The First Story

by C Bradley Owens

  “Matt?” A man’s voice fought its way through the white. Matt opened his eyes. John’s father stood over him, bent low, shaking his shoulder.

  “Mr. Hensley?” Matt asked; his voice seemed strange, distant, cold.

  “I just got the messages. Where is my wife? What’s going on?”

  Matt could see the man’s tension, and he wondered what colors were in his thoughts. Was there red, blue, yellow, or maybe that dingy brick color in his world? “The doctor…” Matt began but found the words difficult to frame. Instead, he pointed toward the metal doors.

  Mr. Hensley straightened, impossibly more tense than he had previously been, and walked with fearful purpose to the nearest nurse. They began a very animated discussion as Matt continued to ponder the whiteness that was rapidly closing back in around him. He was vaguely aware of Mr. Hensley disappearing behind the metal doors before the world became indistinct again.

  Chapter 16

  The Damsel’s Lament

  Frau Iver hissed a warning, but the man stepped closer, ever closer. She pointed an icy, dangerous, accusatory finger at him, but still, he crept forward. She stepped backward, something she had not done in eons. The room grew chill.

  “It’s okay, Sarah.” The man reached out a shaking hand. “It’s me, Abraham.”

  The name struck Frau Iver fiercely, like a lightning bolt on a frozen tundra. She jerked in response, and her weakened legs crumpled under her. She curled into a huddled mass, her hands covering her face, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs.

  “What happened to you?” Abraham knelt and shuffled as close as he dared. Tiny ice crystals were forming on his eyelashes, his cheeks, his lips. “Where have you been?”

  Frau Iver’s mind shuddered into the past. A winter’s storm, a lost child, a frantic mother, loneliness, then…silence. Darkness. Anger, rage, screaming, screaming, screaming until the voice, the icy, wounded, angry voice went silent. But still, she screamed, this mother without a child, this wife whose husband was nowhere to be found, this woman who needed revenge.

  Frau Iver stood, her lithe body a perfect column of strength. No longer was she afraid of the storm; she was the storm. No longer was she afraid of the dangers of the world; she was the dangers in the world. This man, the one with the face of her absent husband, this man with the name of her absent husband, this man deserved punishment.

  Frau Iver lifted a misty hand, she pointed an accusatory finger, she took in a predatory breath, and something tickled her cheek. It was a sensation at once familiar and strange. She turned her finger to her own face and felt the small, solid crystal that a mere fraction of a moment ago had been liquid. She plucked it from her face and looked at the gemlike tear, and then she looked at him.

  Had he purposefully abandoned her? She didn’t know anymore, she couldn’t remember, and she had difficulty caring. A frozen rage consumed her. The wind whipped; the ice formed; the warmth died. Spent, her anger grew inward once more. The room, latticed with her icy art, was still as death.

  “Sarah?” Abraham whispered, still kneeling in front of her.

  Her face became a picture of confusion, of fear, of ambivalence. She held out her hand; he responded. She dropped the icy jewel into his palm as she turned and floated into the night.

  Chapter 17

  Taking Inventory

  “How did you know?” Frau Iver asked, her voice cold but pointed. “About Abraham?”

  The Puppeteer looked at her, the painted lines that mimicked eyebrows twisted and turned into a semblance of a furrowed brow in concentration, and he shook his head slowly.

  “It was an alteration?” The Sister of Monsters watched Frau Iver nod.

  “I am the betrayed lover, the guilt-ridden mother, the cold heart of tragedy beyond utterance.” Frau Iver turned her face to the Puppeteer. “I do not succumb to nostalgia.”

  “So, Abraham should be dead.” The Sister of Monsters leaned close to Frau Iver to distract her from the Puppeteer.

  “As with all who betray an innocent and meet me in the night.” Frau Iver’s vague eyes left the Puppeteer and turned toward the Toy Peddler, a glint of recognition fluttered behind the fog of her face.

  “He didn’t mean it.” The Sister of Monsters leaned even closer so that only Frau Iver could hear.

