The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  The witch, dumbstruck, stumbled back, and Vincent pounced. With her dazed, he tackled her hard to the ground. But she was so quick and powerful she was on top of him in no time, the broken bone at his throat like a razor.

  “Give up,” the witch said, spitting green blood. “You can’t kill me. I won. I won the day you were born.” She dug the bone into his neck, piercing the skin. “It was your mother, Vincent. You have her to thank.”

  “Yes. Yes, you’re right,” Vincent said, gazing past the witch, tears in his eyes, the bone cutting even deeper now. “Thank you.”

  The witch’s eyes narrowed. There was an odd sound, like a giant snail being ripped from its shell. When the witch looked down, she saw the sword sticking straight through her chest. “I—” With a painful moan, she fell to the floor beside Vincent, the sword sliding back through her body. Looking up, she croaked, “My—my pet—”

  Vincent’s mother stood over the witch, the blade dropping to her feet.

  The witch’s hands grasped desperately at her wound, attempting some dark magic to heal it. “No,” she kept saying, “no,” over and over again.

  Vincent knelt beside her and whispered into her ear. “You were right,” he said. “Maybe I couldn’t kill you. But fates can always be changed.”

  She turned her head to him. Never had he seen such fear and hate in one’s eyes. With her last breath, the witch cried out something horrid and her body shriveled into nothingness. In a matter of seconds she was gone.

  Vincent looked at the dark rags on the floor and the green blood puddled all around them. Then he looked at his hands. They were unbound and changing color. The gold was receding. He had done it.

  The hut crashed back to the earth, the legs beneath it vanishing. It had settled for the last time.

  Everything around him was still. Still and quiet. It felt something like peace.

  And then he saw his mother. He saw her as he remembered her, as he always loved her. As she dropped to her knees, her youth and beauty returned, the shackles came undone. But best of all, the life in her eyes came shining back like the brightest of stars.

  “Mother!” he cried, running into her arms.

  “Vincent! Oh, my Vincent! I never thought I’d see you again!”

  Together they embraced and wept, the curse lifted. Vincent’s long journey was over.

  Before they left the hut, Vincent pushed over the oven, and the flames spread quickly. The witch’s home burned to the ground in no time.

  Outside, standing with his mother, watching the flames, Vincent realized who was missing. “Orin,” he said, “my dear friend. We have to go back for him.”

  They moved as quickly as possible, but it was miles from where he had left Orin, and Vincent was too badly hurt. He couldn’t make it through the forest in this condition. Not for days.

  And that was when the birds returned. They came from all around, filling the forest with life and color and song, and they lifted both Vincent and his mother and flew them back through the forest. They soared past the towering trees and through the clearings and over the many animals emerging from their hiding. In minutes they dropped their passengers right where Vincent had last seen the horse and now found a boy, a boy not much older than he was.

  “Orin,” Vincent said, collapsing beside him. “The witch is dead. I have my mother. It’s over. Look. Look at yourself. You’re back.”

  Orin slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his body. A small smile crept across his face. “So I am. It’s—it’s amazing. How about that? I’m—I’m human again. I’m Orin Barlow again.”

  Vincent cocked his head. “Barlow? You? You’re the missing son?”

  Orin nodded, grimacing in pain. “I am.”

  “But we were there, why didn’t you say anything?”

  “No. I—I would not be reunited with my family as I was.”

  “Well, you can be reunited with them now. Come on. I’ll take you back.”

  Orin shook his head, his eyes fading. “No, Vincent. I’m—I’m not going to make it.”

  “Yes, you are. You’ll be okay. We’ll get you help. Come on.”

  “You’ve already helped me more than you could ever, ever imagine. I’m back, Vincent. I’m human again. You . . . promised me that. You said when I died, I’d be human. And you were right.”

  “You’re not dying, Orin.” Vincent’s lips trembled. His words were stopped by his tears. “You’re my only friend; you’re not dying.”

  “But I am.”

  “Orin—”

  “Thank you, Vincent.”

  “Orin . . .”

  And there, in the middle of the forest, leaning against a fallen tree, Orin passed away. Vincent could do nothing but weep beside his friend, the best he’d ever had.

  When he finally picked his head up sometime later, all the witch’s slaves were around him. They too were returned to normal, no longer bound by her evil spells. Along with his mother, they helped Vincent to his feet and tended to his wounds.

  Two men bent down to pick up Orin, but Vincent told them not to. “I’ll carry him home,” he said.

  And he did. For days, alongside his mother, he rejected the help of the birds and carried Orin out of the forest and along every single arduous mile all the way back to Mr. Barlow’s estate.

  When he arrived, Mr. Barlow’s body was healed, but his heart wasn’t. He mourned his son deeply. There was a great funeral, and Orin was buried properly, for which Mr. Barlow was very grateful.

  Afterward he allowed Vincent and his mother to live with him there in the mansion. He soon fell in love with Anna and asked for her hand in marriage. For the rest of his days he cared for Vincent like the son he had lost. And with the witch gone, Stella of course was given her freedom. She and Vincent used it well too. They saw everything in the world there was to see, and for the rest of their lives the two never left each other’s side. They had one child, a son. And that son had a son too. That boy, more than anything else, is their legacy.

