The Dryad's Kiss

by Scott VanKirk

Her words sent a shock through me and burned off the tiredness in an instant. I sat up. “What? What happened? Why is she in the hospital?”

  “I'm not sure, honey, but apparently she’s sick. She’s having some sort of trouble, and Allen called and said that her doctor wanted to see you.”

  Guilt and dread made me panic. “Why do they want to see me?”

  “I think they want to ask you some questions about what happened to her. Honey, they really need to understand what happened.”

  “Mom, I swear I don’t know!”

  “I know dear, but you need to tell them everything you remember.”

  She left the room saying, “Get dressed, and I’ll get you some breakfast before we go.”

  As soon as she headed out the door, I fell back on the mattress. My legs ached like I had been running a marathon, and I almost fell back asleep, but caught myself, pulled on my clothes, and trudged downstairs.

  Despite all my struggles to stay awake, I fell asleep in the car on the way to the hospital. Mom nudged me awake, and I saw that she had parked. We got out of the car and went inside, passing through the sterile sliding doors. I tried to stifle a shudder as we walked into the pleasant, clean, and bright front reception area. I hated hospitals. The pain and suffering going on around me seeped into my skin.

  Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t pay much attention to where we walked. The arched doors proclaiming the John Walkin’s Memorial Mental Health Center focused me with a jolt and a chill.

  Mental hospitals worried me. “Mom, why are we going to the mental wing?”

  “This is where they took Jennifer.”

  My stomach flopped and stretched. “Why? She’s not crazy or anything… is she?”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case,” she agreed as we walked down the brightly lit hallway on tan carpeting that absorbed all noise.

  We came to a waiting area, and my mom talked to the receptionist at the front as I looked around the cozy room. It had a television playing in the corner. Only one other person sat in the room—a white-haired old lady. Mom came back and said, “The doctor will be out in a minute.”

  We sat down to wait. Some sort of Spanish soap opera blared from the television. Unfortunately, the old lady seemed to be hanging on every word, so I couldn’t change the channel.

  Patience is definitely not my virtue. I pulled out my phone for some entertainment. Apparently it was not entertaining enough, because the next thing I knew, I awoke when the chair next to me shook as my mom got up. A blond-haired, blue-eyed, middle-aged doctor came out of the double doors at the back of the room, which I assumed led further into the crazy wing.

  The doctor smiled at my mom as he closed the distance between us. He was handsome with a kind face. Just the sort of face I supposed you’d want around crazy patients. I immediately disliked him.

  “Hi, I’m Doctor Anderson,” he said genially to my mom. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Morgenstern.” He turned to me with another smile, offered his hand, and said, “And you, young man, must be Finn Morgenstern.”

  “Uh, yes sir.” I must be.

  I took his hand and immediately found myself in a dominance fight. I squeezed back, but I was put in my place well before he released my crippled hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said as I wiggled my fingers at my side to make sure they still worked.

  “Can you come back with me for a little while, Finn?” He spoke as if my opinion actually counted. “I’d really like to get your take on what happened between young Jennifer and you.”

  He had intensity in his cold blue eyes that made me feel like a paramecium under a microscope—he could see right through me. “Uh, sure.”

  I looked at Mom for support, and hoped she’d come with us. He squashed that hope like he had squashed my hand. “If you’d like to take a seat here and make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Morgenstern, we shouldn’t be too long.”

  I turned uneasily to her, but she just gave me an encouraging smile.

  “I’ll be right here, Finn. Please help Dr. Anderson in any way you can.”

  Said doctor put his hand behind my shoulders and, with a gentle pressure that let me know that resistance was futile, guided me through the large double doors, which swung open at our approach. Dr. Anderson eased me down another well-lighted hallway. We passed several closed doors until we arrived at one with his name beside it.

  His office was larger than I had expected and had the cliché reclining couch with a leather chair by its head. Calming pictures of landscapes and lots of bookshelves lined the walls. On the far side of the office, a couple of leather chairs sat in front of a large wooden desk with a few of framed diplomas and other miscellaneous plaques behind it.

