Joe heard the words his father did not speak. “Pop, I may not come—”
“You will. You will one way or another so don’t say it. But if you don’t get around to visiting us again, I’ll tell your mother you were called away and I’ll write the letters she would expect, and you will always be a success in her eyes.”
Joe touched his father’s arm. “Where is she? I need to see her.”
“In the back bedroom. She’s not well—the cancer got her. It won’t be long before she goes to sleep for good. Tell her anything tonight, anything that would please her.”
Joe nodded. “All right.” And then, for the first time in twenty years, Joe embraced his father. “You love her, don’t you?”
“With all the world and all my heart. Just like I know Bethany is waiting for you. I don’t pretend to understand this, but she’s there and you must go to her. Come, for one evening be part of the family again. Your mother’s waiting.”
As the sun kissed the top of Painter’s Peak and disappeared below, Joe settled into the heart of his family again. Outside, the wind was beginning to howl.
Painter’s Peak was so full of Indian Paintbrush that the fields blazed with streaks of orange and red. Joe slipped through the knee-high grass, thinking that everything looked different from his new height, wondering if Bethany Ann would look different too. But as he climbed the slope, years slipped away and he was now twenty...now fifteen...now fourteen again and racing to see if Bethany was really waiting for him or if it had all been a crazy dream. Maybe she was really back in the village, waiting for the second kiss which he had been too scared to give her.
But the trees weren’t as tall as they once had been, and the shoes that at one time only touched ground long enough to push off for another step, well—they were too large for a boy of fourteen. And so it was that Joe’s years caught back up to him, and he stopped running when he entered the clearing.
The silver willow was there. So was the face on its side. But the face had grown older too, now lovely and haunting and subtly altered. Bethany’s eyes curved up towards their ends, her pupils were gone, her lips bowed thickly.
“Bethany?” Hesitate. Listen. “Bethany? Are you there, are you awake?”
Panic, swift and sudden, caught hold of him and Joe ran in a frenzy to the tree and fell at its base, screaming, “Haven’t we suffered enough? Let her out!”
Then slowly, with the speed of an unfolding rosebud, the eyes focused and the mouth quivered. “Jo-s-s-e-e-p-h?”
Joe gasped and coughed as tears choked him. “Yes! It’s Joseph. I’ve come back to you.”
Bethany stared down at him. “Have you tasted love?”
Joe colored and nodded. “Yes.”
“Tell me what she was like.”
He tugged at his sleeves. “Well, she was...beautiful, I suppose. I don’t know...I thought I loved her. I made love to her. Is that enough?”
The wind whipped around him, chilling his flesh and messing his hair. “Tell me what she looked like.”
“Her skin...she was different.”
“Not that way!” Sharp, hissing, biting wind. “Tell me, the way you would tell her what I was like.”
Joe licked his lips. “She was golden brown, like the sunset, and her hair was dark and kinky and fell down to her waist. She was round, no bones stuck out to poke me. Her legs were smooth and silky and could wrap around me and hold on so tight I couldn’t get free. She sang the morning into being and soothed the night stars until they shone like fire. Spice and cinnamon, with a temper to match.”
“Well done, poet. Now tell me the rest.” No sarcasm, no jealousy.
Joe stared at Bethany. He shrugged. “I got her pregnant. She wanted to go home to the Caribbean and I didn’t want to go. She left me. I loved her, Bethany. I loved her but I couldn’t make her happy. I’ll always love you best.”
“You would have married her if she wanted you?”
“Yes.” He knew it was the truth.
“Your child—”
“She’s getting married next year to her old boyfriend. He wants to adopt the baby. I have no regrets.” That was a lie. “Almost none.”
The wind sighed, dropping to a gentle breeze. “You have learned how to love, how to speak with your heart. You now must choose. Do you wish to come with me?”
For the first time, Joe flinched. Even though he had expected this moment, waited for it, after all these years he found he simply hadn’t believed it would happen.
“Where to?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“No.” He thought of Lydia, with her sun-drenched body and what might have been. He thought of his parents waiting down in the village, one close to death, the other biding time. He thought of Painter’s Peak and how it had remained unchanged. But it couldn’t last. The idyll never did.
And then he thought of Bethany, young and pretty, lodged within this tree. He remembered how she had accepted his dare, had kissed him and set his heart soaring.
“I’ll go wherever you lead me.”
The Devil Wind kicked up again, riding high as the leaves slapped his face.
“Then step forward and kiss my lips. The Frog Prince lives again. Will you kiss me so that I reveal my secrets to you, Joseph? Will you take the dare?”
Joe stepped up to the tree and kissed the lips of Bethany the entombed, and the world went black and then silver and the willow cracked open and out stepped a woman who flowed in the wind, with billowing hair and her pale green eyes held no pupils. She reached to take Joe’s hand. As his fingers touched hers, a slow warmth filled his body and he stared into her eyes, where he saw himself reflected.
His dark, chocolate eyes held no pupils. His hair had turned white. He stood naked beside her and now saw she was clothed only in silver leaves.
“Bethany—”
“I am Bethany, and more. I own this forest. I am this forest.”
