“It was time for a change sister; you know that as well as I.”
“But why work with the Aspects? Why her?” Droll Mary stabbed the air in the direction of Baba Vedma.
“Now, that’s enough of that.” Baba Vedma rearranged the mushrooms in her basket. “We’re not enemies any longer.”
“And who decided that!” Droll Mary’s arms flew up over her head. “You? Him? She stabbed at each of them in turn, her fingers crowned with impossibly long, improbably red fingernails. “I used to be wit, grace, elevated humor. Now, what am I?”
“Elevated?” Baba Vedma chuckled. “You were all about fart jokes and toilet humor.”
“Yes, and in an elegant fashion, but you know what? Shut up! I’m not talking to you!” Droll Mary jutted out her jaw and shook her head. “But never mind that now. Answer my question. Who decided that I would be…this?” She waved her hand frantically all around her own body.
“We all did.” Baba Vedma lowered her chin and gazed at Droll Mary sideways.
Droll Mary tensed her jaw, gritted her teeth, and eventually, released all her anger in one long, drawn-out breath. “Fine. There’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“Come on, sister.” The Dottore took Droll Mary’s arm and draped it over his own. “Let’s go have a look at all of your new stories.”
“New stories?” Droll Mary leaned her head wearily on her brother’s shoulder. “They’re nothing but goofy romances, strange situations, and inappropriate jokes.”
“Yes, but they’re new.” The Dottore patted Droll Mary’s head, mostly to try and keep the errant strands out of his face.
“Paroxysm!” Droll Mary shouted into the trees, “Come!”
Paroxysm came trippingly from the trees, wildflowers stuck in her hair, behind her ears, and bunched in each fist. She skipped and bounded down the path, twirling every so often as she followed Droll Mary and the Dottore.
“That proceeded better than me thought it would,” Baba Vedma muttered as she continued on the path. The new sun was moving as a sun should; it was already at its highest point and beginning its slow descent; then night would fall. Baba Vedma bent to pick a nice plump mushroom and dropped it in her basket.
“You should hurry with that.” The Sister of Monsters stepped from a small side path, her giant bulbous eyes glinting with mirth. “Picking mushrooms after dark would be difficult.”
“What’re you gonna use those for?” The Puppeteer half-bounded, half-skipped, his wooden body producing hollow, thumping noises as he went, coming to rest behind the Sister of Monsters. “You making children stew again?”
“Maybe she’s developed a taste for it.” The Toy Peddler, in his tall pointy hat, carried his overstuffed sack of toys. He led Frau Iver, her misty countenance floating gracefully over the ground, to the group from another side path.
“You be not funny.” Baba Vedma gave a wry, slightly annoyed smile. “None of you be funny.”
“You can eat children.” The Puppeteer skipped to the middle of the organically forming circle of Aspects. “We won’t judge. The rules have changed.”
“They have, haven’t they?” Baba Vedma strolled slowly along the path, followed by the others in a loose huddle.
“Any reservations?” The Sister of Monsters walked beside Baba Vedma. “Any regrets?”
The wind blew, warm and soft, comforting, pleasant. The sun was dipping below the treeline, casting an orange glow, painting the world with warmth. The trees swayed contentedly, the path was smooth and even, the City loomed in the distance, the Woods splayed out in all directions, the sea was just over the mountains, and the mountains…the mountains stretched beyond the limits of imagination.
“No.” Baba Vedma gave an honest, peaceful smile. “No regrets, just hopes.”
The Inn at the Edge of the Woods beckoned, and the Council of Aspects answered the call. The Inn was as rustic and cozy as they could wish: the animal heads, the rough-hewn tables, and the chunky chairs, dotted here and there by crisp white tablecloths and a sporadic vase of daisies.
“Welcome,” the Innkeeper’s Daughter called as they entered. “Always a pleasure to see the Council.”
