Black Forest

by Shane Lee

  “To hell with this,” Monty growled, shrugging his coat around his shoulders, bracing against the cold. The attraction of working for the town, living there and thriving, grew sour in his mind. He was a Dromm farmer kid. His family grew up by the Dromm. It was nothing but a bunch of trees, but it ruined everything.

  Was everyone in the village thick in the head? He, Terra, and their mother were fine. The Gartens were fine. So were the Cherrywoods and the Holcombs. The woods weren’t cursed, they were just dark and scary to the people who didn’t know any better. The village kids he had played with went into the woods, too. Were they now numbered among their superstitious parents? Did they remember their jaunts with Monty? He’d forgotten their names, now, so it was only fair they’d forgotten him.

  “As though their little kids never sleepwalked?” Monty muttered. He snapped his fingers. “Of course they have. Of course they have! They just woke up in the road, or in a stable, or sleeping in the pantry.” He cursed. “If they had trees to wake up in, they’d wake up there!”

  Snap. Snap. Snap. His fingertips burned. He clenched his hands into fists. So he’d never belong to the town? He’d never get to move on from their farm? They would all be trapped there, trapped until they died and the villagers were grateful to burn their bodies.

  It would be better to stay on the farm.

  The wind blew around Monty. He stopped on the path back home, one foot on the path and the other on the grass.

  Isn’t that what they’d expect? For him to just go back to the farm and stay there, by the Dromm? Would that change anything?

  No. He would have to change it himself. And he would start by taking the courier job.

  It would be the first step in getting off the farm and moving on from the black forest.

  11

  “I thought you’d grown out of this, Monty!”

  Monty and his mother stood in the kitchen, one of them on each side of the small, round table. Monty opened his mouth to speak, but Delila cut him off.

  “Sneaking off in the night? Doing something just because I told you not to?” Delila huffed. “I am just—”

  “I’m not a kid anymore, mother,” Monty said, his voice edging close to a growl. It was the day after the sending, and his mother had noticed that his jacket and boots weren’t where they usually were, and his boots were dirty. Monty had been too preoccupied to bother being careful about that. She had gathered the truth quickly. “In case you forgot, the town Judge himself had asked me to be there! Personally!”

  “That’s nonsense,” Delila said with a shake of her head. “There’s no reason for Judge Mullen to want to you at a final sending when you’re not even a relative. He’s only...”

  “What? What is it you think he’s up to, exactly?”

  “You’re really pushing me, Monty,” Delila told him. “I shouldn’t have to hear this from you. Terra is having a hard enough time with Ma Kettle’s death, just when she was getting over your father’s.”

  There it was; the fact of Montille’s passing, uttered aloud, used as a weapon in an argument. It hung in the air.

  “I’m fine,” Terra said, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “I’m not a baby, either.”

  Oh, so I’m a baby, now, Monty thought. He whipped his head to Terra. “And if you had just kept your mouth shut about the Dromm, the people in town wouldn’t think we were all cursed!”

  Terra said, “I tell Ma Kettle everything! She’s nice to me! She was nice to me!”

  Delila clapped her hands, spiking the argument. “What are you talking about, now? What about the Dromm?”

  If she could use their father’s death, then he could tell her about this. “Terra sleepwalked into the Dromm. When I went looking for her that morning? I found her there. And the first thing she did when she got to town was tell Ma Kettle about it, even though I told her not to. And now everyone in Irisa knows!”

  Delila blanched. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Of course I didn’t!” Monty snapped. “You’re just as crazy about the Dromm as the other—” Monty stopped himself from saying grown-ups—“the other people in town! I didn’t want you having a fit.” The sympathy he felt for his mother those days ago was far away and out of reach.

  “So you lied to me?”

  “It was going to get back to you anyway, apparently,” Monty said. “It was all I heard about at the sending, people talking behind my back. I’m tired of being outcast just because we live out here! Everyone thinks the Gartens are weird, and the Cherrywoods never, ever go to town. I don’t want to be like them!”

  “This is your home. It is not a burden.”

  “I’m okay, mom,” Terra spoke up, climbing onto a chair. “I don’t even remember anything about the woods. I didn’t get sick or get hurt.”

  “You are in just as much trouble, Terra,” Delila told her, making her shrink back in the chair. “You lied to me, too. And Monty, you’re completely overreacting about the townspeople. We are not outcasts, and no one thinks less of us for living near the Dromm. Just because you’re getting teased by the other kids—”

  Monty growled, waving his hand in the air. “It’s not the kids. It’s everyone.”

  “Who?” she asked simply.

  “It’s...” Monty hesitated. He didn’t have a real answer. “I didn’t see who it was. It was too dark. But people were talking.”

  “Maybe you thought they were.” Delila’s voice softened. “And if you really feel that way, Monty, then you should know we have to stick together as a family. We can’t be undermining each other. The farm is on the line. Our livelihoods. All it would take is one bad harvest for everything to take a turn, and without your father around, we can’t take chances.”

  “I don’t know any of that, because you never tell me.” He didn’t feel like shouting anymore. A bitterness filled his throat, the same old struggles he’d felt since dad died. “I’m just a farm hand to you.”