“Riva?”
“As well as others...throughout time. But I am, for you, Bethany. And now, cloak yourself in leaves and come with me into your new world. When people from the village stumble into the meadow we will lead them astray and play them no harm, but set them racing back to the village. Come Joseph, for you are home.”
And so Joe, who was now Joseph, wove a cloak of silver leaves and cast it over his shoulders. Then he took Bethany’s hand and let her lead him deep into the forest.
Down in Painter’s Peak, they say the meadow is haunted. A witch named Riva lived there once, long ago, and a girl named Bethany McAllister was raped and murdered there, though her body was never found. The murderer, a young man named Joey, ran off from town and nobody knew what happened to him.
Nobody goes up to the meadow much, they’re too afraid. One man could have set them straight, but he’s dead now. And one man could have told them the truth, but he rides the Devil Wind and chases a silver-drenched woman through unending forests, and as they laugh, their laughter shakes the houses and the rats hide under the cupboards. And the people of Painter’s Peak sit up on those nights, watching from their porches, fearing the dark.
Memory's Child
Dedicated to Julie S. (This story was written as a result of one of my donations to Brenda Novak’s Diabetes auction. Julie bid on the basket, which included a personalized short story, and won. This story is the result.)
A whisper ran through the trees, the lightest susurration of wind sweeping down from the mountains. A hint of autumn was playing on the breeze. It was light, just a faint tang—a reminder that yes, summer was fading and cooler nights lay just around the corner.
Sunlight dappled the forest, shimmering through leaf and bough, twig and branch, casting shadows like leopard spots on the ground, but the golden light was false courage, because even though it still warmed the ground, the heat was fading.
Through the forest, ran a creek. The stream might have been thought a river—it was so wide—but the water sourced from only one place high in the mountains, a
nd rivers, by strict definition, were fed by several tributaries. Memory Creek had been named long ago. Nobody knew by whom, or why it had gotten that name. The stream carved a wide channel through the woodland, and during high water season, whitecaps rumbled along the surface, dangerously swift, and the currents were enough to drown even strong swimmers.
Along the creek, beneath the water, caves had formed in the embankment. Some were useable by the small fish that flickered through the current. But here and there, a few of the caves were larger. Turtles nestled in them, and water frogs. But the biggest had been claimed long ago by a water sprite.
Her name was Julie—a strange name for a sprite, to be sure, but her name nonetheless—and she ruled over the waterway. This was her territory. On this day, in the late afternoon, she was sunning herself on the rocks, her feet still in the water.
All water elementals—be they water Fae or pure spirits of the waves—could emerge from the water to one degree or another. But only if a part of their body remained in touch with the stream, pond, or lake in which they made their home. If they severed the connection, their life force would drain away and they would vanish, vapor on the wind.
Julie leaned back on the rocks as the sun warmed her body. Her hair, a foaming mass of waves, trailed down her back. Her body was clear as crystal, as if she were a figurine formed from liquid glass. And her eyes glowed with the indigo of deep water—so dark they were hard to navigate.
As she sat, humming an aimless tune, listening to the forest, a sudden swish of a nearby fern caught her attention. Asheeda, a dryad, stepped from behind a huckleberry bush.
Asheeda lived in a huge Northern red oak that overhung Memory Creek. The tree stood sixty-five feet tall, still a babe in comparison to the towering firs and cedars that made up the majority of the forest, but the oak stood out, with its glossy leaves that burned brilliant red during the autumn in a sea of conifers. The oak had established its own niche within the forest, and Asheeda had bonded with it in the same way that Julie had bonded with Memory Creek.
Asheeda sat on a fallen log covered with moss and toadstools. She had a worried look on her face, and Julie could sense something was wrong.
“Wildfire in the forest? Or loggers?” The two were most often the cause of Asheeda’s concerns.
Over time, Julie had come to understand her friend’s moods. While her own nature was more emotional—the element of water was steeped in emotion—the dryad had less patience. Usually humans sparked off the wood sprite’s temper.
But today, Asheeda just shook her head. “No. There’s a shadow in the forest. I don’t want to tell you what I suspect…Not until you take a look. I don’t want to influence your opinion. And, honestly? I think you’ll have a better understanding of the nature of this creature.”
Julie stared at her friend. Asheeda was usually more than willing to share her thoughts. She had an opinion about everything that went on in the forest, whether it was her business or not. For her to be this reticent spoke to trouble.
“Where is it?”
“In the Grove, connected to both tree and pond.” Asheeda stood up. “Julie…be careful, please. This thing is dangerous. I’ll meet you there, but travel softly. I have no doubt that whatever this is, it can sense both of us. There is danger there to Fae and mortal alike.” With a blur, she vanished into the undergrowth.
Julie watched her go, then dove smoothly back into the water. She would travel by stream. As she began to glide through the currents, upstream, her heart was suddenly filled with dread.
Memory Creek wound through the woodland. As streams go, it was large, and wide. Though now—in late summer—the water level was relatively shallow, during the rainy season whitecaps boiled over the rocks and the water level rose from the glacial runoff. But for now, summer had taken its toll and until the rains started again, the depth of the creek would trickle along at a mere three or four feet.
