by Ian Neligh
“There you will have time to grow strong and maybe return someday, eh?”
Asmund had never thought about becoming an adult. His existence, even before he was alone, was in the moment at hand. That night he dreamt of a great tree with birds instead of leaves. When the wind blew, they fluttered their wings—but did not fly off into the red sky that whistled above. He wondered why they stayed. From deep within the trunk of the tree he could hear the crying of an infant.
Nine
Asmund woke to Holdenson jabbing him in the ribs with his boot. “Up, up. Time to get up; they’ve found our trail.”
Ignoring the crippling shackles of sleep, Asmund got to his feet, heart hammering in his chest.
“Let me get a look at you in the light,” Holdenson said, dragging the boy to the open door. He looked him up and down and examined his finger again, nodding. “You’ll do.”
Pulling on a pack and stringing his bow, he glanced again at Asmund, as if having second thoughts. Holdenson pointed at the iron sword sheathed again in Asmund’s bow quiver. “You won’t need that; it’ll only slow you.”
Asmund shook his head. “It’s all I have.”
Holdenson shrugged and went outside. Asmund hurried to follow. The morning wind blew in gusts around the two, picking up phantoms of frost, which danced around their feet. Holdenson shut the door to his cabin and began walking. He never looked back.
They traveled in silence through the forest, Asmund trying to match the old hunter’s pace.
The farther they got from the cabin, the better Holdenson’s mood became. They entered a great ravine in the shadow of the mountains and began the slow climb upward. Giant boulders littered the ground, and the two made their way around and over them. It was at the top of one of these boulders that Asmund noticed the hunter smirking.
Holdenson paused to catch his breath and looked over his shoulder. Asmund caught up and followed his gaze. After a heartbeat he could hear the barking of dogs.
“Do you feel it, boy?” Holdenson asked, surprising Asmund with the question.
Asmund hesitated and shook his head. The dogs were getting closer.
“It feels like our story is already being told,” Holdenson said with enthusiasm. “This is good.”
Holdenson then cuffed the side of Asmund’s head.
“This is good.”
He looked back to the mountain range, then back to Asmund.
“You will go north, until you reach the other side,” Holdenson said.
“What?” Asmund asked, feeling the roots of fear dig through him. Ashamed at the feeling in the presence of the big man, he tried to quell it. “What do you mean?”
The elk hunter took his arrows one at a time from his quiver and stuck them into a snowbank.
“They’ve got our trail. They’ll be here soon with bows and dogs and men with swords,” Holdenson said, resting low on his haunches. “I’ll slow them for you, but no more.”
Asmund tried to think of a way to change the man’s mind. Holdenson held out a hand, stopping him. His face relaxed and he stood up.
“I reach the mountain, what then?” Asmund asked.
Holdenson shook his head. “I don’t know, boy, you’ll learn as you go. Just as you have all along.”
The barking echoed off the mountains around them.
“Go on,” Holdenson said. “Make my part in your story a good one, boy—the part that makes the men cheer and the women swoon.”
Asmund wanted to plead with him, wanted to yell at Holdenson to come with him. But as the sun rose above them Asmund understood he would never change the man’s mind. He could only respect his choice.
Nodding once, Asmund ran toward the mountains through the trees as fast as he could. The old sword bounced against his back, urging him ever forward.
Holdenson watched as the boy disappeared. He then unslung his long-handled axe and a short sword and waited for the men as they came.
Ten
Asmund climbed the steep, snow-covered slope until he was exhausted and his breath tore at his lungs. He was alone again and running for his life. His days of living alone and hunting small game seemed like a lifetime ago. His time with the one-eyed hunter already fast becoming a part of his past. And he continued on.
Despite the harsh wind and his failing strength, Asmund moved ever upward. He was tired of running, tired of climbing, but he knew his enemies only grew faster and stronger the closer they came to him.
