The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  Vincent, disguised, entered Mr. Barlow’s impressive bedroom as the sun began to descend. He couldn’t believe the opulence by which he was surrounded: priceless artwork and tapestries and statues, furniture of the finest wood, a gigantic fireplace, a sprawling crystal chandelier, a window overlooking the estate and everything beyond, precious metals everywhere; even the floor on which he walked was gold.

  Mr. Barlow lay on a large oak four-poster bed that practically consumed him. He was extremely pale and thin, his eyes sunken and bloodshot and racked with fear. His mouth, emitting strained wheezes, hung open as he struggled to breathe. He could barely look over at his guest.

  “My daughter tells me that you can heal me. Is that right?” His frail voice echoed in the expansive room: vibrations of an impending death.

  “I can try.”

  Mr. Barlow coughed into his hand, spitting up blood. “I don’t need anyone to try. I need someone to succeed.”

  “I can defeat the witch. I promise you that.”

  If the old man was surprised that Vincent knew of the witch and her powers, he didn’t show it. “Promise me? You think others haven’t tried? Hundreds of men have tried. What is an old man like you going to do that they haven’t?”

  “Tell me how to defeat her. I may surprise you.”

  “That you may. My daughter certainly believes in you. She hasn’t believed in much of anything for many years now.” Mr. Barlow raised a trembling hand to his forehead. “The pain is unbearable. I should have died by now. I believe she is stretching it out, making me suffer.”

  “Tell me what to do,” Vincent said. “I will end this.”

  “Men have believed that they killed the witch. They have come back to me swearing to it. Many have said they struck her down, burned her, drowned her, seen the life leave her eyes. And I’m sure they truly did. And yet still she lives. After consulting forces beyond our realm, I have learned that there is a very specific reason for this. Because of her black arts, she has tied her soul to that of another creature roaming her forest. There is a wild boar in those demonic woods of hers, a boar of such immense size and strength that it has no fear of anyone or anything. It is very nearly indestructible. This is the source of her magic. Destroy the boar and only then will you be able to defeat the witch once and for all.”

  “Mr. Barlow, I will find a way to fell the beast.”

  “But there’s more, my hasty friend. Both the witch and the boar have to be killed by a special weapon—the boar with a bow and arrow, the witch with a sword, unique weapons that have been created solely for this purpose many years ago. My men have scoured the land. Sadly, we have no way of knowing where they are.”

  Vincent’s mind went immediately to the gold book, its illustrations. Yes, it was the first one he had seen, the very first page he had laid eyes on: the old man and the sword and the bow and the birds holding the weapons aloft. This was the key; he was sure of it. “I may know, sir.”

  “So you say. And I take it you won’t tell me how you have come across such knowledge?”

  “That is correct.”

  “I hope you succeed. If I live, I have much to amend. In these final days of my life I’ve come to realize the many failures of my past. I neglected my family. My focus was elsewhere. I sought the wrong things. I just want my son back. I want my daughter to be safe. I will give up all my gold, all my wealth, for this. If you find the witch, you just may find my poor son. Children: she takes them. For what, I do not know. I only hope it’s not too late, for any of us.”

  That night Vincent fetched Orin from the stable. He hopped on and secured the book in the leather sack.

  “You will come back, won’t you?” Stella asked, emerging from the shadows.

  Vincent eyed her even as Orin, eager to leave, tugged in the opposite direction. “I will, and your father will be cured, your brother at his side.”

  “And what about me?”

  Vincent lowered his hood, his gold face gleaming in the moonlight. “When I see you again, I will carry you past those gates and into the world.”

  Stella smiled, her eyes brimming with tears. “I will be waiting.”

  And with that, Vincent and Orin set out for the witch.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was one of the very few stories Vince ever heard about his grandmother Stella, and he was deeply intrigued. Unfortunately, he’d never had the chance to meet her and knew even less about her than he did of his grandfather. She passed away when he was just six months old.

  He wondered if this was how his grandparents had really met, on some massive estate, back when they both were just young teens. Was it really love at first sight? Then again, how could his grandmother not have been enthralled by a golden boy? It all seemed perfectly appropriate and romantic, especially for a couple who remained at each other’s sides for the rest of their lives.

  “But what about the weapons?” MJ asked him, breaking his train of thought. She had spent the morning rereading the tale, jotting down notes as she went along. “Did he ever find them? Did he get the witch?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He never told you?”

  “I—I was young. I don’t remember. I don’t think he told me any of these stories. Most of the memories I have of him are from when he was very old. I remember a lot of gibberish.”

  For the most part, this was true, but he had to admit he had the same questions MJ did. The book was taking hold of him, page by page, as if the words were floating free and wrapping themselves around his body like the giant’s chain. It was almost as if his grandfather were alive again, as if Vince could reach out and touch him, like living history. He didn’t believe his grandfather to be crazy, not like he used to anyway. Even in these tales of fantasy, every story within the book, every curious interaction, everything had meaning and logic, some kind of truth behind it. He saw his grandfather more fully now; he felt he was beginning to truly understand him. Somehow, they were closer now than ever before.