  CHAPTER 15

  The end.

  Vince glanced up from the book, a conflicted look upon his face.

  It was the ending he wanted to read, but he was sad that there wasn’t another chapter, that it couldn’t keep going and going and going until the end of time, like in that land beyond the door. It was over.

  He had trouble falling asleep after this. He kept thinking about the ring he found in his grandfather’s room, what it meant. Morning would arrive soon enough, and with it, his grandfather’s funeral. After everything he had gone through to get here, after every story in The Dyerville Tales, every story that he would have once dismissed as the crazed ramblings of his late grandfather, he was now more convinced than ever that his father was still alive and that they would be reunited when the sun came up. The tales that he abandoned years ago in the orphanage returned, and with them, hope.

  Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow.

  That night Vince went to bed with his fingers crossed.

  Morning arrived, and the mood in the house was much more somber than the night previous, the five rambunctious boys eerily subdued. Everyone was dressed in a dark suit or dress, Vince in the fine clothes that Marie had kindly provided. She even cut and styled his hair.

  “Look at you,” she said, stepping back to take him in. “You look like a new man. It’s as if you had gone to sleep as one person and woken up as another.” Indeed, Vince felt that way.

  Downstairs Marie cooked them an enormous and delicious breakfast, and he sat down to eat with the boys. For Vince, as delectable as the food was, it didn’t go down easily. He found himself much too nervous to eat; his stomach felt tightly bound with anticipation, closing itself off from anything he might swallow. All he could do was think of the various ways in which he would run into his father at the church, the different things each might say to the other. And when he went home, it would be in a different direction. Home would be someplace else. I’m not going back to the orphanage, he thought. Never agai
n.

  To be polite, he finished as much of the meal as he could and helped Marie clean up, which warranted a kiss on the forehead from her.

  “Your grandfather will be with you today and always,” she said. “I’m sure he is so very proud of you.”

  When it came time to leave, Vince made his way to the church with Marie and the boys, walking the cold streets, the sky once again threatening snow, apparently unsatisfied that everything was buried feet deep in white powder.

  It was a short walk, and when they arrived at the church square, there was only a small handful of people lingering outside, hesitant to venture indoors. Vincent eyed this half dozen or so closely, searching for the one face he so desperately needed to see. It was an uneasy feeling, like being at the orphanage again, eyeing each new visitor to the premises in the hope of finding his father.

  He began to wander past the mourners, lost in each person’s eyes. He has to be here somewhere. Circling, he wondered if he would even recognize his father anymore. Of course I would. Then, carrying on the conversation with himself: But what if he went through some sort of physical change? What if he had to have some type of surgery to alter his appearance so that any enemies might not notice him? Maybe I’ve run into him already and didn’t even know it. He could be watching me right now. He probably was all this time.

  But no. These were all elderly people, most likely from the home his grandfather had been in. There was nobody Vince recognized. The only person who stood out was Mrs. West. She was across the street, making her way toward the church with her three accomplices, scanning the area for their lost boy.

  Marie, who was walking beside Vince, must have felt him tense up. “Is that her?” she asked, as if gearing up for a fight. “The one who is looking for you?”

  Vince nodded, and Marie turned to her five sons, bent over, and put a finger just before each face. “She is not to be let in. Do you understand? Not under any circumstances. This is a trying time for Vincent. He doesn’t need this. You boys stand outside this church and block her entrance. The boy has a right to see his grandfather one last time. If they want to talk with him, they can do so afterward.”

  The church bells went off, and everyone started moving slowly inside. Vince, thankful for Marie’s support, as well as that of her sons, began to walk into the church. He even brushed right by Mrs. West, who looked straight past him as if he were wearing a mask. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting such a clean-cut and handsome boy, not after years of seeing him in various states of rags and filth. No, his cover wasn’t blown until he was climbing the steps and a man from within the crowd desperately called out his name.

  “Vincent. Vince! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Vince’s breath rushed from his lungs as if he had been punched in the gut, and his skin went so pale he could have been lost in the snow. Fueled by rampant adrenaline, nerves surged across his body in powerful waves, quaking his arms and legs so that he appeared to be shivering, stuck out in the cold for days. A radiant smile exploded across his face. Father.

  Vince spun around so quickly he went dizzy; the church square becoming a carousel on which he was caught. But when his eyes finally settled, he indeed found a man standing before him. But it wasn’t his father. It was Andrew.

  Not that Mrs. West cared. With grim determination, she proceeded to follow Vince into the church. But that was when Marie’s five sons stood in her way.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Christopher said, folding his arms across his chest.

  Mrs. West’s head jerked back in disgusted disbelief as she eyed each of the boys. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is a closed mass. You can wait outside until it’s over.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. Because we’re not moving.” And the boys folded their arms across their chests in unison.

