The Dryad's Kiss

by Scott VanKirk

  My dad wrenched opened the passenger door. “Sure, no problem.”

  Thank you, oh defender of bruised bottoms wherever you are. My anticipatory aches felt better already.

  Uncle Mark just chimed in, “Just make sure to wear protection, Ricky.”

  At everybody’s blank stare, he added, “You’re going to be in a place filled with semen… You know, it is the town of Seaman, after all.”

  My dad replied with a roll of his eyes. “God Mark, how long have you been saving that one for?”

  My uncle smiled unrepentantly and hopped into the old truck without a word.

  I nervously glanced at Ricky, to see if she was considering suing him for sexual harassment, but her lips curled a little as she got into the jeep and unlocked the door for me. We did a three-point turn around and followed the truck’s taillights off the property. The jeep’s suspension wasn’t all that much better than the truck’s, but it didn’t rattle and the seat was a hell of a lot more comfortable.

  Ricky stopped after we passed through the gate and I hopped out to close it. I was highly motivated to get to that gate and close it fast. Just being back out in the warm, dark night got me shaking again. I kept my head down in and didn't look around, similar to hiding under a sheet to keep the monsters away, and slammed the gate before running back to the car. I jumped in and slammed the door. Out of habit, I cringed, waiting to hear, “Don’t slam the damn door!” Only silence answered my faux pas. I glanced over at Ricky to find her staring at me. Unsettled by her focused regard, I turned away but couldn’t help peeking back furtively.

  Finally, she asked, “So, what did you really see back there?”

  I told her from beginning to end.

  She listened to me patiently watching my face for clues. “So, you were trying to save me when you knocked me over?”

  I gave silent thanks for the dark as my face blazed. “Uh, yeah. I guess so.”

  The amber light of the dashboard was enough to show me her smile. “I guess chivalry isn’t dead. So, do you normally see things like that?”

  The question and its implications about my sanity startled me. “No!”

  She put the car in gear and pulled out onto the highway.

  I found it easier to watch her when she wasn’t looking at me. By the light of the dashboard and the reflection from the headlights on the road, she appeared less boyish. Regular, strong features dominated her face, but when I searched, the signs of her femininity emerged. Softness around her eyes and fullness to her lips announced her feminine side. Other subtle clues that I could not name filled in the puzzle. Then, of course, the swell of her breasts under her cotton shirt was not so subtle. From my short time on top of her, I remembered they were nice and soft. Embarrassed, I dropped my gaze to my hands.

  Welcome to the mind of the teenage boy. If you observe carefully, you’ll detect a definite trend in my thoughts, and the way I interacted with women: complete fascination and utter confusion. Now, I won’t claim to speak for every teenage male in the country, but I have never received any clues that any intellectually inclined heterosexual teenage boy approached women much differently.

  I really didn't want to talk about my feelings on the matter so I tried to turn it around. “So, do you normally go around fainting in the woods?”

  She scowled. “No, and I didn’t faint.”

  “Uh-huh. So, do you normally go falling over and lying limbs akimbo on the ground in the woods?” I said with a shit-eating grin.

  She grimaced and lowered her brows. “It’s not too late to put you back in the back of that pickup.”

  Okay, so much for charming banter. I switched tone and tact. “What did you see?”

  Her lips compressed. “Pretty much what I said before. I didn’t see anything at first. I heard you screaming and looked up to see you running toward me. I headed to you to see if I could help, then I saw what looked like a black shadow following you. I called to you, but then, before I could move, you fell, rolled, scrambled back up, and tackled me.”

  “That’s me; I’m a paragon of grace when I’m running in the dark and then blinded by someone’s flashlight.”

  “Oops, sorry about that. After you took me down…” She shuddered before continuing, “Like I said before, I felt this wave of icy cold, like someone had thrown a bucket full of ice water through me. At the same time, I got so scared that I couldn’t move. It was like I was a puppet and someone cut my strings. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe…” Her breath sped up as she recalled what she felt. “It was… it was… it sucked. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

  “I have. I know exactly what that’s like.”

