by Sylvan Scott
Summer was always magical to a kid. Anthony had loved the Illinois summers of his youth. Once school was out, everything was better. In NeverEarth, not only did the forest come alive with life and energy but its spirits became more active and wild. Where the twin rivers, the Calispur and the High Water, rolled out of Kellen’s Magnusfar Mountains there was a deep valley in which he’d met the challenge of the Claviger: caretaker of the goblin underworld. There, he’d competed for mystic gemstones in the annual summer games. He’d only won by the narrowest of margins, keeping both his life and freedom against the assembled champions of the mountain depths. Judging by the leaves and weather those annual games would just now be wrapping up.
Although he didn’t know exactly where he was relative to the lands beyond the World Labyrinth, he knew he wasn’t near those mountains. As the day crawled towards evening he started feeling that he was in familiar territory but couldn’t place it.
“You can tell the thief went this way, you see,” Quissit was saying, “you can smell roses on the air.”
“What if there are just rose bushes growing nearby?” Karl asked in a deadpan voice.
“Maybe if rose bushes could walk,” the squirrel scoffed. “My nose is following a mobile source.”
Anthony agreed with Quissit’s assessment. He hadn’t said anything but as the day progressed he’d grown more sensitive to smells around him. As they followed the stray petals and his heartstrings, the aroma strengthened. The whole forest felt more alive: full of sound and fragrance.
Shortly, they came across a broad trail: a packed-earth road that wound through the wood. Quissit paused and sniffed. Anthony could smell it, too: the scent of roses was wafting through the air much stronger than before.
“That way, up ahead” Quissit said. “Looks like a clearing, maybe.”
“We’re close to the thief?”
“Or the source of the flowers she covered herself in,” Anthony replied.
Quissit resumed the lead. Anthony and Karl followed with growing anticipation. The sun was starting to set, lengthening the forest shadows. Around them, Anthony started noticing familiar things. The shape of the trees; a few rocks, nearby: but he still couldn’t place them. Partially blocking the path was a large boulder, covered in moss and surrounded with light purple hyacinth. Past that was a slender, bubbling brook that clattered over rocks parallel to the road. It all seemed familiar. As they followed the path, the sounds of rushing water grew. They emerged from the trees and Anthony’s memory clicked into place. He hadn’t recognized his surroundings because when he’d last been here, it had been winter. Snow had covered everything. The brook had been frozen.
The water flowed out of a shallow pool at the base of a stony cliff, some twenty feet high. A small waterfall rushed down to feed it. A cluster of rose bushes grew to one side. At the edge of the clearing, by a towering, old willow tree, a miniature dam of arranged stones kept the water from flowing away. It was a dam he’d kicked over during his last adventure.
It had been re-built.
A chill ran down Anthony’s spine.
“Don’t touch the water,” he said. He glanced around, nervously. “We’re in danger.”
Quissit, who had gone a few paces ahead, looked back. “Danger? From where?”
“Meripone,” he muttered.
“What?”
“A nature spirit; a naiad. This is her home.”
At his words, the water near the pond’s center bubbled and swelled. It geysered upwards with waves and ripples. It looked as if the water was being pushed into an invisible mold: that of a naked woman. It quickly gained color and solidity until there, calf-deep in the water, stood Meripone.
Anthony put his hand on Karl’s chest and stepped back. Quissit drew his dagger.
“Greetings, Tony: Champion of the Alabaster Throne.” She approached, slowly, without moving her legs. A part of both her waterfall and pond, her movement was just as fluid as the liquid from which she had been made.
“We’re just passing through.”
“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow. “On your way to where, might I ask?”
He narrowed his eyes and glanced about. The clearing was empty. Ferns and healthy shrubs grew lushly in the summer air. The evening sky, a darkening shade of blue with tinges of red and orange, stretched above. Only white flashes beneath the waters, the bones of Meripone’s victims, belied the tranquility of the setting.
He sized up the naked naiad. The water spirit was Anthony’s height; it couldn’t have been her who’d come into his dorm room. Also, a naiad was a part of her pool; she couldn’t leave it. But clearly Meripone knew something.
“We’re following a thief,” he said at last. “The trail led here.”
“A thief? How exciting,” she replied with a droll tone. She stepped closer. “You are on another quest, aren’t you?”
“Where is the thief?” Karl asked and stepped forward against Anthony’s palm.
“Karl; don’t touch the water.”
“Yeah, I got that, thanks.”
“You don’t get it: it’s like a drug. It’ll put you under her spell if you drink any.”
“Who … who is this?” Quissit asked..