  To my relief, we didn’t head for the recliner; instead, he guided me over to an expensive and comfortable leather chair in front of his desk. Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition came to mind. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” and “Put him in the comfy chair!” In fact, I almost said it aloud—“No! Not the comfy chair!” Nervousness made me punchy.

  He sat in the chair next to me and settled in to face me. I noted that his chair had arms while mine didn't. One of his hands rested on a little yellow notebook in his lap, and the other on the arm of the chair, fiddling with a pencil.

  He stared at me while I tried to figure out what to do with my arms. I wanted to cross them over my chest, but didn’t want to come across as belligerent and suspicious. Hanging them at my sides seemed weird so I put them together in my lap.

  At that point, a half-remembered scene from the old British cult television series, The Prisoner, leapt into my mind. The Prisoner sat in a chair facing this mysterious, freaky panel of captors with his hands in his lap like mine. One of his tormenters observed to the others something like, “Ah, look how the man sits with his hands clasped over his penis to symbolically protect himself in reaction to the fear within him.”—or something like that. After that, well, he moved his hands.

  I don’t know why, but that scene stuck in my mind, and I had always wondered what I would do in that situation. At one point, I had decided that, if it happened to me, I would sit with my hands defiantly in my lap. As soon as I thought about that scene, I moved my hands, put one on each leg, and glanced up at the doctor.

  He had been waiting, watching me intently the whole time, and then he waited some more. Ice ages passed before he said, “Finn, can you tell me what happened the day of the Incident with Jennifer Washington?”

  I swear I heard the capitalization.

  I bit my lip in nervousness. “Wait, can you tell me why we’re here in the mental ward? What happened to Jen? Is she okay?”

  His blue eyes narrowed at me. “We do not refer to this wing as a mental ward. Such labels are prejudicial and can be destructive. Please call it the mental health or psychiatric wing.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, too nervous and afraid to have any other response. “So, is Jen here? What happened to her?”

  The good doctor sighed. “I have been given permission to tell you only that we believe young Jennifer is experiencing an episode of acute primary psychosis.”

  Wait, is insanity contagious? The nervous thought did little to help my situation. “What does that mean?”

  “Labels are dangerous, but you’re probably more familiar with the term ‘psychotic break’.”

  That hit me like a lead-filled cosh. “Jen? No way. She’s as sane and stable as they come!” He studied me again with those clear, penetrating blue eyes, making me want to squirm. “Well, these things can be triggered without any visible symptoms leading up to the episode. We’re trying to determine that trigger. It’s usually some sort of traumatic event or, more often these days, misuse of psychotropic drugs.” His eyes narrowed further when he said the last words, searching for some response that might give away what had happened.

  Shit! I thought with a growing sense of panic. He thinks I’m doing drugs with her! I’m doomed. He’ll never believe me if I say we
didn’t use any drugs. Regardless, I blurted, “She’s not doing any drugs. She’s too smart for that. There is no way she’d do that!” By the time I finished, I was yelling and leaning forward in my chair.

  Without a change of expression, the doctor said in an even tone, “Please calm down, Mr. Morgenstern. I’m sure you’re right, and I’m not accusing you of anything. However, we need to understand what triggered this episode. It would be most helpful if you could tell us what happened while the two of you were alone in your room.”

  His gaze made me nervous. I could almost feel it probing into my mind. “Nothing! I swear! You’ve got to believe me.” I knew he never would.

  “Okay, okay. I’m not saying I don’t believe you.” His placating manner came off as condescending. “But, please tell me everything you remember. Any little detail could be important.”

  I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself, and looked down at my hands to get away from his constant judging stare. Then, defiantly, I put both of my hands back together in my lap (go, Team Finn!). “Okay. She asked to come over to talk to me about my game.”

  “This is Dungeons and Dragons, correct?”

  If he knew what he was saying, I would have been offended. In my opinion, D&D was for kids. I didn’t expect anything more from him, though, and tried to focus on the issue at hand.