  She turned and stared at me a few seconds, forgetting to watch the road while driving. “Ummmm...” I jerked my head meaningfully at the road, which turned in front of us.

  She returned her attention to the road. The car took a sharp jerk as she caught up with the turn. “This has happened to you before?”

  “Uh, well, not exactly. I, uh, used to have these night terrors where I’d wake up screaming and hysterical. Sometimes they felt like what you described.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I started having them when I was around ten. They started slow, but continued to get worse for about a year.”

  “Wow, I can’t imagine being ten years old and feeling that.” Another shudder racked her shoulders.

  “They were pretty awful.”

  We rode in silence for a couple minutes before she asked, “Do you know what caused them or why they stopped?”

  “No.” I shook my head, though she couldn’t see the motion. “I don’t know why they started. My dad helped me stop them.”

  “How did he do that?”

  I shifted in my seat. “Um, well, he taught me how to protect myself from the terrors.”

  “Really? That’s cool. Where did he learn how to do that?”

  I paused in thought. No one had ever thought to ask that question, not even me. “I don’t know, although he did call it a shamanic technique.”

  “So, if he is into spiritualism and stuff like that, why didn’t you stick to your story back there?”

  “Well, the stuff my dad taught me does sound pretty far-out, but as he explained it, all the night terrors came from within my mind and the shamanistic techniques he taught were just tools to help my subconscious deal with them. He talked about how our minds work on a symbolic level and made it clear that none of what we did was actually magical or spiritual, just psychological.

  “My dad is the ultimate skeptic when it comes to the supernatural, and I’m afraid of losing his respect. On top of that, I’m always a bit leery about being labeled as “crazy”. When I was having night terrors, we went to see a doctor, who wanted to give me drugs and admit me to a hospital for observation. The thought of being taken away from my parents terrified me, and I’m still a bit skittish about the whole “crazy” thing. When she spoke, her voice was soft, sympathy apparent on every word. “I guess that’s why I went along with your lead, too. Mark’s my boss’s boss, and I don’t need him thinking I’m unhinged.”

  We finished the trip in silence, watching the dark woods pass by on either side. I fancied that we both wondered what other terrors lurked in those woods. Of the two things clamoring for attention in my mind, the events in the woods, and my relation with Ricky, she was the more important. I spent that time wondering why I had told her about my dreams. I decided that since I was already sharing one secret with her, another wouldn't hurt. On top of that, I wanted her to know me better, just as I wanted to know more about her, about the person under that strong defensive mask. Our experience had connected us, and I wanted to strengthen that connection.

  After we drove into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn and parked, we took a second to exchange glances, and I gave her an uncertain half grin.

  “Weird night, huh?”

  She bobbed her head in complete agreement. “Yep, weird night.”

  We g
ot out and went into the office. My dad had already checked me in, so I picked up my key and we headed to our rooms. I wanted to say something, but didn't want to sound juvenile or dumb so I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the worn cheap carpeting in the hallway. I stopped at the door to my room. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Unless I’m lucky and come down with pneumonia.” She headed on down the hall.

  I laughed at that, harder than necessary, and searched for my key card, reflecting on how beautiful Ricky became when she smiled. Deep dark brown hair with hints of red framed her face.

  When I finally got the card into the slot correctly and entered the sparely furnished room, I spied my dad in one of the hotel chairs, reading a book on the Adena culture.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi Finn. Enjoy the ride back?”

  “Much easier on my poor bottom, that’s for sure.”

  “Good.”

  I threw myself on the second bed, rolled onto the huge pillows, and looked up at the ceiling with my arms behind my head. His eyes were still on me.

  “Finn, is there anything you want to tell me about what happened this evening?”

  Wrinkles of concern pinched his forehead, and I considered it. He wasn’t pressuring me and forcing me to lie if I didn’t want to tell him. I have a seriously cool dad.

  “I don’t know what I saw, Dad, but it scared me half to death.”

  “You both looked kind of shaken up.”

