The Dryad's Kiss

by Scott VanKirk

  I was too late. With a final mighty heave, Wendigota snapped Cougar’s back, and Cougar died, taking Gregg’s soul with him as he left. Enraged, I ran harder as Wendigota threw Gregg’s broken body into Rattlesnake, carrying Alan’s long, mighty form back several yards.

  Through his mangled, but healing ears, Wendigota did not hear me approach from the side, so he turned to face Jeff. Jeff’s plea to the spirits kept Wendigota from feeding on the souls of his enemies and was the only thing that made victory possible.

  Wendigota roared and flung himself toward the shaman, but Jeff never once faltered or quailed at his approaching doom. Incensed with hatred and need, I made a prodigious leap to Wendigota’s side and took him down. My momentum carried me forward and over. In the time it took me to stop and turn, Wendigota sprang back up. I jumped on him again, and my claws ripped into his diseased, gray flesh. He collapsed beneath me, and I went for the killing bite, but didn’t see his massive fist rise before it slammed into the side of my head. The blow momentarily knocked the sense out of me. The world spun around me, and the sounds of battle took on a ringing, distant echo.

  When I shook it off, he had slipped out from under me. Panicked, I pushed back to my feet. He stood before me, and it became clear even his unnatural vitality had its limits. His flayed flesh no longer healed every wound and blood flowed over his body, but still not defeated, he roared a challenge. Movement sped behind him as I reared and returned his challenge.

  Rattlesnake appeared and lashed into Wendigota’s back. In the instant that Alan’s attack pulled Wendigota’s attention away, I landed a mighty blow to his head with my claws. The crackling of sinew and grinding of his vertebrae when his head ripped from his body filled me. His head flew through the night, landed, bounced, and rolled to a stop. The headless body shuffled toward it.

  Wendigota’s heart still kept the body alive. I easily knocked down the clumsy and stumbling horror, and with a mighty blow, I opened his chest and grabbed the monster’s black, beating heart. Its body fell to the earth, dead.

  When I looked back to the head, Jeff stood above it, unwavering in his purpose. Blackness pushed out from the skull, attempting to flee, but the spirit of Wendigota could not escape from Jeff’s will. He wove a net of his spirit around that head, and when he finished the net, the blackness could no longer escape the confines of the skull. The effort took all he had left, and Jeff fell dead next to the spiked and deformed head.

  The battle was over. The People had defeated Wendigota. We would no longer have to hide behind our barriers of wood. Our freedom was won, but the cost had been dear. I stood in that field, looking over the enormous twisted body of Wendigota and at Jeff’s figure lying next to it. His warnings before the battle returned to me.

  “The Great Spirit has shown me Wendigota’s black heart. It is the source of his power and the path to many secrets that should be left forgotten and undiscovered. Any warrior who holds this heart will become as powerful as Wendigota, but you must not allow this to happen. I cannot kill Wendigota's spirit, but I can bind it. Bury its heart with its body. The power of the heart is a beacon whose shine draws many dark spirits. In their lust for power, they will attempt to take the heart or to possess the body of the one who holds it. There are darker powers than Wendigota, who roam the world, and the heart cannot be allowed to fall into their hands.”

  As I contemplated the black, beating heart in my grasp, I fought a battle with myself. With the power it contained, I could protect my people from all harm. I would be the most powerful man ever seen. I could become a legend.

  With terrible effort, I dropped the beating heart to the ground, and its pulsing rhythm ceased to run through my veins. I stood over it, shaking. It must be buried.

  I could see how we would build the mound layer by layer according to Jeff’s instructions. Each section would hold more of the bones of the fallen—the victims of Wendigota. Finally, on top, facing the south and east, we would inter the remains of Dave the Eagle and Gregg the Cougar with ceremonies of respect and thanks. Their totems would be buried with them. When Alan the Rattlesnake died, he would be buried facing the west, and I, in turn, would be buried facing the terrible north. We would take our totems with us so our spirits could tap their power in death to keep away any who would disturb the prison of Wendigota.