One labored step in front of the other, he plowed through the knee-deep snow. The mountain range was formidable for even a grown man, but to Asmund it seemed to grow higher into the sky with each step.
Slipping on some loose stones, he fell to one knee. Getting back to his feet and steadying himself, he heard a shrill whistling. He turned and saw an arrow as it clattered and bounced off a boulder to his right. Almost losing his balance, he saw the ragtag group of men and their red-bearded leader behind him. They were closing the distance.
Asmund turned back and looked to the snow-heavy ridge above him. He knew he would never make it before they got to him. Even if he did, what would stop them from following him, gaining the high ground, and putting arrows into his back? He stared at the ridge, thinking hard, trying to remember anything that might help. Asmund took several more labored steps to a large boulder and sat next to it.
He had reached the point where he knew he could run no further. He removed the iron sword and stuck it in the snow and willed his strength to return. He was tired of running, tired of these men and their dogs. The trackers ceased shooting arrows and began mocking him as they made their way up. He stilled his breath and closed his eyes, listening as they came ever closer.
Asmund looked at Sigurd’s sword. It was an ugly thing, dull and chipped—but with the day’s light reflected from its crude surface the sword seemed a fine weapon. He would use it in battle, and he would kill all of his enemy.
He waited, feeling the faint sun on his face, until he could hear their labored breathing. Asmund stood, pulling the sword free and facing the group of men. His legs trembled with the effort. Red Beard, in front of his men, looked like a wolf when their eyes met. Asmund felt no fear. He raised the unnamed sword above him, then swung it with all of his force into the boulder next to him.
The blow shot sparks into the snow, shook his body, hurt his arms, and filled the air with the ringing of the blade and stone. The men, close now, stopped, many looking confused, but not Red Beard—his face registered horror.
Asmund raised the sword again and struck another ringing blow. A loud cracking and thundering sound echoed above them. Asmund lifted the sword a third time, yelling, and swung at the stone. He was only dimly aware, in the world now filled with thunder, that the sword broke. The ugly weapon shattered into several pieces, which danced into the air about him.
The men turned and tried to run as Asmund crawled behind the boulder. The world turned a roaring white as the mountain fell upon his enemies. Men and dogs were shattered, buried, and washed away by an ocean of snow and rock, a lethal torrent, which did not touch him.
He looked up, eyes tearing in the cold, and saw a woman in armor holding a shield against the tides. He thought she was a Valkyrja, a shield maiden. A world of rocks, trees, and ice poured around them, and when it was done and only the din in his ears remained, Asmund found that he was alone.
Eleven
Making his way up and over the ridge and down the other side, he stopped to rest. Asmund let go of the broken sword still clenched in his hand and let it slip into the snow. It had grown so heavy. He sat and rested on a fallen tree and eyed the vast forests in front of him, unsure of where to go. On the side of a far-off, brooding mountain he saw the ruins of a great castle, lit by the yellow rays of the sinking sun.
A bear ambled across a field not far from where he sat. The creature was impossibly large. It stopped, as if trying to get a better look at him, its breath hanging in the air. Satisfied, it turned and wandered away. Asmund w
atched it go and then stood. He bent and picked up Sigurd’s old sword.
They brought the old man up from the gambling hall, bleeding and making a mess all over the damn place. The women became scared and started making a fuss, but John got ’em quiet and started giving directions. It was already late, and no cop or ambulance was going to make it in time to do nothing for him. Not that they would anyway. It was like John’s aunt said, “Sometimes you get the pay out, but sometimes it gets you.” But everybody knew she could start an argument in an empty house. A good-for-nothing drifter shot the old man in the belly and ran from the room before John could get after him. They took the old man in his faded suit, more gray than black, to an unused room on the second floor.
It was small, cramped, and the dying man’s legs hung over the end of the bed. There weren’t much they could do for him but pour him a glass of good bourbon, which he took with a grateful look. Everyone waited for him to die, and after a time, he did, but not before he told a story in a voice so quiet it could’ve hidden from a fox.