  That was one way to put it. I just nodded. I didn’t offer anything more, and he didn’t push me.

  “You hungry?”

  I had completely forgotten about dinner. I wanted nothing more than to lie down in a well-lit room and brood, and that doesn’t happen to me. But, once he mentioned food, my thought choo-choo jumped to its more well-worn tracks. We found the local guide provided by the hotel and ordered a pie from Snappy Tomato Pizza down the road.

  I mulled the name over a bit. I have a thing about restaurant names ever since I saw a southern chain called “Kettle”. Should there be a “The” in front of that name? How is that any different from “Kettle”? Somehow, Snappy Tomato Pizza didn’t bother me as much as “Kettle”. “We ordered from Kettle,” just sounds wrong.

  Anyway, so-so name, good pizza.

  We met Ricky and Mark down in the Inn's dining area inside the main entrance and ate together. Uncle Mark, as entertaining as always, told us about Dan and Poughkeepsie and had us all laughing. Again, Ricky’s face lit up when she laughed. Whenever she did, I tried to think of ways to make her do it again.

  The image of her laughing helped me to sleep that night, but it didn't follow me into my dreams. Instead, a commanding two tone trilling melody reminiscent of panpipes beat upon my mind and drew me forward through other dreams toward an unknown destination. A black shadow rose from the ground front of me and loomed over me. Its malevolent red eyes filled my world, and heat radiated from its dark form. I could feel the hunger of the bear, which filled in the shadow. It was compelling and urgent. It wanted me, but I could not flee. It wanted... It wanted me but, not as food. It needed me with a desperate urgency I couldn't understand.

  The bear's song tried to beat its desire into me, to command me until its intensity became painful. Not knowing what else to do, I reached out my hand out and took the bear. I pulled a small stone carving back in my hand. It was crafted in the shape of a bear standing on a curving branch. It was a whistle. I walked away, put the whistle to my lips, and played the song, staring into the black eyes of the bear sitting an inch in front of my mouth.

  By The Light of Day

  The next morning, my dad got me out of bed at six o’clock. Thankfully, it wasn’t five, which was when we often got up on our trips. As I might have mentioned, I’m not a morning guy. I stumbled around, getting ready, and tried to get out of the shower in less than ten minutes, but kept zoning out as the hot water pounded on my head and back. When I finally emerged, my dad had already gone down to breakfast, so I yanked on my digging clothes and headed down.

  I joined Dad and Ricky for breakfast. Uncle Mark came in a few minutes later. He never ate breakfast—claimed it slowed him down. The rest of us wolfed down our bagels and cream cheese, after which we headed out to the cars.

  Without even discussing it, we all headed toward the jeep, gravel crunching under our boots.

  When we arrived, Uncle Mark said, “Hey, Ricky, give me the keys. I’ll drive.”

  She eyed him wearing a troubled frown. “Uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Samson, but I’m the only one allowed to drive the car.” He clearly didn’t expect this and crossed his arms over his chest in annoyance. “Don’t worry about it, Ricky. Just give me the keys.”

  “Mr. Samson, it’s my name on the rental agreement and my insurance is on the line.”

  As he backed down, he tried to dam his irritation, but it sprung a few leaks. “Okay, you drive.” Lips twitching, he went around to the passenger side and waited for Ricky to beep the locks.

  My dad and I piled in the back, and we headed off to the site, leaving the rattletrap truck behind.

  We passed through the flat farmland with its intermittent woods in the cool of early morning. We arrived at the farm without incident. The daylight banished the mystery and menace and left behind a mundane hill. I hopped out into the cool, but warming, morning air, opened the gate, and looked around. It looked like standard Ohio farmland with rows of corn a foot high stretching off for several acres. The beautiful day, full of sunlight and birdsong, made the entire trip last night seem distant and unreal—a misfiring of imagination. I hopped back in the jeep after closing the gate behind it, and we headed down the track to the woods several hundred feet away.