  “Do you ever wonder about us?” MJ asked, closing the book and running her fingers across the cover, as Romeo curled up at her feet. “The story of our lives? What’s happening to us right now?”

  Vince thought about the tales he had told back at the orphanage. “All the time. I’ve just been trying to find the best version.”

  Right now he was enjoying where he found himself. How he loved being under this roof again. There were differences, of course, but for the most part, the house was reconstructed almost exactly as he remembered it. Maybe the same blueprints, the same foundation were used. Since his return he couldn’t help wondering if his father’s initials were still there, a permanent part of the home.

  “I want to go outside and check something,” he said to MJ.

  “Oh, we can’t. You heard my parents. They said we’re not allowed. Not with the Byron Clan so nearby.”

  “I know, but I won’t be long. I just want to see something real quick. I have to.”

  “Vince—”

  “In and out. I promise.”

  After much coaxing, MJ finally gave in, and the two of them ran outside, with Romeo following. The snow had ceased falling, but it was piled well past their knees, yet that didn’t stop the dog from hopping in and out of the piles like a bunny, its black eyes following Vince to the side of the house.

  Riffling through his memory for just the right spot, Vince crouched down and began brushing away at the snow.

  “What are you doing?” MJ asked.

  He was getting closer; he could feel it. The snow froze his fingers, but he didn’t care, and when he saw bits of the cement, his hands worked even faster. He wiped away the last few inches of snow, and when it cleared, his face lit up with happiness. “See,” he said, near tears. “I knew it would still be here.” He pointed at the initials and was unable to shift his eyes from the crooked markings; they were just as he remembered them.

  “You weren’t lying,” MJ said in surprise. “I thought maybe you were just telling
a story.”

  “No. No, this is real. This is so very real.” He ran his trembling fingers over the initials left by his father so many years ago. The feeling was haunting; it was like grazing his father’s skin. “Back”—there was a catch in his throat—“back at the orphanage, I used to dream of him building this house, laying the foundation, nothing else around, the sun on his back, the taste of sweat in his mouth. I could just see it so clearly. He used to tell me how much he loved working with his hands, how it had a way of enticing the mind to wander, you know? He said it was the ritual of the thing: you’re almost working mechanically and so your thoughts take over. Your mind and your actions, they’re so far apart, he said, it’s like they exist separately, in different worlds or something. Almost as if you’re two people. I don’t know . . . I used to think of this, my father sitting here in this very spot . . . where did his thoughts go when his mind wandered? What was he thinking? I want to know. I want to know him.” Choking back tears, he looked up at MJ.

  MJ’s eyes were watery as well. “I’ll, um . . . If you need me, I’ll be right over there.” And she hurried off to play with Romeo in the front yard.

  Vince sat with his back against the house, right beside the markings. He sat beneath the same sky as his father. He looked out at the same woods, smelled the same air, touched the same ground. He closed his eyes, trying to sync his mind with that of his father’s.

  “What did you think about, Dad? Who were you really?”

  Vince wasn’t sure. He never had a chance to ask his father. Not the real questions anyway, not the questions that truly mattered. Now his father was gone. He’d left—who knew why?—and now Vince would never have the answers to these questions. In his mind his father would always be incomplete.

  He glanced to his left, out into the woods to where his tree house once stood. Dusting himself free of snow, he stood and headed straight toward it. As if not a day had gone by, he remembered exactly where it was erected. He knew the very spot at which to enter the woods; he knew the turns; he knew the trees. It was only another minute before he tripped over a pile of wood.

  Bending down, he began sorting through the rotting boards, nearly cutting himself on a rusted nail. Dejected, he glanced up at the empty tree. The whole thing had come down. How appropriate, he thought. He stood and placed his hand against the thick tree. MJ was right. There were still parts of the ladder nailed into the trunk. He recalled hammering these planks in with his father, how much fun they both had had. It wasn’t long after his father had helped him overcome his fear of heights by encouraging him to climb his first tree, where, at the top, looking over the town, Vince had yelled out, “Umbia Rah!” And then, not a week later, they had built this.

  Wiping some snow off the boards, Vince noticed something carved into the third one from the bottom: numbers. They were hastily produced, not very deep, but he could still make them out: 60 135. He had no idea what these meant, but he was sure they hadn’t been there when he still lived here. There was no doubt that he would have seen them. The numbers would have stared him right in the face every time he climbed up the tree. But what was it? Code? Coordinates? Once again, Vince’s mind began to race. The night of the fire did his father escape and carve these numbers into the wood? Were they a message? Something told him his father was definitely trying to reach him. He knew Vince would go to the tree house to be alone. He knew he would read it. Yes, his father was still somewhere out there.

  “Vince!”

  It was MJ. She sounded frightened, Romeo was barking incessantly. Quickly Vince turned from the message and ran back to them, the snow he kicked falling upon the discarded boards of his tree house. When he turned the corner of the house, he found MJ, a hand over her agape mouth, pointing out into the woods with the other. Looking in this direction, a hundred yards from the house, he noticed an old woman standing upon a tree stump.

  “Old Mother Byron,” Vince said, slowly backing away. He grabbed MJ’s hand and pulled her toward the house. “Hurry. We have to get inside.”