But that was all Julie needed. She blended in with the water, her body melting into the element from which she’d been born. She knew this creek, and its diverging forks, as well as she knew herself. They belonged together, symbiotic forces feeding on one another. Memory Creek derived its essence and personality from Julie, and she derived her life force from it.
When she was young, first birthed into the waters of the lake that her mother had guarded, she had dreaded the day she’d have to leave. But as she grew, the push to claim her own territory also grew stronger. So when her mother had turned on her—as was the way with all water sprites—and chased her away from the nest, Julie had fled into a river.
She’d traveled. Following an inner prompting that eventually led her upriver, from there she journeyed into a mountainous river. Following the back country streams, she eventually arrived at Memory Creek. Here, she found no water sprite claiming territory. And so Julie had imprinted with the water, and settled in to keeping watch over her home.
In time, Julie would spawn. A lover would come, one mortal born, though she would not know him until he arrived at her stream. And they would mate. Then, as was the way, she would drag him into her lovely waters and he would sleep forever in her embrace. But the union would spawn the birth of her own children.
As Julie glided through the water, she became aware of a darkening shadow—just as Asheeda had mentioned. But the shadow was not grounded in the forest alone, but in the water around her.
Someone was trying to claim territory.
Only once before had another sprite tried to usurp her territory. Julie had fought the naiad to the death, her boiling whitecaps battering the upstart down, till the naiad’s life force had drained away.
Territory was all…territory was to be guarded. It was the way of her kind, and the way of the water.
Slowly rising from the stream, Julie paused before she came to the pond. The unnamed pool was fed by several sources—small creeks feeding from out of the mountains. The constant influx kept the pond from becoming stagnant, and while the algae still bloomed here, and mosquitoes thrived, it wasn’t a dank pool. More than one hiker—some human from the nearby city—had ventured here to swim and play in the water.
As she closed her eyes, searching for the source of the shadow, Julie became aware of the sensations around her.
There was hunger, of course—all creatures in the forest hungered for berries or insects or flesh. But that was belly hunger. And both fear and joy abounded. The fear of being on the wrong end of the chase, the joy of gamboling through the woods for sheer pleasure. But as she went deeper, Julie began to sense something deeper, something darker.
A swell of malevolence washed over her, the desire to rend and rip, to devour and destroy. This hunger was no natural hunger, no need to fill the belly. No this hunger was vicious and cruel, and cunning in nature. A moment later, and Julie knew exactly what had come into their forest.
“Can you feel it?” A blur, and then Asheeda knelt beside the stream, propping her arm on a rock.
“Yes, and you’re right. I know what it is.” Julie looked at her. “We have a kelpie in the forest.”
Dangerous and unpredictable, kelpies were predators, feeding on both life-force and flesh, especially of mortals. They would, however, turn on other Fae, and they were considered scavengers, dangerous and unwelcome visitors.
“As I thought, but I wanted to be certain. What do we do? Should we chase her out?” Asheeda shivered. “She’s watching us now, don’t you think?”
“Oh, she can sense us even as we sense her. Trust in that.” Julie moved closer to the bank, lowering her voice. “We can’t chase her out, Asheeda. Think: if she goes elsewhere, she will still feed and maim and destroy. And while the balance is all well and good, I don’t want to be responsible for loosing her devastation in another area of the forest. She will take children as well as adults. No creature—be they human or animal or Fae—is safe from her dangers.”
Asheeda frowned, pulling up a blade of grass and sliding it through her teeth. “You’re right. But
what do we do? Kelpies are strong, and as you said—vicious. Can we hope to defeat her?”
Julie ran her hands over the surface of the water. It clung to her, like static electricity, slowly pooling off her fingers. “There is one way, other than direct battle. This kelpie is female. If we can get her comb from her, we can destroy her.”
“Of course. If she were a male, we’d have to search for the bridle.”
Kelpies were shifters—the males would shift into stalwart stallions, irresistible to both women and children. Once their chosen victim mounted the horse to ride it, they would be stuck in the saddle, and the kelpie would charge into the water, taking them into the depths.
The females shifted into beautiful women, the most nurturing of nannies to children, and the most seductive of sirens to men. Their prey would willingly follow them to the water’s edge and the kelpie would entangle them in their hair and yank their victims deep beneath the water. Male or female, the result was the same: The victim would drown, the kelpie devouring their fear and life force, and then their flesh.
“This one is female.” Julie shook her head, a spray of droplets flying from her tresses, glimmering like prisms under the sun. “So, if we can find her comb and destroy it, we kill her.”
They laid out their plans. They plotted as they watched the pond, hoping to find out where the kelpie was hiding herself. Oh, she was there, Julie and Asheeda could feel her presence, but she was cunning and she wasn’t welcome in the forest, so she kept herself hidden.
But there was one thing no kelpie could resist—the lure of human flesh. The trouble was…where to find a man who would volunteer? There was no way the water sprite and the dryad were willing to risk a child’s life.
Mist and Shadows: Short Tales From Dark Haunts Page 6