  “Uh, kind of,” I replied. “It’s a different game, but similar concept. She plays in my world along with her brother and several of my other friends.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  I licked my lips, tried to ignore his gaze, and said, “She came over early that morning and got me out of bed. She came up to my room, and we talked a little bit about the stuff in my room—clothes, books, the like. After that, she walked over to my collection of crystals and picked up my drea—my mom’s amethyst.”

  I paused under his judging, baleful stare and only continued when he made an encouraging hand gesture. “I’m a bit uneasy letting anyone else handle it, so I went to take it from her. When I grabbed it, I started feeling dizzy, and then I heard the window behind me break. I turned around to see the window, and then she screamed and ran out of the room.” I risked a look into his steady gaze and said in a panic, “That’s it! I swear that’s what happened.” As I’d spoken, he tapped the eraser of the pencil in his hand against his mouth while continuing the Stare.

  Who can stare at someone like that for so long?

  “You started to call this crystal something else, what was that?”

  “Uh, well, I just call it my dreamstone.”

  He pounced. “What is this 'dreamstone'? Some sort of hallucinogen?”

  “No!” I snapped. “It’s just an amethyst crystal left to me by my mom.”

  “So why do you call it a dreamstone?”

  “Uh, well, I worked it into my game and gave it special powers in my game world to see the past and future. Since then, I’ve called it the dreamstone.”

  He said, “I see,” in a way that made me know he didn’t. “So, why did you think you shouldn’t tell me what you called it?”

  “Uh, er, I don’t know.”

  “When you took the dreamstone, did you strike her?”

  “No!” That shocked me into meeting his gaze again.

  “But, you were angry?”

  “No! I just didn’t want her to drop it. It belonged to my mom, and it’s the only thing I have of hers.”

  I thought shrinks were supposed to write everything down on their little notepads, but Dr. Anderson merely continued to stare at me, leaving his notepad untouched in his lap. Under that gaze, I felt small and vulnerable, and wanted to fidget even more.

  “I see,” he said again, tapping his pencil against pursed lips. Finally, he glanced down at the pad on his lap, and the baleful Stare of Doom released me. Too soon, he soon focused the Stare back on me. Frodo couldn’t have been more terrified when Sauron’s gaze swept over him.

  “Do you and your friends do any recreational drugs while enacting your fantasy?”

  “No! We don’t do any of that!”

  “Well, Mr. Morgenstern, I have reports here about your behavior over the last several weeks that models addiction very closely. You’ve been showing signs of euphoria, withdrawal, and aggression. Your behavior has been erratic, and you have lashed out at your teachers with open hostility and been in fights at school and in town. Your health has been suffering, and you haven’t been doing well in class. Were you perhaps looking for a more real experience for your fantasy world?”

  “Uh, no!” I protested, even though it would do no good.

  It wasn’t just that I knew he could throw me in the Cuckoo Nest; it chilled me to my core to have my thoughts about addiction thrown back at me by this stranger. That cold, malevolent gaze pierced me, saw my guilt.

  “Look, I can explain all that! Miss Kramer always had it in for me! She made me fail a calculus assignment…” I petered off under the pressure of his gaze; he added paranoia to my list of ills. I tried again, “Look, my life has just had a lot of ups and downs lately.” In a flash of brilliance I added, “I met a girl, and she has rocked my world. She’s been keeping me off-balance, that’s all.”

  “I see. Is this girl by chance Miss Washington?” he asked.

  Okay, maybe not so brilliant.

  “No. No,” I insisted, trying for sincerity, which he probably wouldn’t buy. “Jen is my best friend’s little sister. She’s just a kid. It’s another girl.”

  “Does this girl have a name?”

  “Uh… I’d rather not say.”

  His delicate eyebrows arched. “Why not?”

  I cast about for an answer and gave the best I could come up with. “Uh, well my parents wouldn’t approve of her.” The understatement of the year, but it had the advantage of being true.