  “That isn’t fair,” Delila said. “We’re all busy during the harvest. We all work hard. This winter will be different.”

  Another thing he’d heard before. Monty bit back the words on his lips, about the courier offer. He would talk to Judge Mullen today to arrange it, and then he would tell his mother about it.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go and hitch the horse so we can get to town.”

  Delila had more to say, but time wasn’t on their side. “Go on. Terra, come here and talk to me. What happened with the woods?”

  Monty grabbed his boots and left the kitchen, his anger reduced to embers, but still burning. It felt good to say what he’d been thinking, even if his mother wasn’t listening to it. And now she was probably working herself into a mild frenzy as Terra babbled about her little misadventure in the black trees. Let her.

  He brought their old mare out of the barn and hitched her to the cart, leading her back to the house. At least she was still strong, not struggling with the heavy load at all. He kept his hand on her neck while he walked her back.

  Delila and Terra came out shortly, boots on. Terra said she wanted to walk with them instead of riding in the cart, so they all set off toward town. The traveling merchants would arrive on this day, the people to whom they’d promised some harvest the year before last. They would sell to them first, and then to the people of Irisa, until the yield was gone.

  The argument was left in the kitchen of their home. Delila seemed to be in better spirits after talking to Terra; perhaps she’d been put at ease knowing that her daughter could have ventured into the Dromm and come out again just fine. Terra, too, was well. Monty noticed that she didn’t have her doll with her, and he thought that she’d finally grown tired of carrying it with her everywhere she went.

  The travel was easy and fast, with no company on the road, since they’d left early. They arrived in Irisa well before the merchants would get there, and they set up their cart by the town’s front gate, where travelers off the main road would enter. The gate itself was not a
measure of security; it had no doors, nor even a complete arch over the road. It was two sturdy, square wooden pillars buried in the earth, stretching twelve feet above the ground.

  “We’re early,” Monty said to his mother, once they had locked their wheels and he’d fed the horse a pair of carrots from the sack they’d brought. “I’ll go and check with town merchants, see if they’ve heard any news of the road.”

  “All right,” Delila said, both she and Terra working on lifting a fallen harvest sack. Terra stood in the cart, pulling at the canvas. “Hurry back. I’d like to stop by and talk to the Kettles before the selling begins.”

  “I’ll be quick,” Monty promised, and he headed back toward the direction of Kettle’s store. He did give it a quick look as he walked past it and toward the center of town, and it seemed to be business-as-usual with the open door and trickle of customers. Back to normal so soon? Likely not, and Audrey had looked terrible the evening past. Her family was in grief, but she was somewhere else entirely. He almost stopped, just to go in and see if she was doing all right; but there was another pressing matter. And she had her family to support her.

  Monty’s destination stretched across the corner of the next road: the large, one-story building of the Irisa officials. It was the village hall, but it was mostly referred to as the Commons. All were welcome there, but rarely was there reason to visit.

  Monty had one, and it wasn’t to speak to the town merchants. He was here for the Judge.

  He hesitated at the main doors. The large glass windows—the biggest pieces of glass in the whole town—were intimidating. He had only been here once before, and that was five or six years ago, when he had come with his mother while she brought in some kind of record that needed to be delivered. The door had seemed even bigger then, reflecting him wholly. Now it showed most of him, cutting him off at the knees.

  He pulled the door open, stepping inside. Immediately he was warmer. The Commons had several ongoing fires spread throughout in brick enclosures, with short, fat chimneys on the roof letting out smoke. It was a well-maintained place, and just stepping in made Monty feel like he didn’t belong.

  I’m going to change that, he told himself, shaking off the trepidation. I am going to be part of this.

  12

  Judge Mullen’s office was farther back. He remembered from when his mother had brought him here. That had been when Judge Mullen was new to the town.

  The corridors were long, but not confusing; though the Commons was big, it only stretched in three directions, and Judge Mullen was at the end of the hall that continued straight ahead. He walked down the polished wooden floor as quickly as he felt was appropriate.

  The Judge’s door was closed, but Monty heard that it was always closed; that the Judge was a busy man, often buried in his work. He had also heard that Judge Mullen hated to be interrupted. But he had asked him here, had he not?

  Monty knocked on the sleek door, his knuckles rapping on the wood next to the engraving: Judge Elrich Mullen.

  The door was pulled open a half-minute later, though that thirty seconds felt much longer to Monty as he waited on the other side. Judge Mullen greeted him with a smile.

  “Monty! Fantastic, please come in, and close the door. Have a seat.” Mullen swept back to his desk. He wore his traditional Judge’s robes today.

  Monty did as asked, pushing the heavy door shut and sitting down in the chair in front of Judge Mullen’s desk. The office smelled of wood and ink and candle flame, though no candle burned. The desk took up most of the back wall, behind which was a shuttered window, with slats eased open to let in enough light to read by, the rest of the big space dim. Bookshelves built into the wall braced the desk on either side, neatly packed with volumes thick and thin, some labeled, some not. It was the most books Monty had ever seen in one place. He’d read a few, but they were keepsakes from his mother’s parents, grandparents he’d never met.