  “Purposeful or not,” Frau Iver spoke louder than she needed to. “He killed my child.” Her ice-shrouded hand twisted toward the Toy Peddler.

  “It was a dream deal.” The Toy Peddler slapped his hand onto the table. “I can’t control what dream I take. You know that.”

  “That’s right.” The Sister of Monsters tried to adopt a moderating tone, a conciliatory posture. “He exchanges material items for dreams. Always has. What the child does with the dream is left to fate. I’ve died many times in one of his stories.”

  “He didn’t come back.” Frau Iver’s words were heavy and solid. The others stared in any direction but hers.

  “That’s…” The Sister of Monsters could not conjure the right platitude or even a decent justification.

  “I—” the Toy Peddler cocked his head suddenly. “That’s right. He didn’t come back. He wasn’t ready. And a train? Why a train? In a city? The Sister of Monsters always served my stories. Why did I ask Frau Iver’s son?”

  “The minor Aspects would have been more than willing to fill in if you needed a boy.” The Sister of Monsters caught hold of the Toy Peddlers questions and motioned for Frau Iver to sit. “All of his stories, especially the ones with multiple children, took place near a forest. It’s a key element in his stories. A city setting confuses that.”

  “But it was so long ago,” the Toy Peddler stated, sensing the direction of the conversation. “It couldn’t be an alteration.”

  “Unless it is more than the stories that have been altered.” The Sister of Monsters orb-like eyes grew dark, her brow furrowed as a thought hit her. “What was your son’s name?”

  “My son’s name was…” Frau Iver’s mouth began to form a word, then stopped, began to form a different word, then closed, opened slightly.

  “But we all remember him,” the Toy Peddler interjected. “He can’t be an alteration. Not such an important element of her prime story.”

  “They made up my murdered son?” Frau Iver’s usual wrath became suddenly displaced by a weary sadness. The rest of the Council sat in revered silence, allowing Frau Iver time to process the removal of a primary motivating factor of her personality.

  “Well,” the Puppeteer loudly broke the silence, causing everyone in the room to jump just a bit. “I could use another drink.”

  “What did you notice in the Dottore’s story?” The Sister of Monsters shifted her head as another thought came to her.

  “The woman,” Frau Iver said, her words heavy with import, tinged with sadness. “It was not a woman that caught the Dottore’s attention.”

  The others turned their eyes to the past, staring at the wall, the ceiling, the floor, trying anything to recapture a memory that had been altered. The Sister of Monsters spoke suddenly, “That’s right. It wasn’t a woman’s death cries.”

  “It was breaking glass,” the Puppeteer offered. “That’s one of my favorite sounds. I should have realized the change sooner.”

  “But why make such a slight change?” the Toy Peddler interjected. “The Dottore still went into the apothecary; he still got his mask. Everything else is the same, isn’t it?” Another pause as the Council of Aspects continued to tell the Dottore’s story over and over in their heads. “It’s the same.”

  “There must be a clue here,” the Sister of Monsters said. “Why a dying woman’s cry and not just the sound of glass breaking?”

  “She is an unnecessary character,” the Puppeteer announced, raising his empty glass toward the Innkeeper.

  “An added element,” Frau Iver added.

  “A complication,” the Sister of Monsters said.

  “He’s creating new Aspects,” the Toy Peddler declared, and eve
ryone fell silent.

  “Your drinks,” the Innkeeper said, putting down two glasses of dark beer in front of the Toy Peddler and the Puppeteer, then pushing a glass of red liquid toward the Sister of Monsters. The Innkeeper’s ample bosoms pressed into the Puppeteer’s wooden shoulder as she worked. “You sure I can’t get you nothing, hon?” she directed to Frau Iver.

  “Maybe a nice glass of wine?” Frau Iver asked tentatively, unable to pull her icy gaze away from the other woman’s voluptuousness as she rubbed up and down against the Puppeteer. The Innkeeper smiled and leaned over to pat Frau Iver’s insubstantial hand, pressing her rose-colored cheek into the Toy Peddler’s chest as she did.