  Though I was no seer, I foresaw this: in the end, the People would be without their spirit warriors to protect them; they would become vulnerable to invasion and would eventually be swept aside.

  If I took up the heart, I could prevent that from coming to pass and could keep my people safe. As I faced that terrible decision, a warm touch on my arm caused me to turn.

  I was back with my dryad, and my humiliating defeat in the woods overwhelmed my victory over Wendigota. Her compassionate green eyes filled my broken soul with warmth. All the loss combined within me, and I fell to my knees in the vital green forest where we stood.

  She knelt down with me, ran her hands over me, and sang a song of comfort and safety without words. The sounds of life surrounded me, and my pain faded. My panic drained with it, and I settled, warm and content in her arms. The shuddering of my breath calmed as she cradled my head to her breasts, and I listened to her ageless song. It echoed the pulses of the seasons and the cycle of growth and change and carried me along and soothed me. I snuggled into that safe warm place. Bear prowled behind us, sharing his strength and protection. His own song buoyed us up, and I finally released the last of my fear and humiliation. The warmth and the music carried me away.

  Unfortunately, it would be quite some time before I remembered these dreams.

  Hangover

  As I passed like a ghost through a quiet, wooded dream-world, my mother called my name. “Finn!”

  I didn't want to leave, but the urgency in her voice pulled me out from that warm and safe place. A twinge of pain lanced me as I stirred, and I tried to retreat. I didn’t want to be awake—to return to the pain. Here in my protective cradle nothing threatened or demanded anything from me, but the panic in my mother’s voice demanded my presence, so I crawled up to consciousness.

  My mom had spotted me in my tree.

  She cried up to me, “Oh my God! Finn! Are you all right?”

  I blinked and tried to focus, but weariness was loathe to release its paralyzing hold on me. Suddenly, everything came back to me. A jolt of adrenalin shot through me, and I sat up on my perch in a panic, almost falling out of the tree. Morning had arrived, saving me from another beating. As I recalled the attack, my hand flew to my face and found that touching it didn’t cause the sharp pain it had the night before. I could see out of both eyes and most of the agony of the night before was reduced to an echo rebounding through my body. Throughout this process of self-discovery, my mom kept calling to me. Apparently, my dad heard her, because he came out as well.

  His voice cut through the fog in my head. “Finn!”

  “I’m okay!” I looked down at their scared and confused faces and climbed to the ground.

  My mom grabbed me, held me close, and said, “Thank God you’re all right!”

  She pulled back and looked at me. “What happened, Finn?”

  “Whose blood is that?” asked my dad.

  I looked down at my shirt and took in the reddish brown bloodstains that lay on top of the grease stains from work. I brushed at them ineffectually with my brown, crusted hands. “Uh…mine, I guess.”

  “Yours?” gasped my mom. “What happened?”

  “Uh…” I thought about my long walk home and the pain and humiliation. “I slept in the tree.”

  My dad’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Finn, why were you bleeding? Did you get in a bike accident?”

  “Um… no. I was… I was… I got beat up… on my way home.”

  My mom gasped again. “By whom?”

  At the same time, my dad demanded, “Who did this?”

  I started thinking about the whole encounter, but focusing through my exhaustion took
everything I had.

  “Finn!” My dad insisted, “Who hit you?”

  “Uh, Erik. Erik and his friends.”

  “Come inside sweetie.” Mom took my hand and led me to the house.

  I allowed myself to be steered into the kitchen and sat down at the table. My mom ordered me to put my hands over my head, and she pulled off my bloodstained shirt, pealing it off tender pink skin in some places. She and my dad looked critically at the damage to my torso.

  “It doesn’t look too bad, but it looks like you might have some bruising,” noted my dad.

  Ya think?

  Mom asked, “Honey, where did all that blood come from?”

  I looked blearily at the bloody shirt in her hands and tried to think. I hazarded a guess. “Maybe from my face? It felt pretty sticky last night.”

  My mom squatted in front of me. “Finn, sweetheart, are you going to be okay? You seem really out of it.”

