Fearful Symmetry

by Francis Gideon

  He found nothing special for quite some time. The pathway was worn and twisted but always led through the middle of the forest and out into a lake on the other side. If Dryden took his cottage as the centermost point in his town, the woods were northeast, and the market was southwest. The market was divided by the kingdom where the nobles lived, while these dark woods were split up and divided by the lake. Walk through them, Dryden thought, and you get to another side, and maybe even another kind of paradise.

  A rabbit ran across Dryden’s path. He watched as the animal bounced quickly across, paused on the green grass and overgrown ferns, and then disappeared between some trees. They were uneven willows, looming into one another. Dryden looked all around himself, then took a step off the pathway. Nothing happened, so he took a few more steps. He paused, waited, and looked around. Nothing bad had happened yet. He cursed his mother’s useless warnings and then walked on into the dark trees.

  The moonlight, when it broke down from the canopies of leaves, illuminated Dryden’s path. He knew he probably shouldn’t be walking around in the dark. Even if there wasn’t a beast, there had to be wolves, foxes, coyotes—the predators that preyed on the jackrabbits he occasionally saw flutter by. Dryden knew he could scare away the animal predators if he needed to—so long as he didn’t come across a bear. At that thought, he trekked faster and faster through the long grass. Still finding nothing but his own grief at his father’s death, Dryden turned around and began to wonder if he should go back.

  He missed his father, but he also knew he missed the wonder that his mother had placed over the world. Now that he was inside the forest, he could see how ordinary it was. Overgrown and a little scary, but no longer filled with wonder. His mother, even if she had been wrong, had given him fascination. And what good are stories if you have no one to share them with? Dryden owed it to his mother to return. But soon, as the moon passed by overhead, a clearing opened up, and his wonder with the world came back.

  Dryden saw the daisies first. The flowers bent down toward the grass, their petals closing slightly for the night. Even though the flowers shied away in the nighttime, they were still beautiful and shaped perfectly in a circle. Dryden walked closer. A couple feet wide, the patch of daisies surrounded a tall fruit tree. As he stepped through the grass, Dryden tried to get a better look at the branches of the tree. Heavy fruit pulled each branch lower and lower, as if, by some miracle, this tree had been blooming in the winter and now was ready for harvest.

  Another jackrabbit darted through the woods and under the fruit tree. Its branches shook and a large, yellow orb fell onto the ground.

  “No….No, it can’t be.”

  Dryden took another step into the clearing. This time, he clearly saw what had fallen off the tree. A lemon now lay on the ground.

  Dryden didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was his mother—or his father—right about this? Was this the tree his father had planted years ago when they had no money? Dryden’s stomach dropped out from under him with each step he took. When he was close enough to touch the lemon, he was shocked at how cold the center was. He squeezed the sides, then held it to his nose to inhale. Fresh. Sweet. How lucky—it’s really a fruit! Not a rock, not a diamond, but a fruit tree. Dryden let out a low and exasperated laugh. Just a fruit. The story his mother had told him was still wrong; his father hadn’t planted a jewel tree because that was impossible. But he had still planted a tree, and for Dryden, this was much better because it was real. He hadn’t seen something this beautiful since the late days of summer and early fall, when the sun was so bright it seemed transparent, like the center of a wedge of fruit. And Dryden wouldn’t have found this beautiful tree if not for the forest and getting off the path!

  He placed the lemon into his pocket, then shook the tree for another. And another. Before he realized it, the pockets of his pants were full, and the knobby tips of the fruit dug into his leg. No matter, he thought. I can come back later and get more.

  Dryden turned away from the tree and out toward the daisies that would take him back to the pathway. He only managed to take three steps before he was confronted by a fox.

  They both froze. The fox’s blue eyes—so much like the water in the spring, so bright like the blue stones his mother sometimes made jewelry out of—struck Dryden more than the lemons in his hand. When the fox bared its teeth and let out a low growl, Dryden slipped out of his haze.