  Judge Mullen saw him looking at the shelves. “Quite a lot, yes? I brought the majority of them with me. I do hate to be without my collection.”

  “You’ve read all of these? Your Honor?” Monty was amazed.

  “Several times over, if you would believe it,” Judge Mullen said. “But we are here to talk about you as a recruit courier, are we not? I know you are here with your family to sell to the merchants. I imagine you are in a hurry.”

  Monty straightened in his chair. “Yes, sir. I’m still very interested in the job. The position.”

  “Certainly,” Judge Mullen said, his face showing that he never doubted Monty’s acceptance for a moment. “There is one thing I neglected to bring up to you at the sending. If you are the recruit courier, you will need to be in town often, and throughout the day. There is a small quarters here in the Commons that I can arrange for you.”

  “You’d have me live here, your Honor?”

  “Yes,” Judge Mullen said, his eyes distant, as though he were looking right through Monty. “Now, I realize this might interfere with your duties at the farm, so I must ask: is this something that you could make work?”

  He was slow to respond, choosing his words carefully. The idea of it practically made him want to leap out of his chair in delight, but the question was there: could he make it work? Winter was winter, but to not be home at all?

  “I sense your hesitation,” Judge Mullen said, and Monty wondered if he had just spoiled the entire prospect. “This is something we could...transition into, if necessary. You are not terribly far from Irisa, and your first day in this role would be a week from today. If you are not in your quarters, then I will need you to report directly to me each morning with the sunrise to ensure we start each day on the right foot.”

  “I can do that, sir,” Monty said quickly, gripping the arms of the chair to stop himself from snapping his fingers.

  “It would be ideal for you to be here at all times, of course,” Judge Mullen added, “but this is something we can work with for now. As long as you are willing to extend the extra effort.”

  “Yes!” Monty said. “I’ll do it, Judge. I really—I appreciate you doing this for me.”

  Judge Mullen laughed, a short chuckle. “Trust me, Monty, you are doing far more for me and for Irisa than I am doing for you. I am pleased with your fortitude.” Quick as a whip, the Judge drew a quill from the stout inkwell on his desk and scribbled something down on the paper before him. “That makes it official.”

  Wow. Just like that.

  “All right, Monty. Our short meeting is over. You can get back to your family now.” Judge Mullen dropped his gaze and looked to the papers on his desk.

  The office went quiet. Monty tried not to move the chair as he stood, and took his paces to the door. Once it was open, he hesitated, his hand on the warm brass handle.

  “Judge Mullen?”

  “Mm?” The Judge didn’t look up from his desk.

  “I just wanted to ask...Audrey Kettle. Is she doing all right? At the sending last night, she seemed very...” Monty shrugged. “I don’t know. She wasn’t doing well.”

  “That is kind of you to notice.” Judge Mullen did look up from his desk now, fixing Monty with his dark eyes. “She is not well, that is true. Her family says she’s come down with some affliction. Grief; illness; sometimes these things look alike. She will get better as time goes on.”

  Monty hoped that was true. “Thank you again, Judge,” he said, and he stepped out of the office and closed the door, then let out his breath in a long exhale. That had gone well. Better than expected—his own quarters in the Commons? He didn’t care if it was a closet and he had to sleep standing up. It was incredible.

  The town of Irisa greeted him outside, shining bright in a different sort of light now. The only obstacle left was his mother.

  She wouldn’t like any of this, but the simple facts couldn’t be contested: he wouldn’t need to start until after the bulk of their selling was done, and he wouldn’t be entirely away from the farm. Some days and nights, maybe, if th
e agenda was long and he chose to stay over in his quarters. But it would be simple. Better than him sitting around at home, watching the light snowfall through the window. And he’d be bringing home money in the bargain.

  He relieved his mother at the cart so that she could go and check up with the Kettles, telling her that he’d heard no news about the road—which wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “How are they?” he asked her when she returned.

  “Mostly well,” his mother said. “Henry is a rock, he always has been. They need that now. But Audrey...”

  “She didn’t look good,” Monty said. “At the, uh—at the sending.”

  He thought his mother might get angry at the mention of it, but she was more focused on the Kettles. “Henry wouldn’t let me see her. She was in bed. He said she’s been in bed, mostly, since her mother passed.”

  “Is she ill?”

  Delila shook her head, unsure. “Henry thinks so. It could be the pain of loss pinning her down. I want to talk to her soon. I would have pressed Henry more, but—well, here they come.”

  In the distance, the road billowed dust as the horde of horse-drawn merchants rolled to Irisa.

  The buyers were eager this year. The yield the merchants usually arrived with was smaller than it had been in the years past, speaking to a difficult harvest further in the west.

  As it were, their own batch of harvest was sold through over the next few hours, even before the last merchant rolled past to see what was available. The sun started to set on the villagers at the gates, the merchants moved further into town to find quarters, and the packing up of the carts and stands began in tired earnest.

  The wheels of the Bellamy cart (empty, save for Terra) rolled toward home. With his mother in a fairly cheery mood at their successful outing, Monty broached the subject of the courier job. He divulged all the details: The title. The duties. The quarters. As well as his opinion that that there was no better time than now.