  “That’s the way, hon. A nice wine’ll warm you right up,” the Innkeeper smiled a big, toothy smile streaked with bright red lipstick and turned back to her duties.

  “The Innkeeper speaks now,” the Sister of Monsters said, unsure what else to say.

  “And I think—I’m not sure, mind you—but I think he’s a woman now.” The Puppeteer laughed a hollow laugh as the others tried desperately not to turn to look at the buxom woman struggling to pull a cork out of a fresh bottle of wine.

  Chapter 18

  The Inn at the Edge of the Woods

  The Gloaming Woods brought travelers and adventure seekers from every corner of the globe. It was as dark and forbidding as any large stand of trees could be, or at least, that was what the Innkeeper thought as she washed the windows and gazed out into the world. Still, they came to venture in the Woods, and when they came, they stayed at the Inn at the Edge of the Woods. Her business had never been better, but there was still something missing.

  She finished with the windows and began to wipe down the tables. They were the same sturdy wooden tables that her father had constructed using the trees from the Woods, which meant they would last forever, but she wished that she could change them. Maybe some nice cafe tables, delicate and metal, would make her feel better. Of course, delicate furniture in an Inn that catered to adventurous travelers wouldn’t last a night, let alone a season. The heavy wooden tables were the smarter choice.

  She looked at the wall decor—taxidermy heads, mostly, with adventure gear hanging intermittently for contrast. It was laughable, this attempt at decorating, but it had served her father well. It would serve her, and it was appropriate for the clientele. Still, she wished for just a little color, at least a color other than brown.

  The door swung open, and a gruff-looking old woman shuffled in. She was dressed head to toe in black and gray, her face pallid but full, and her hair—the part that stuck out from her scarf—was silver but lackluster. She would not add cheer to the Inn, thought the Innkeeper as she smiled and hurried to the door.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the Innkeeper said in her most welcoming tone.

  “Hrumph,” the old woman answered.

  “Sit anywhere you’d like. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Beer.” The old woman’s voice cracked and hissed like a night sky after a lightning strike.

  “Coming right up.” The Innkeeper smiled despite her desire to frown and hurried behind the counter. She grabbed a clean glass and uncorked a bottle of beer and watched the old woman shuffle to a back table while she poured the dark liquid. This was no ordinary customer, the Innkeeper knew. This was at least an Element, or maybe even an Aspect. She wished she had paid closer attention to her father’s instructions about the Gloaming Woods travelers.

  She took the beer and walked toward the back table, racking her brain to remember what her father had told her. There was a hierarchy to the Woods. The lowest were the Personas, like herself and her father before her. They were support, always present, always the same. Then came the Elements. They were more important to the Great Stories. They offered definition and direction. There were others. So many others. But try as she might, she could not recall any others. But she did know that the Aspects were the highest she would ever encounter in the Inn. They were powerful beyond reckoning. They possessed their own stories, their own identities. There were no beings higher than the Aspects—that is, nothing higher except the Duality.

  As she walked, the Innkeeper looked at the old woman. She sat hunched in the chair, her shoulders slumped, her back bent. She was just a fragile old woman who was staring at the Innkeeper. Her eyes, as dim and colorless—for the Innkeeper did not consider gray a color—as the rest of her, burned with a fire deep and dark; her fingers worked tirelessly to spool the thread she pulled from the bag at her hip.

  “Your drink,” the Innkeeper said, putting down the glass, suddenly filled with trepidation. The thread that slithered around the woman’s craggy fingers shone with unnatural light.

  “Thank ‘e,” the woman hissed.

  “Are you heading to the Woods?”

  “Aye.”

  “Alone?”

  “Aye.” The woman took a long drink and wiped the foam from her bristled lips, the thread soaking up just a drop or two of the beer.

  “You must be very brave.” The Innkeeper’s head was suddenly fuzzy as if she had been drinking herself, though she hadn’t touched a drop all day.