Before Anthony could respond, Meripone collapsed into water, sending out ripples and waves that, upon reaching the shore nearest the squirrel, surged up in seconds to re-form into the naiad’s human-like shape.
“Why, I am Meripone: lady of this glen and bearer of peace to all in pain. What are your pains, little one?”
Quissit bristled and jumped back. “None here, thank you,” he said. “But I’d wager the other young mortal was right in asking you where our quarry is. I tracked her scent to this spot.”
Meripone’s face darkened but she kept a pleasant smile. “Ah, so you’re their guide. I would have thought the Champion able to find his own way.”
Anthony ignored the jibe. “So, you arranged it; you arranged the whole thing?”
Meripone turned to look at Anthony, her face growing cooler. “I suppose you will speak of nothing else, will you?” she asked. “Very well.” She raised her hand and snapped her fingers, calling over her shoulder, “Rosa! Rosa, you can come out, now.”
The rose bushes by the willow tree rustled. The red flowers—closing for the evening—opened, emitting puffs of dusky pollen. Vines and leaves seeped beads of liquid which floated into the air. Petals dislodged from a few blooms to join them. Together, the floral elements coalesced into a small woman dressed in a root-colored cloak. Her skin was a pale green with highlights of pink and red. She was four feet tall and held Anthony’s winter coat in her thorny arms.
She was a dryad; a nature spirit of plants.
“Greetings,” she said with a slight bow.
The restlessness Anthony had been feeling for the last hour, swelled into anger. He gritted his teeth. “You sent someone to my world for my coat? Why?”
“Oh, not your coat,” Meripone said. Her eyes narrowed as she glared hatefully at Anthony. “I sent her for you.”
Any fear Anthony might have felt was quashed by mounting anger.
“Oh, dear boy: for all the years have been here—in all the seasons and centuries—few have denied me … until you came. Yet not only did you refuse me but you liberated one who had already accepted my gifts.”
Anthony felt a tingle of rage. On his last visit, he’d had to rescue Wiste from her pain-numbing spring. It was a near thing and she’d almost captured him, too.
He actually snarled as he clenched his fists. “Fine: you’ve got me. But I have no intention of playing games with you!” He turned to go. “Keep my coat: we’re leaving.”
“No? Are you sure? Have you looked at the sky, lately?”
Anthony paused. His felt his heart racing and realized he didn’t understand why. Confusion spread in his mind: why was his anger so strong? And Meripone was intelligent; her taunts had to have a reason. He glanced up at the deepening darkness. The silver light of the full mo
on shone through the trees as the sky dimmed.
“Meripone: the Champion’s coat. Shall I—?”
“Hush, Rosa!” the naiad snapped. The small dryad winced as if slapped.
“What about the sky?” Anthony demanded. He grew even angrier and, for the first time since arriving, felt trepidation. What if he couldn’t handle this; what if he had to run? He couldn’t remember ever having felt this much rage. Any exhaustion in his limbs from the day’s walk evaporated. The scents and sounds of the glade grew more pronounced. “What’s this all about?”
He felt Karl’s hand on his shoulder and realized he’d been walking forward. He was mere steps from the pond’s edge.
“Oh, Champion, your tales are legend. Like many mortals who come to Kellen as children, you possess qualities that enable you to do spectacular things. You best every opponent; overcome impossible obstacles...”
Anthony felt his skin starting to itch and crawl. His body was growing hot.
“How interesting that I heard rumors in the wood about your last adventure; how you encountered and endured the attack by not one, not two, but five werewolves: the accursed spawn of Duchess Malgrave.”
Anthony’s breathing was fast and harsh. His heart beat faster as if running a marathon. His thoughts began to cloud; more brutish and feral emotions overtook them. As the last rays of the sun slipped from the sky, the colors faded from the world. Hunger and desire filled him as rage and fear swelled in his heart. His hair grew longer and fur grew across his body. His bones creaked and cracked, making him howl with pain. Through the haze of the transformation he saw both Karl and Quissit backing away.
His face pushed forward into a muzzle and the scents of the glen becoming as acute as a slap in the face. The dimness of the forest lifted as his eyes grew large and golden. Muscles coursed beneath brown fur while his pants and socks split around the changing shape of his legs. His feet became heavy and clawed. Pained and burning feverishly he ripped through his shirt and shoes. He snarled a warning as Karl stepped forward, hand outstretched; he snapped at the air.
He could smell blood. He could smell meat. He could smell food.
He could smell Karl.
The last vestiges of his humanity screamed at him to run. His last conscious decision took hold and, turning on his large paws, he ran into the woods.
Behind him, Meripone’s cold laughter echoed through the night.