  With Romeo following, they ran as fast as they could through the dense feet of snow. Just before entering the house, Vince looked back into the woods a second time. They were empty.

  Once inside, the two new friends hurried to the front window and nervously peered out.

  “Is she still there?” MJ asked, her voice quivering. “Is she still there?”

  Vince scanned the woods. Everything was still. Quiet.

  “Maybe it wasn’t her,” he said, not believing this but hoping to calm down the girl to whom he owed his life.

  MJ was trembling. “You saw her face. She’ll be coming for you.”

  “No. They’re going to want to lay low. They’re in hiding.”

  There was a loud noise coming from outside. MJ jumped at the sound, clinging to Vince. “What is that? Vince, what is that?”

  “Easy. It’s just the plows. They’re clearing the streets. Look.” He pointed out the window, and sure enough, a plow came into view. “See. Just a plow. Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll be able to drive out of here if we need to.” Only, instead of continuing down the street and onto the next, the plow stopped in front of the house, the engine shutting down. A moment later the door opened, and Vince’s stomach dropped.

  Out of the driver’s seat stepped Lonnie, followed by his sister and, finally, his mother.

  “It’s them,” he croaked. “Oh, no. It’s them. They’ve found me.”

  MJ, close to hysterics, ran from the window. “Mom! Dad!”

  Vince was frozen in place, as if he truly had been turned to ice. Looking out the window, he was reminded of that dreadful night from his past. Something horrifying was out there in the snow, coming to destroy him and everything he held dear.

  From the street, Misty saw Vince crouching in the window. With a wicked grin, she waved to him.

  “What? What’s the matter?” Michele cried from the other room.

  “They’re here! The Byron Clan!”

  Running over, Michele and Paul joined Vince and MJ at the window. “Michele,” Paul said, clearly trying not to panic, “get on the phone now. Get somebody over here immediately. I don’t care if they have to hop on snowmobiles or jump from helicopters. You tell them to get here now. MJ, help me make sure all the windows and doors are locked. Hurry.”

  Everyone scattered through the house. Paul, after securing the entrances, looked for a weapon of some kind. A golf club was the best he could do. At the window once again, he put his hand on Vince’s shoulder. “They’re not going to hurt you. Not with me around. I promise.”

  Lonnie and Misty stood staring at the house, their breaths spiraling to the sky like cyclones. Their mother was between them, a few yards back. With her cane she pointed toward Vince.

  Lonnie and Misty started for the house.

  “Back away,” Paul said to Vince. He tossed everything off the dining room table and, with Vince’s help, overturned it. Together they then shoved it in front of the large window. “I don’t know if that will hold them,” Paul said.

  There was a loud bang at the front door. Then another. And another. Lonnie was trying to knock it down.

  With Romeo barking over and over at every sound, Paul called out to his wife, “The police. What did they say?”

  The banging continued, faster now, the new and urgent heartbeat of the house.

  Michele was so terrified she was rambling. “I don’t know. They said to hang on. They’re trying to get here. The snow is so high. Twenty-eight inches or something. The streets are a mess. Roads are blocked; cars stranded. People stranded. It’s too cold out.”

  “Michele. Michele! How long? How long did they say they were going to be?”

  “They—they couldn’t say.”

  The banging wouldn’t stop. It sounded as if the wood would give at any moment. Once the door had weakened, Lonnie would certainly be able to rip the thing from its hinges. Vince looked out a side window, just above where his father’s initi
als were, and saw Misty staring in. Then, just faintly, he heard her begin to sing. “Oh, I have the moon in me . . .”

  “Dad!” MJ screamed, hearing the demented tune. “Over there!”

  Misty took the heel of the knife and smashed the window with it. She stuck her hand through to open the latch, and that was when Paul came running and slammed the golf club down on her arm.

  Misty recoiled in pain, squealing like a dying animal. It looked like her arm was broken; it bent in a way that wasn’t natural.

  Somewhere in the middle of this, the banging stopped. The only sound came from Romeo’s barking. Vince scanned the windows and saw a shadow move across the backyard. It was Lonnie. He was trying the back door.

  Paul looked at Michele as the banging began anew. “That one’s not going to hold. The guy’s too big.” Addressing his wife and the two children, he said, “Go in the kitchen, and grab yourselves some knives. We’re going to have to make a stand. I’ll go first. If they get through me, you guys do whatever you can.”

  But just as everyone was about to follow his direction, the banging ceased. Everything, even Romeo, went quiet.

  “Where are they, Daddy?” MJ cried.

  “I don’t know. Get in the corner, away from the windows and doors. Hurry.”

  “They’re back out front,” Michele said. “What are they doing? What are they going to do?”

  Looking out the window, Vince saw the Byron Clan gathered in the snow at the end of the property, a few feet from the snowplow. Lonnie reached into the truck and pulled out a can of gasoline. Their intentions were clear: they were going to burn the house down.

  Vince began to shake uncontrollably. It was happening again. It all was happening again. Another fire. This house, his home. This beautiful family. It all was going to go up in smoke. He couldn’t watch that happen. Not again. He reached down and, not realizing how much heavier it was than normal, picked up his backpack.