  I forced a reply. “Yeah, I’m just really tired.”

  Concern lined my parents’ faces at that.

  My dad said, “Son, did you get hit in the head?”

  I looked up at him and tried to focus. “Uh, yeah, with a bat.”

  “They hit you with a bat!” he shouted.

  When I nodded, my mom said, “That’s it, we're taking you to the hospital.”

  “No, Mom! I’m okay. I just need to sleep. I’m just really tired.”

  “Well, you can’t go to sleep yet. Not until you’ve seen a doctor.”

  “But I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “That’s precisely why we can’t let you sleep.”

  I had trouble following that logic. As I worked my way through it, my dad stepped up to me, answered my unasked question. “It's dangerous to fall asleep when you have a concussion.” He held out his hand to me. “Come on, Son, we’re taking you to the emergency room. Can you walk?”

  Though I truly didn’t want to go to the emergency room, I nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go then.” I grabbed his hand, and he helped me up.

  I resisted as he took my shoulders and tried to steer me toward the garage door. “Can I get something to eat first?”

  “You’re hungry?” asked my mom.

  “Yeah, I’m starving. Can you make me a fried baloney sandwich?”

  My mom conferred visually with my dad. He shrugged and shook his head, conceding the choice to her. Later, he explained that he didn’t know if someone with a concussion needed to be kept from eating or not. My wheedling finally convinced Mom to get me a sandwich, an apple, and a muffin. I started in on the muffin while they hustled me off to the car.

  Dad drove, and my mom sat in back with me. After I finished the muffin, I started in on the sandwich. It didn’t seem to dent the hunger, but some strength and clarity returned as I finished off the meager meal. After I had finished the food, nothing else seemed important enough to keep me awake, so my eyes kept dropping closed. Every time they did, Mom told me to wake up and poked me if I didn’t comply. By the time we arrived at the emergency room, the fog and fatigue had faded, leaving me more alert and awake, and my mom took the opportunity to start grilling me on what had happened.

  Reluctantly, I told her pretty much the whole story except for the part where the bat had splintered. Instead, I told her that it broke, and she let it slide without mentioning the bat again.

  Then she came to the hardest question. “Why didn’t you just come in and get us? Or better yet, stop at someone’s home and call us?”

  “I don’t know. I got beat up pretty bad, and I wasn’t thinking very well.”

  Neither she nor my dad liked that answer, but they had to accept it since I couldn’t come up with another.

  By the time the doctor came to see me, my brain was functioning again. He came in and asked what happened, listened to my answer, and then tested my reflexes by bopping my knees with the little triangular rubber hammer. My leg twitches I must have passed muster since he didn't linger. He shined his light in my eyes and asked me to follow his hand. After that, he had me get up and walk around the room.

  “Do you feel numb or dizzy?”

  I shook my head. “No, just tired and hungry.”

  Turned his attention to my parents, “He’s not showing any signs of serious concussion. His reactions are good, and his eyes are responding well. The really critical time after a head injury is the first few hours. If he doesn’t have any symptoms after that, then it is unlikely there is anything seriously wrong. If things start getting worse and he starts having troubles walking or seems to have coordination or speech problems, then you should bring him back in.”

  He examined my face by moving my head back and forth. “He doesn’t look hurt too badly, but he has some pretty good bruising. Some of that bruising looks pretty old; did something happen a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Uh, yeah. Erik gave me a black eye in school.”

  He eyed me and said, “You need to think about avoiding this Erik kid and fights in general. Too many knocks to the head can cause long-term brain damage.”

  Perfectly straight lines like that are rare and precious, but I withheld my snarky reply, mostly because I couldn’t think of one.

  “He’ll probably have a shiner around his other eye, but I don’t see any permanent damage.” After stuffing his hands in his lab coat pockets, he turned to me again. “I take it you got away from those boys pretty quickly?”

  “No, sir. They held me down and kicked me and beat on me for a long time.”