  I almost convinced myself that last night could be chalked up to nerves, but as we got out of the jeep, grabbed our tools, and tromped over the broken ground in front of the mound, I started feeling uneasy again. A sort of itchiness spread in my brain that grew stronger as I got closer. I glanced at the others to see if they felt it, but they seemed at ease.

  “I’d be willing to bet this churned up area leading to the mound will be good hunting,” observed Uncle Mark. “Let’s get to work.”

  Everyone split up and started looking for artifacts, sometimes digging or breaking dirt with small handpicks that resembled hooks or shovels.

  Instead of hunkering down in the clearing, I made my way to the burial mound.

  “Where are you off to, Finn?” Dad asked.

  I chinned my direction toward the grass and tree covered hill. “I’m going back to the mound.”

  Uncle Mark looked up from his search and grinned at me. “Sniffing something out?”

  “Yes, I guess so.” I walked off.

  Of the three of us, I usually found about half of the artifacts we took home. Uncle Mark jokingly called me his Arrow Hound. Sometimes, I’d just get a strange sense and think to myself, there is something cool here. When I got that feeling, more often than not, I found an object of some sort. I kept my eyes open as I headed into the woods and to the burial site.

  These simple mounds always posed a bit of an enigma for me. When I considered the people who built these sacred sites hundreds or thousands of years ago and the amount of work that went into making them and the mystery surrounding them, I expected them to be somehow something more than a hill. I thought I would feel something mystical when I walked on them. Yet I usually felt little, if anything resonating with me. I always came away disappointed at my disappointment. It seemed disrespectful not to be struck with wonder.

  This time the memory of the previous night clung to me as I climbed the hill. The weight of ages pressed upon this sacred site and told me that I didn’t belong here. This place existed for the dead, and they didn’t want to be disturbed by the living. This strange and disconcerting feeling was oddly satisfying. Just because I didn’t believe in magic or the occult, didn’t mean I didn’t yearn to experience it.

  I made my way to the downed tree and squatted at its base, looking
into the tangled roots sticking out of the ground. After seeing the shade, wight, man, or whatever, grab the polished item, I half expected to see nothing but broken roots. When I saw it, I kicked myself for my flight of fancy. An object glinted amidst the roots. I checked for creepy crawlies around the craggly roots before I tentatively reached in and touched the exposed part of the artifact. Pragmatism aside, I crouched down, ready to jump back and run for my life if something sprang out at me, but nothing happened. The object was the color of dried blood, but it was smooth and had a weight to it that had nothing to do with mass.

  When nothing continued to happen after a few tense seconds, I finally reached in and extracted the stone-like item. The roots didn’t want to give it up, and I didn’t want to pull too hard for fear of breaking it, so I carefully moved and cut the roots and dirt away. Gradually, I uncovered what looked like an effigy pipe. Carved of red pipestone in the form of a bear on a short wide branch, it resembled most eastern effigy pipes. Effigy pipes, carved in the shape of totems of power, had been used to smoke sacred tobacco in the rituals of ancient shamans and were found throughout the eastern U.S., maybe other places as well. A chill spread gooseflesh on my arms as I held the item. I knew this carving before I ever saw it; I clutched the bear from last night. Its simple clean lines contained all the power of the giant bear that had chased me and then haunted my dreams.

  The melody I had heard started in my mind again. An urge to play it bubbled up from nowhere. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the urge. That wasn’t going to happen, regardless of how silly my fear might be. Still, the pipe felt warm, almost alive, in my hand. It mesmerized me as it had in my dream.

  While I examined and cleaned the dirt off the bear, someone approached from behind me. The urge to hide the bear became moot when Uncle Mark said, “Hey, Finn, what’d you find?”

  Trying not to reveal my reluctance, I showed the figurine to him. “I found this in the roots of this tree.”

  “Really?” Excitement arched his brow as he closed the remaining distance and crouched down next to me. “Let me see!” Since I didn't have a logical reason not to, I handed the pipe over to Uncle Mark on my open palm and ignored my misgivings. He lifted it from my hands and turned it around, studying every crevice and line. “This is amazing, Finn! Simply stunning. Let’s show it to your dad!”