They nodded in turn as they headed to their usual table. The Innkeeper brought a round of their favorite drinks, and they sat and contemplated the world, the changes, the future, and all the possibilities that lay ahead.
Chapter 83
“It’s good.” Matt nodded conditionally, tentatively. “I think it’s good.” He sat, half-expecting something to happen, anything to happen. A clap of thunder, a lightning bolt, a total eclipse—something to mark the end of the story, to prove to him that it is indeed…good. Nothing happened. That pervasive, aggressive silence took up all the space in his room.
“It’s good,” he repeated, but the certainty was lacking. John would bring that. He looked to his alarm clock; a simple red display of numbers, decidedly tick, tick, tick-less, shone in his direction. The time: less than an hour to deadline. Deadline, an interesting word choice.
He continued to sit, his knees drawn up to his chest, his breaths in short staccato, his eyes focused on the clock, the stories in his tense hands. The numbers changed. A rapid event marked by no discernible sound, no noticeable event. There was so much nothing.
“I’m missing something,” Matt whispered toward the glowing numbers, red as if to mock him. He was convinced, now more than ever, that completing the stories, finishing the narrative, forming the world, would bring John back. He knew it with everything that was him. Was this completed thing in his hands enough? Had he, without John, been able to spark enough creativity to effect a change, a noticeable, important, significant change?
He looked at the display on his phone, another soundless, lifeless set of numbers. Maybe there is an app to make it tick, tick, tick, he thought but then dismissed the thought as pointless. There was still too much time to just sit and wonder. If he needed to do more, he needed to know. Now.
He stood, with purpose, with passion, with pointed conviction, and left his house before his parents had even registered the fact that he had left his room. The hospital was just a ten-minute drive from his house. He made it in seven. He decided he would deal with the fact that his parents would be furious about his driving alone with only a learner’s permit later, and he would never mention the speeding.
The parking area was bustling with those scurrying people, annoyingly alive, which he hadn’t noticed until recently. He pushed his way through the lobby and into the correct elevator. Hugging his notebook close to his heart, a thought recurred. It was pernicious, invasive, unwelcome, and more frightening than any other thought he had ever had—this is stupid.
Tears amassed under his lower eyelids, acidic, burning, hateful tears, and he wanted nothing more than to let them flow. To cry until he— No! He rebelled against the doubt. John had always said that the enemy to creativity was doubt. That’s all this was—doubt.
The stories were powerful; he knew this. The narrative was strong; he felt this. The world was mutable. That was the key. That was the theory he and John had always worked under. Words, stories, creativity could change the world, and that was the very thing he needed right now. He needed his world to change. Just like when the first stories—those two slight, meager attempts at storytelling—had brought him together with John. It had been each of their fondest wishes to have a collaborator, a friend. The stories had given them that. They had affected the world, prompted a change.
“They will do it again,” he said.
“What?” a lady in a headscarf asked.
Matt looked at her, startled.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
Matt continued to stare. The woman was old, maybe as old as Baba Vedma, but probably not, but maybe. He smiled and asked, “Do you believe in stories?”
“Stories?” Her eyebrows could not have gotten higher if someone were actively pulling them up. “Like Cinderella? Those kinds of stories?”
“Exactly.” Matt nodded.
“I do,” a young woman wearing a jean jacket chimed in from the back of the elevator. “I think there is a little bit of truth in every great story.”
“Truth?” a man in a tattered t-shirt asked. “I think it’s more than that.” He looked from the young woman to the old woman, then to Matt. “I think there is power in stories.”
The elevator chimed, and the doors opened. The old woman patted Matt on the forearm before she left. “I agree with that. There is some mysterious power to a good story. It can lift you up, turn you around, and fix what ails you.” She smiled and was gone.
The young woman, the man, and Matt watched the doors close, and each of them nodded.
“Do you agree?” Matt asked no one in particular.
“I think so,” the man said.