“I ain’t likely to move from this bed, but sure enough as a boy it’d never have held me. I could run twice as fast as quicksilver. There never seemed much to do where I grew up—but a boy who could run always found stuff to get into, or more is the case, out of.
“I remember when Harding was president and the summers seemed so long and hot. It was as if the sun was too big and tired, hanging there in the sky like it wanted to come to the ground and take a nap under a big pecan tree. It was like my friend Harlowe Brennan used to say, ‘Hotter than a billy goat’s ass in a pepper field.’
“Harlowe wasn’t the smartest of our gang, but he sure could put up a fight. And it’s true that if you gonna be stupid, you gotta be tough—and that boy sure was both. It was during the last summer of my boyhood that the tobacco fields drooped, the creeks shrunk up small like veins, and we got into our most trouble.
“We did a little bit of fightin’ and a lot more stealin’. Sure enough we took whatever wasn’t nailed down. One time we stole fifteen dollars through the back door of a restaurant, and another time we stole some old man’s Monroe Coupe.
“You see, where we was, it took a long time to get somewhere. And it wasn’t like today, where all the young children have ten-dollar shoes. Most times we’d wait for a locomotive to come rumbling down the tracks and then grab hold of its sun-hot metal sides as it sped through the trees and hills to get anywhere.
“That automobile sure did fly though, and old Harlowe and I took turns driving it down the dirt roads, through fields, and all over back of beyond. When you got it up fast enough, just for a spell, it felt like the air cooled down, so we drove it just as fast as we could. That is till it got stuck in a ditch near a cow field on the south end of the county. But the worst thing we ever did was not do anything.
“One day we happened upon a group of local children watching as a boy was teased on by some others. We didn’t think much of nothing, when all of a sudden he was killed. A no-account town bully threw a rock and hit him smack in the head. He fell plumb down in the dust. We didn’t know he was dead at the time but just ran away with the others. But I ran the fastest. I was always the fastest.
“The boy who did the killin’ was eventually taken away to the city. We were on our best behavior after that, but nothing, not even the hills, last, I suppose. And the summer crept on like an old plow.
“One July afternoon, I was sitting on a fence along a dirt road waiting for my pal Harlowe. I was late on account of getting chased by a no-good dog. There were too many dogs back in those days. It was while I was sitting there when I saw a man come walking down the road toward me.
“The way he walked didn’t look right—all lazy and taking his sweet time, not worried about messing up his fine clothes. He was dressed like a banker, in a black jacket, white pants, shiny brown shoes—and a brand new bowler hat on top of his head. He walked along the part of the road that lay in the shadow between the green forests that choked the area most of the year round.
“I thought he looked like some kind of actor with his thin mustache. He looked real dapper, till he got close and I could see his smiling teeth. His teeth were all yellow and broken, like a saw that’d been left out in the rain too long. He waved to me and came sauntering up all familiar and friendly like. To me it seemed like his eyes were the color of a nickel polished bright on the hem of your Sunday best.
“‘I thought I might find you here,’ he says to me, winking, like he’s known me my whole life. ‘Came by to let you know your friend is going to be late.’
“I asked him what he meant, not sure at all what he was talking about.
“‘Your friend big Harlowe Brennan fell under a train just…a little while ago,’ he said, taking off his fine hat and using it like a fan to cool his brow. ‘He won’t be meeting up with you—unless you ask real nice.’
“The man grinned his crocodile grin, then barked out a laugh that turned my blood to ice.
“‘The look on your face is delicious,’ he said, smartly putting his hat back on. ‘It’s like one of those sandwiches with the bacon, you ever have one of those? No?— Delicious. It’s probably for the best, him showing up late. Gummed up all under the train like he is—might take ol’ Harlowe a while ’fore he can free his self.’
