward.

  A foul, acrid smell wafted out, forcing Elrich to take a step back. Henry was used to it, though he winced. The room was dark, with no window or flame.

  “It’s—it’s bad, I know,” Henry managed, his voice wavering. “I ain’t never, your Honor, never seen anything like it. Not in my life.”

  Neither have I. And that was a very rare thing for Elrich Mullen, who’d traveled the entire kingdom a dozen times over and attended hundreds of rites.

  He buried his surprise and said to Henry Kettle, “A lantern, please.”

  The man returned with a lit one. Elrich took it in his hand and raised it high, but not above his head. He breathed in a lungful of fresh air and went into the room.

  Had he not been holding his breath, he might have sworn aloud. The scene before him was ghastly. Ma Kettle was lying facedown on the floor, naked. A blanket was wrapped around her ankle, pulled from the bed and hanging off.

  “Audrey tried ta cover her,” Henry said, his words short and clipped to avoid breathing in. “She couldn’t—couldn’t stay in the room.”

  Dorella Kettle’s corpse was shrunken and shriveled like an ancient hide. It was unnatural. Wretched. Her arms were two narrow sticks, tucked in close to her wasted body, and her legs were just as thin. Her hair had fallen out and lay scattered around her head, spread across the floor, wispy and grey. She was as small as the smallest of the Kettle children.

  Elrich was forced to take a breath, and as he did, he noticed what the flickering lantern had hidden at first. What he had thought was the shadow of the corpse was actually a black puddle spreading from the abdomen.

  Elrich stepped out of the room and closed the door.

  “What do you think, Judge Mullen?” Henry asked him, hushed.

  “It’s not for me to say,” Elrich answered. He was learned in many things, but he was not a physician, and this wasn’t something he had ever encountered. He handed the lantern back to Henry.

  Henry took it, snuffing the flame. “But do ya...I mean, what Audrey said...her soul, is it still there?”

  “That is also not for me to say,” Elrich advised, starting to lose his patience with the man. Hoping it would cease the questioning, he added, “But I am sure a woman as strong as Dorella kept her spirit.”

  That was enough to relieve Henry, who grasped the lantern handle with both hands and nodded. A knock sounded, soft and muffled from the faraway
front door.

  “That will be Priest Erick,” Elrich said, looking toward the front. “Come. Let’s bring him in.”

  And get this damned thing over with.

  9

  Delila’s sharp ears picked up the sound of the door closing before Monty’s, but Terra was already running along the grass.

  “It’s Ma Kettle, right?” Monty said, eager to be on the forefront of the news the Judge was bringing. “I heard earlier today from Marie that she had—”

  “Monty!” Delila chided. Terra had come up between the two of them, peering at the Judge through their legs.

  “Hi, Judge,” Terra said.

  “Hello, dear,” Judge Mullen said, looking down upon the blonde child. “Your name is...?”

  “Terra.”

  “Ah, yes. Terra. It’s a shame we must see each other under these circumstances, all of you,” Judge Mullen said, looking to the whole of the Bellamy family. “I’m afraid I bear the news that Dorella Kettle passed on this morning.”

  Delila closed her eyes. Maybe she was hoping that Terra didn’t know Ma Kettle’s real name, but that wasn’t to be.

  “Ma Kettle is dead?” Terra pushed through her mother’s and brother’s legs, bringing her toy up to her chest and pressing it against her shirt. “Are you telling the truth, Judge?”

  “I am, Terra,” Mullen said, looking into her shining eyes for a moment. “I performed the rites this morning, and Priest Erick rested her soul as it left. She is ready to go to the beyond. I volunteered to bring the news to the surrounding farms, to give our new messenger boy some...rest.”

  “No! I just saw her, she can’t be dead!” Terra cried.

  Delila threw a glare at Mullen, then knelt down. “It’s okay, Terra. Ma Kettle lived a very long and happy life. It’s good that you got to see her again before she passed.” Delila took her hand, opening the fingers and revealing the wooden doll. “And you always have this to remember her by.”