  The woman’s lips curled in what could be considered a smile, given a very loose interpretation of the action.

  “I’m the Innkeeper. This is my place. It was my father’s before me, but he passed on. So, my story goes, or so I’m told,” the Innkeeper knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. “He decorated the place. Not my taste nor to my liking, but the travelers seem to like it fine. They don’t talk to me much about it, so I assume—”

  The old woman put her hand up to suggest that the Innkeeper should stop talking. “I be Baba Vedma.”

  “An Aspect?”

  “Aye.” Baba Vedma drained her glass and pushed it toward the Innkeeper.

  “Another before you head out into the Gloaming Woods?” the Innkeeper asked, and Baba Vedma narrowed her gray eyes into little slits and nodded almost imperceptibly. The Innkeeper tried to smile but found she no longer quite knew how. Instead, she just took the empty glass and refilled it.

  Later that night, after the travelers had come and gone, just before the Eternal Gloaming threatened but never actually began to dip into the night, the Innkeeper walked into the back room behind the counter. She rummaged through the crates and boxes she had brought from her other life when she had moved into the Inn. She finally found what she was looking for in one of the boxes pressed into a seldom used cupboard. She hurried out into the main room and straight to the back wall. She ripped off the stuffed head of a wild boar and tossed it onto the table where Baba Vedma had been sitting. Then, with tenderness and a smile that brightened her every emotion, she hugged the needlework.

  She stood back and admired her work. The bright yellow and green threads formed the happy image of a sunflower set in the vivid red of a thread-formed vase. The brilliant blue threads of the background made her feel so much happier than she had been. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the lipstick she had always kept close but rarely used. Tonight, she roughly smeared the redness onto her pursed lips and used her forefinger to rub off any color that was misplaced. She smiled one last time and prepared the Inn for the next customers.

  Chapter 19

  Making a Plan

  “The Innkeeper’s story is completely new,” the Sister of Monsters announced after a long pause, during which the Aspects reviewed the story silently.

  “Did he even have one before?” the Toy Peddler asked. “I always thought he was just background, not even a character really, just a mood.”

  Everyone considered this. It was an uneasy thought, the idea that someone they had known for centuries had been no more important to them than a chair.

  “What about Baba Vedma?” Frau Iver asked.

  “She’s a powerful Aspect,” the Toy Peddler offered. “Perhaps the most powerful. Definitely powerful enough to use the First Story.”

  “How do you know that?” The Sister of Mo
nsters asked, and the other Aspects turned to stare at him. “How do you know that Aspects are capable of using the First Story?”

  “What are you implying?” The Toy Peddler tensed.

  “Maybe that your stories are all filled with you taking things in exchange for other things ‘Peddler,’” Frau Iver hissed with disdain.

  “You think I…?”

  “Maybe you should show us the magic bag.” The Sister of Monsters pointed to the Toy Peddler’s pocket.

  The Toy Peddler shoved his hand into his pocket and then slapped it down on the table. When he lifted his palm, a small square of cloth remained. “Be my guest. There is an entire universe in the bag.”

  Frau Iver poked at the cloth with her misty fingers. “Do you think the First Story could even be contained in there?”

  “Have a look.” The Toy Peddler waved his hand over the cloth. “Just try not to fall in. I might not be able to find you if you do.”

  “A threat?” The Sister of Monsters looked up into his face, her fangs glistening with a warning. “Is that really how you want to handle this?” Her black eyes flashed red, and a white substance trickled from her mouth.

  “Oh, put your venom away,” the Puppeteer said. “The Toy Peddler didn’t take the First Story.”

  “How do you know that?” Frau Iver asked as she patted the Sister of Monster’s arm tenderly so as not to freeze her.

  “Because I’ve been inside the bag, quite a bit actually—most recently, yesterday.” The Puppeteer put his empty glass on the table and his hands flat down beside it.

  “You what!” The Toy Peddler shouted and rose from his chair.

  “I was looking for—”