“Now you may question if you know evil when looking it in the face, but when you do, truly, there’s no question. Not really. You know it like you know your name. I hopped off that fence and began to edge away, heart hammering in my chest.
“‘You could be joining your friend under them steel wheels right now, but I had an idea—I heard that you is the fastest runner in these parts, and I’ve decided to challenge you to a little race. You may beat me at first, but I promise you boy—I run like hell.’
“With that I turned and ran. I ran so fast that the world was a blur and then I ran faster. I’ve been running ever since, but I knew one day he might catch up. He didn’t catch me in Biloxi, Atlanta, or any of the other places I’ve been. But lord, he found me tonight, and sure I am tired.”
After a lifetime on the road the old man rattled his last breath and died there in that bed in the unused room. One of the women pulled the sheet up over his head. John then broke the silence, shook his head, and walked over to the room’s window. He wrestled with it for a bit, then got it open to let in the hot summer night's breeze.
One
The trees blanketed the hills, covering and devouring the landscape. Like a fungus, the forest seemed to eat the world.
In the city where Leland had lived there was nothing like it, except on the television. But it wasn’t the same.
As it rolled past his window, he wondered what types of animals lived between the trees, if there was room for them, and how they kept from getting lost. Leland knew, the way only children can know, that there were dragons and trolls there, too.
With a long right turn, the car went down a gravel driveway, which popped and snapped at the wheels and undercarriage like bones between a giant’s teeth. They had reached the farm. Golden hay fields, a winding river, and beyond, a forest that surrounded everything. It looked like a great green ocean—frozen just before it could wash everything away. “You see?” said his aunt, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. “You’ll like it here.”
She sounded strange, Leland mused. All adults sounded that way when they talked to him. A creature with giant ears bounded out of the forest and ran up to the fence as
they drove by.
“A horse,” Leland exclaimed.
“That’s old Merlin,” his aunt said. “I sort of inherited him when I bought the farm. He’s too old for riding, now he mostly just eats—and eats. You hungry?”
“Yeah,” said Leland.
“Great. I’m not sure Merlin will share, so I’ll make us some sandwiches.”
Leland knew better but couldn’t help but imagine “sandwiches” were witches that lived beneath the sand. He lost sight of the horse b
ehind a clump of trees. Merlin was the name of some big-honcho-type wizard, Leland recalled. Maybe he had changed himself into a horse and forgot how to turn back.
The farmhouse lay just ahead at the end of a circle driveway. His aunt pulled up to the front door and stopped. Fumbling with the seatbelt and handle, he pushed open the car’s heavy door with his legs and slid out. He stretched and took a deep breath. It was different here, smelled different, looked different, and felt different. As far as he knew, it was a different world.
“Okay, sport,” his aunt said, pulling her yellow hair back into a ponytail. “Your room is on the top floor. You can’t miss it, because the only other one up there is my storage room.”
She started taking their bags out of the trunk. “I’ve got a huge amount of work to catch up on, so after lunch you’re on your own.” Using her head, she motioned him to follow her into the house.
A brown-and-white dog ran up to them, panting with the enthusiasm only a dog could display. Leland smiled; he thought dogs were pretty great.
“That’s Rex,” his aunt said over her shoulder as she started going up the stairs to his new room. “Not an original name, but he’s my pal.”
Leland laughed as the dog tried to lick his face.
“You should take Rex with you and explore the farm. He knows the area a lot better than I do, that’s for sure,” she said, putting his bags next to his new bed. “But stay away from the horse; he’s getting ornery in his old age. The river is much stronger than it looks, so stay out, and for goodness sakes stay out of the deep woods. We do live in the wilderness here, and there are dangerous animals.”
He imagined the dangerous animals were things covered in spikes and scales, with teeth and yellow eyes.
“Okay,” Leland said, petting the dog’s anxious head.
His aunt paused on the way out the door.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
He said nothing but nodded his head and looked out the window.