  “Hey,” he said, holding out a hand. The moonlight shone clearly on them both now. The stark blue eyes, the deep red of the body, and the snow-white of the fox’s underbelly stood out clearer than before. Dryden backed away, twisting slightly so he could aim his body back to the pathway.

  “I don’t want to harm you… I just….” He grabbed a lemon from his pocket and tossed it at the animal. The fox’s reflexes were fast and it dodged the throw, circling up the same way Dryden’s body had. Dryden cursed his own efforts. He was now backed against the tree, the fox standing in front of the daisies.

  “Am I in your home, little beasty?” Dryden asked. He knew this could not be the beast his mother had warned him about. Could it? It didn’t make any sense to have a small fox—striking as it was—to guard some place. But he still talked as if the fox was magical and could understand his words. “I just want to leave. I’ll give your home back to you.”

  Dryden knew he was running out of time. The moon would soon set in the sky, and there was no way to get out before the woods became pitch black. He stepped backward, more and more, past the tree now, trying to avoid or appease the fox. But its stare never wavered, its teeth always bared, a low growl in its throat.

  Dryden was about to call out again when he heard more rustling inside the circle of daisies. Another jackrabbit? No, he realized. The steps were heavier, harder against the grass—and the fox seemed to hear them too. Before the fox could turn, there was a sudden crack in the night air, and an arrow pierced through the animal’s paw.

  “Oh,” Dryden cried out, more in surprise than anything else. He watched as the red fur around the beast’s paw grew darker and the stain spread. The fox’s stance weakened, and its eyes pleaded with him. For a moment, Dryden even felt bad for the animal. He had seen that transparent stare before somewhere, and he wanted to make the fox better again, even if he also seemed to threaten his existence.

  “Hey… It’s all right…,” Dryden said. He took a step closer, only to trip on some of the lemons that fell out of his pockets. In a blink, as Dryden pulled himself up again, the fox was gone. The only thing that remained was the lemon he had thrown at the animal, now stained with its blood.

  “What the…?”

  “Hello!” The voice was loud, booming. The shooter of the arrow, Dryden realized.

  “Hello?” Dryden called back. The moon had sunk below the trees. Time seemed to be speeding up, and Dryden became fully aware of how tired he was. “Who’s there?”

  A shock of light danced a few feet in front of Dryden. A man a few inches taller, with broad shoulders and a dark beard, held up a small flare to light his way as he stepped forward into the clearing. He wore a dark green vest, dark pants, and a quiver of arrows on his back. The stranger was clearly a hunter, the kind of man who called the woods his home.

  “Are you all right?” the man asked. “That fox can be quite a beast.”

  “Really?” Dryden asked. He looked behind himself, expecting to see the animal. Of course, it was still gone. Dryden glanced back at the hunter. “He seems kind of small to be a beast.”

  “Well, he always gets at my crops. I know that for a fact!”

  “Oh.” Dryden glanced at the lemon tree the man now stood next to. He was about a foot from Dryden. “Are these yours? I’m so sorry, since I may have tempted the fox here, then.”

  “No harm done. Would you like some lemons? Or should I say, would you like more lemons?”

  The stranger’s eyes wandered down to Dryden’s pants, which were bulging full of the fruit. His face went red again.
<
br />   “I’m sorry. Here you are saving me, and I’m the one grabbing stuff as if it were free. I should know by now everyone always wants something in return.”

  “Not always.” The man closed the distance between them with a few steps. “But before we start making trades, let’s give one another our names. I’m Otto. Who are you?”

  “Dryden.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dryden.” Otto held out his hand. Dryden, warmed by Otto’s smile, stepped forward and shook his hand. His grip was strong, confident, and up close, Dryden could smell a hint of cloves on Otto’s clothing.

  After the handshake, Dryden glanced back at the lemon tree. “I didn’t think this was real.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my mother told me that Father had planted a tree like this years ago. Only he used stones instead of seeds. I didn’t think stones could bring life.”

  “Some can,” Otto said. “You ever heard of the Stone Soup?”