  The doc's bushy eyebrows rose at that. “Well, you’re extremely lucky, then. I’ve seen people get really hurt in scuffles like that.” He looked to my parents again. “Do you have any other questions I can answer?”

  I yawned at that point and asked the only question on my mind. “I’m really tired; can I get some sleep?”

  “Yup, since you already fell asleep and then woke up showing no adverse symptoms, sleep is probably just what you need. It takes a lot of energy to heal your body.”

  I couldn’t imagine hearing anything more marvelous, so while waiting for my dad to take care of the final paperwork, I crashed in the car. Sleep never felt so good.

  After we got home, I dragged myself out of the car, fixed myself another sandwich, and went to bed. I didn’t have to worry about going to school; Mom would never allow it. Unfortunately, I was too tired to enjoy the idea. Mom insisted I change into my PJ’s, and helped me clean the blood from my face and hair before I climbed into bed.

  Several hours later, I woke feeling vastly better, until I talked with my dad.

  After hearing how great I felt, he said, “Finn, get showered and put together. We’re heading down to the police station.”

  My heart sank. “Dad, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this. I’m feeling better. Can’t we just forget about it?”

  “Finn, this kid took a bat to you! Next time it might be a knife, or worse!”

  The logic of his argument made complete sense, so I tried to minimize what had happened.

  “Dad, he didn’t actually hit me in the head with a bat.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “Uh, no. Not really. I guess I misspoke earlier.”

  He eyed me owlishly behind his glasses. “Finn…that’s a pretty big detail to change your story about.”

  I nodded, ashamed. I had been thinking about retracting the whole bat story if it would get me out of going to the police station, where everyone could stare at the loser who got beat up, but I couldn’t stand the idea that my dad thought I had lied to him earlier.

  “Yeah, well, he was aiming for my head, but I got my arms up, and the bat hit my arms…” I showed him the position I took to block the blow and debated about saying anything more, but lost the debate, because I added without deciding to, “He broke the bat against my arms.”

  His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Finn, your arms don’t look like someone hit them with a bat.”

  “Uh, yeah well… the bat broke
on my arms.” One look into his skeptical eyes told me he found this idea hard to swallow. I know it still stuck in my craw, and I was there when it happened. “Maybe it was already cracked?” I added doubtfully.

  For a few terribly long seconds, he held my gaze. “Well, it was still a bat, Finn. Just because you got lucky doesn’t reduce how serious this is. Now, go take a shower and we’ll head over to the station. They’ll want a statement from you.”

  “Can I eat first?” Hunger threatened to overwhelm me again.

  “Sure. Just be quick about it.”

  I made myself three PBJs and crammed two of them down in record time. I planned to take the last one with me to the police station but ended up eating it on my way to the shower.

  When I got into the bathroom and took my clothes off, I got my first chance to thoroughly examine the damage. Several faded bruises on my torso and legs and around my right eye bore understated testament to last night’s fight. I put my fingers to my face below the once-bruised eye and found the tiniest tenderness, but flashed back to feeling it last night. It had been puffed closed, and my hand had come away bloody. I remember my ribs stabbing with pain every time I took a breath, but even taking deep breaths, I felt fine now.

  Either I had actually been hit on the head really hard, or something miraculous had happened over night. When I remembered how much the beating had hurt, my breathing became fast and shallow. In, out, in, out. No way would I ever believe that Erik had not given me a severe beating.

  I stood thinking until my dad knocked on the bathroom door. “Finn? You okay?”

  That broke my reverie. “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine, just getting dressed.” I finished dressing and went downstairs, bummed that I’d never actually taken that shower. Hot water would have kneaded out the knots on my back.

  By the time I came downstairs, Mom had come in from the back. She and my dad had been talking in the kitchen, and she turned at my greeting. Surprise showed in her eyes, and her small mouth circled in an O.

  “Finn! You look much better. I guess that shower did you good.”

  I smiled self-consciously with no idea what happened or what to tell my parents, so I made a stab at it. “I guess they didn’t hit me as hard as I thought.”