  Just inside the church doors Andrew had pulled Vince aside. “I came with the group from the home. They all wanted to be here so badly.” It was clear the setting made him uncomfortable. His large body shifted back and forth on its heels. “Listen, let me get to the point. Before you go inside, I have something for you. I went through your grandfather’s room last night after you left. I found this in one of his drawers.” He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a thin envelope. “I have no idea what’s in it. It’s addressed to you, so I made sure to keep it sealed. Whatever it is, I hope you find solace in it.”

  Receiving the envelope, Vince thanked him.

  “We should find our seats. The service will be starting shortly.”

  The church was gorgeous, sunlight sprinkling through the stained glass windows, emitting a terrific warmth. Statues of saints and angels, their hands up in blessing, lined the interior, and the pews shone with a holy gloss.

  Making his way down the aisle, Vince looked at the small scattering of people occupying the pews on either side. The nerves he was so badly attempting to keep at bay had now completely consumed him. They were so severe he could hardly even stand. It was almost as if he were feeling his father’s presence. He is somewhere in this church, he thought.

  Anxiously he scanned every face on both sides of the aisle. He didn’t care if he was staring or rude or obvious. He had to look.

  But no, his father wasn’t there. Maybe in the front pew, the one usually reserved for family. Vince sat down but appeared to be among strangers. Still, he didn’t give up hope. He had come too far for that. That was the point of the tales, right? To believe again, to hope. The miraculous was possible. He was convinced now more than ever. His father would be here.

  Maybe he was late. Unless, Vince thought, he is so overcome with grief he decided to remain in the back of the church. He stood up to look, but the priest had reached the pulpit, and the congregation quieted. The service had begun.

  It was a beautiful and touching service, filled with heartfelt readings and stories by those who knew him only through his last days. There was singing and prayers and shared kisses throughout. There were tears and laughs and remembrances. A two-story organ brought it all together with each enchanting note. It was a serene and graceful closure for all involved.

  At one point, toward the very end, every person in the church was asked to walk down the aisle and touch the coffin, saying his or her last words, beginning with Vince. The coffin was clear, made entirely of glass, and one’s fingerprints would remain on the surface for all time.

  Vince approached. It was the first time he had seen his grandfather in years. It was almost as if he had forgotten what he looked like. He saw him differently now, as if with new eyes. They did look alike, he noticed immediately. Vince could almost believe he was at his own funeral, nearly a century from now. Except for that scar. There it was high on his grandfather’s cheek like the mark of a branding iron. Looking at it now, Vince thought it could have been caused by any one of the many situations mentioned in The Dyerville Tales. Not that it really mattered. What mattered was that it was there. Regardless, his grandfather was now at peace. That much was clear. He almost had a thin smile on his aged face, one more wrinkle among so many deep creases. His silver hair was neatly combed; his waxen hands were dramatically folded across his chest. There was even a shine to his skin. A nice golden shine. He looked beautiful. He looked like a man full of life and stories. A tale for every day of his life. This was a man who had lived and would continue to do so.

  Bowing his head, Vince reached out and touched the glass with two fingers, just above his grandfather’s face, his lips. I wish I could see you again. I wish I could hug you and tell you I love you. I wish I could tell you I believe.

  But returning to his seat, he wondered if that was true. Did he believe? Last night, just this morning even, he had thought he did. But then, where was his father?

  Vince watched each person in the church approach the coffin. He watched every one of them very carefully, for if his father were to appear, it would be now.

  Person after person knelt before
his grandfather, saying a prayer and touching the glass. A few nodded to Vincent, extended their hands to him, along with kind words. But not one of them was his father.

  All of those in the church paid their respects, and in the end, there was no one left. The service was over. His father never came.

  Tears filled Vince’s eyes. He wept openly, and everyone believed this was for his grandfather.

  And Vince realized he was crying for him. He was crying for his grandfather and his father and his mother all at once. He was crying because he felt so alone. He was crying because of how badly everything hurt. But most of all, he cried because of how foolish he was. Why did his father have to be missing from the fire? Why couldn’t they have just found a trace of him somewhere within the ashes? If they had, Vince wouldn’t have had to keep up with the stories. There would have been no hope. He could have moved on. Instead, he had kept his father alive with his own tales for years. He invented a new past. It was the same thing his grandfather had done with The Dyerville Tales. But that wasn’t meant to be taken literally, was it? Like his own stories about his father, they were just elaborate fantasies and nothing more. In reality, Vince’s father was gone long ago. In that fire or out in the world. Telling tales are just that, he realized. Wishes and dreams.

  The church empty, he sat alone in the front pew, his face buried in his hands, stifling his unceasing sobs. What now? What now? He rocked back and forth, trying to calm himself, trying to convince himself that everything was going to be okay, even though he knew it wouldn’t. He felt like disappearing. A vanishing act. He pulled his extremities close to his body, hoping to collapse into nothingness.

  But as he did this, something crunched within his coat. Paper.

  Knees to his chest, Vince froze, recalling what Andrew had given him just before the service. With a trembling hand, he dived into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. It weighed close to nothing. As he wiped his eyes on his sleeve, he noticed his name was scrawled across the envelope in handwriting very similar to his own. He waited a moment, then ripped it open.