  Dryden laughed. “Believe it or not, I just heard it again tonight.”

  “My apologies. I never like to repeat myself too often.” Otto’s eyes scanned up and down Dryden’s body. Dryden felt the gaze like a pinprick and a shiver. Only this time, he didn’t want it to stop. He straightened his back and smiled. He wondered how he could prolong their interaction without telling more stories that would surely make this man—not a boy, nothing like Dryden—roll his eyes.

  “Where are you from, young man?” Otto spoke first, leaning in.

  “I’m not that young. I’m almost twenty. I’m the man of the house now.”

  “I’m sorry, then. Sorry to hear about your father.”

  Dryden was used to hearing these words, but the sonorous tone of Otto’s voice cut him deeply. “It’s all right. I’m just….”

  “Out for a walk? Trying to distract your grief?”

  “Yes. Really. Thanks for helping me. I should go back now.” Dryden clasped a lemon from his pocket and grinned at Otto again. “Thanks for allowing me to take a few of these.”

  “Not at all. But I hope you’re not leaving already. We’ve only just met.” Otto smiled before he leaned forward and wrapped his thumb and forefinger around Dryden’s wrist. “Will you come back to my place for some tea? I fear it’s rather dark out now, and you should get something warm before heading back to your home. And these lemons—” Otto slipped his fingers lower on Dryden’s skin to hold the same piece of fruit Dryden held—“they taste very good in tea. I can tell you that much.”

  Dryden took in a quick breath. In that moment, he knew he would do or say anything to keep Otto’s hands on him. He stayed quiet for a long time, allowing Otto’s fingers to caress his skin as if he could coax more answers out of him.

  “What do you say?” Otto asked again. “Join me?”

  “Yes,” Dryden finally answered. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Chapter Three

  OTTO LIVED in a tall cabin between two oak trees. Thick rose bushes with thorny stems marked the front of a garden by his door, directly underneath both windows. Even with only the moonlight guiding him, Dryden could tell the cabin was a recently built structure. The wood was a deep cherry color, and the shingles on the roof were in much better repair than his own house. It was a beautiful place, dropped in the middle of nowhere. Dryden didn’t ask Otto if he had built it himself or inherited it. Dryden had a feeling that either answer would take away some of the beauty and magic of the place.

  “After you,” Otto said, holding the door open.

  When Dryden stepped inside, it took his eyes moments to adjust to the alarming brightness. There were oil lamps on end tables and candles inside shelves attached to the walls. The light was amplified when it struck the copper pots that hung from the cabin’s high ceiling in the kitchen. Gold flooded the area; when the light from candles struck the red glass fruit bowl on the counter, Dryden gasped as the beam fractured once again and created an orange glow in the room. The fruit in the bowl—many that Dryden couldn’t name—shone liked gems. The ceilings were so high that Dryden had to crane his neck to see it all. What looked to be a two-story cabin from the outside was really only one, and the walls seemed to extend forever before meeting the beams of the roof. From the tallest point in the ceiling hung a branch twisted with string and glass beads, fracturing the lighting even further.

  Dryden’s breath stuck in his throat. His parents’ house had always been plain, the red-velvet chair on the sidelines being the one item to set it apart, the one place of luxury that was solely his mother’s. But Otto’s entire cabin looked like royalty when illuminated. For a moment, Dryden wondered if he was even allowed to be there. Surely, he was as plain as where he had come from.

  “Please, sit anywhere you like, though the kitchen will probably be best,” Otto stated, stepping inside the house ahead of Dryden. He grabbed a kettle from the counter and filled it with water from a small bucket. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Since we’re having tea, right?”