  “Is that because she’s older than you? Perhaps more worldly?”

  Great, I thought, he’s heading back to the drugs.

  “Uh. No. But she’s…she’s got a tattoo!” Sheesh, did I actually say that?

  “A tattoo?” he said without changing his stare.

  Didn’t this guy ever blink?

  “Uh, yeah, and some piercings. My parents don’t approve of piercings.” Another finalist in the lamest excuse of the year contest. Inspiration struck me, “And we broke up.” Pushed by his unrelenting gaze, I almost added, “Because she did drugs,” but I made my saving throw and shut up.

  Disbelief beamed across to me in his stare. “So, you’re saying that your relationship with this girl caused all of your behavioral issues?”

  “Yes. I mean, no! Not everything. The fight at school started when I tried to defend Jen against some bullies.”

  Now he chose to write something in his book. I don’t know which was worse, the writing or the stare. After a couple of minutes of writing, the Gaze of Sauron’s little brother again swept onto me.

  “Do the words Illyria or El-Say-ya mean anything to you?”

  This came from so far left field he was transporting thoughts across a state line. I gaped at him. I just couldn’t catch my balance with this guy.

  “Uh, yeah, those are from my game. Seru is the name of the world, Illyria is a city-state there, and Il Saia is the high priestess of the Illyrians. Why?”

  “She mentions those words a lot. She sometimes seems to think she’s this El-Say-ya. Tell me, what does this high priestess worship? Is it the devil?”

  Again, he caught me blindsided. “No! She’s a priestess of life, the leader of her people. She protects them and keeps them safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “Well…” I shrugged. “Everything.”

  “Tell me, are there trees in your fantasy game that attack people?”

  “Maybe. I guess in the black forests there might be.”

  “Might be? I thought you designed this world?”

  “I do, but I haven’t disco—er, defined every little part of it yet.”

  “You were going to say, 'discovered'.
Does this world exist on its own, separate from you?”

  Gaaah! “No, it’s just imaginary!”

  “I see. So, has she ever interacted with evil trees in your game?”

  “No. Why?”

  He tapped his pencil against his mouth a few more times. “Jennifer keeps talking about the end of the world and evil trees. She says we’re in danger from the shadows living inside of the trees, who are going to exact horrible vengeance against humanity.” He must have caught something in my face, because he stopped. “Is this out of your Dungeons and Dragons fantasy?”

  That ruffled my feathers a bit, but again, I didn’t bother to correct him. “Well, in my world, a plague of shadow creatures has been released, but they don’t have anything to do with trees. They’re like demons, released from the shadow realm by Illyria’s enemies, threatening the world, but she wouldn’t know about that. I haven’t finished designing that campaign, and I’ve never told anyone about it.”

  “Hmm,” he said, tapping again. “Could she have seen any of your notes?”

  “I doubt it, but I suppose it’s possible.”

  He continued staring me into near hysteria, asking me questions for another fifteen minutes or so. He kept probing for more details, but nothing new surfaced. Finally, he leaned back with the pencil hand back on the arm of the chair.

  “Okay, I think we’ve covered everything. Thank you for your time, Mr. Morgenstern.”

  “That’s it?” I had been bracing myself for handcuffs, a straitjacket, or worse. I had convinced myself that he had trained in the Mengele School of Psychiatry, and I had a hard time believing it was over, that I would leave with all my organs intact.

  “Yes. Shall we go back and see your mom?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  We walked back out to the waiting room. I had never been so glad to see my mom’s kind smile.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite over. Dr. Mengele asked Mom if they could talk privately for a moment. My anxiety spiked again, and became worse as I sat in the uncomfortable chair for a ten-minute eternity before Mom came out alone with her lips tightened and her jaw set in a sober expression.

  We drove in silence all the way home. The doctor’s little private talk with her made me nervous, but I felt almost giddy with relief to be away from that devil stare. The silence suited me just fine. Once home, in the kitchen, and sitting at the table, she turned to me with a sad, compassionate face. Uh oh.