  Dryden barely nodded. The kitchen was the only place he had allowed himself to really view. Under the copper pots was a large stone island that held the red glass bowl and many other small kitchen trinkets and machines Dryden couldn’t name. Stools lined the area, but there was also a small wooden table beyond the sink, where Otto stood. The kitchen faded easily into a living area where a deep blue couch was set against a fireplace. The walls were mostly a clean gray color; boring almost, save for the many pictures and other artifacts hung on the walls. A stuffed bear’s head stared back at Dryden, a perpetual roar on its face. A stag’s antlers lined a doorway to a closed room at the back of the large kitchen and living room, and many hides from other animals hung on the wall, if they weren’t on the blue couch as blankets. The paintings—big pieces with broad strokes, as if the paint had been catapulted at the canvas—took up one wall in the living room. All the pieces seemed to be art with no real design other than to display a mess of colors. By some shelves filled with books were smaller framed pictures, though, that appeared to be detailed diagrams. As Dryden walked toward a small drawing of the human body, Otto’s deep sonorous voice broke his concentration.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s incredible.” Dryden’s eyes caught another bright color inside the small cabin. “It’s like you have a whole world in here.”

  “You flatter me. I’ve worked on collecting these pieces for years. All of this is now mine—so hearing you call it the world makes me feel as if I am a king. Thank you.”

  Royalty was still an abstract concept to Dryden, especially now that he learned the true system of ruling in the forest. But to see all this gold and extravagance on the wall, what other name could there be for it? If Otto was a king, then Dryden wanted to worship at his feet.

  “Are you royalty?”

  Otto let out a low, breathy laugh. “Not by any standard means.”

  Dryden wasn’t sure what that meant, but he thought it better to not appear ignorant in front of someone like Otto. When Dryden turned his gaze away from him, something else caught his eye. Inside a thick frame near the front door was a spiral diagram, but a blue spot that Dryden had missed before now appeared to move inside of the picture.

  “What’s all this?” Dryden asked as he walked over. Indeed, the blue speck had moved and continued to do so against the lines of the diagram. Up close, Dryden spotted the wire inside the glass pane that was twisted into a labyrinth. The blue spot—a beetle, though Dryden didn’t know what kind—moved inside of it, trying to get out of a corner the bug had wandered into on the outer edges of the maze. At the center of the labyrinth was a butterfly pinned against the edges by its wings. Dryden’s eyes fell over the iridescent blue of the butterfly’s wings and noted the white spots on either side, forming makeshift eyes that gazed back out at him from under the glass. Dryden hoped that, unlike the beetle, the butterfly wasn’t alive at the center. It would be too cruel to be so beautiful and pinned down the way it was.

  “That
is my butterfly,” Otto stated. He walked over toward Dryden, close enough for Dryden to feel his body heat without touching his skin. “She is at the center, or the home piece.”

  “Why is she there?”

  “Res ipsa loquitur. The thing speaks for itself. I keep her at the center to remind myself of what I do here. Why I have my home the way it is.”

  Dryden heard the Latin words again in his ear. He didn’t understand the language, even with Otto’s translation, but he felt the words burrow inside of him like a spell. “And what do you do here?”

  “Well, I’m a hunter, and I like to collect many things, like animals and their hides, of course. As you can see.” Otto’s large hands motioned around his cabin at the skins that Dryden had already glimpsed. When Otto returned his gaze, he placed his palm on Dryden’s shoulder, rooting him to the ground. “But I also collect beauty.”

  “Beauty?”

  “Yes.” Otto motioned to the glass frame that held a butterfly once again. Dryden followed his gaze, though it was hard to turn away. If Dryden hadn’t already seen the beetle moving, he would have thought this entire display had been a very detailed painting. He hoped again that the butterfly was not alive under the frame, but saw a wing twitch and his hope was squashed.

  “What’s the beetle doing?”

  “Trying to get to the center. Trying to get home.”

  “And that butterfly? Is she…?”

  “She is a very, very rare creature.” Otto’s eyes, almost as gold as the light in the room, turned to Dryden again. “Her wings have a pattern to scare away predators. She pretends to be something else so she can live her life in peace.”

  “And?” Dryden asked, waiting on the balls of his feet. From the way Otto spoke about his house, Dryden anticipated a million little stories falling from his mouth at the smallest notice.