“She’s right about the power,” the young woman remarked. “But I think she was being too gentle with you.” The young woman’s eyes fell on Matt, and she folded her lips toward her teeth. “The power of stories can heal—I believe that—but there is a dark side to the power too.”
“That’s true,” the man added. “Nothing has damaged the world more than a carelessly constructed story.”
The elevator chimed again. The young woman patted Matt like the old woman had, and the man squeezed his shoulder. Matt could feel their individual touches long after the elevator doors closed behind them.
“Dark side,” he uttered; his fingers went to his temple. He rubbed hard. “Of course, there’s a dark side. How could I have missed that?”
Chapter 84
Epilogue, the First
The Growl in the Night paced back and forth in front of the Caves of Fire. He watched the light dance out of the caves and paint the bases of trees impossibly far beyond the beginnings of the Gloaming Woods. So much has changed, he thought, maybe too much.
The Gloaming for which the Woods was named was constant now but only among the trees. Everywhere else, the sun rose, traveled across the sky, and set into a long, luxurious night. The Woods, however, remained the Gloaming Woods, perpetually in neither darkness nor light, obviously, some sort of compromise.
“Fah!” he hissed as he looked to the sunrise over the City. The City, another compromise, another change to Creativity. He shook his great head, and his mane released angry strands of fur that clumped and floated heavily on the breeze. Then he grew tired, exhausted, defeated. He sat, then laid in front of the Cave of Fire, which he usually called home. He expelled all the air that was in him to expel, and he closed his eyes to sleep through the days that dawned everywhere except the Woods.
“We need to talk.” A voice, low and dangerous, cut through the early morning silence. It was a voice the Growl in the Night recognized immediately. An old adversary, an enemy of old, a challenge to his own primacy, a…friend.
“Of what do we need to talk?” The Growl in the Night raised his enormous head and blinked his eyes open.
“Of the changes.” The voice moved forward, and the form of the Slashing Hero came into view. “What shall we make of them?”
“The changes?” The Growl in the Night rose to his haunches and sighed forcefully. “Nothing to make of them. They are done, accomplished, in place. Nothing to do except accept them.
“Nothing to do!” The Slashing Hero leaped forward, sword in hand, shield at the ready. “What sort of talk is that from the Elder Forms?”
“Hurumph.” The Growl in the Night shook his head wearily from side to side; another clump of mane dislodged and fluttered on the wind. “And where have you been through all of this? You only make yourself known after it is all decided? What do you expect?”
“I was in the Cave of the Warriors, just like all of my brethren.” The Slashing Hero stepped closer to the mouth of the flickering cave. “It is what we agreed to, is it not? We vowed to remain in our respective caves until called upon. We gave up our rights to dominion in stories until needed. Isn’t that true?”
The question sounded more like an accusation, but the Growl in the Night ignored the tone. “We did agree, and we have kept our end of the bargain.” The Growl in the Night remembered a meeting not so long ago when the Toy Peddler had come to ask for help. He had gently, at least for him, reminded the Toy Peddler of the agreement and now reiterated what he had said then, “We are no longer the Elder Forms. That is an old title for old stories. We are out of date, antiques, relics, useless.”
“I am not useless!” The Slashing Hero swung his mighty blade. A nearby tree shook, then slid inexorably where the sword had cleaved it until the top, the bit containing all the greenery of life, fell to the ground with a sickening thud.
“You really must control your temper.” The Growl in the Night lifted a paw to his mouth and suppressed a yawn. “It has been decided. The Aspects have—”
“Aspects! Nothing but upstart children. Ridiculous additions to perfection. We are perfection.” The Slashing Hero dropped his sword and shield; they rattled to the earth; then he took the Growl in the Night by the sides of his massive head and forced eye contact. “We should rule Creativity. We should restore the Gloaming Wood to its former glory, not this paltry excuse for a…nothing.” He released the beast’s head and waved his hands dismissively in the air. “The changes are…abominations.”
“But, as I keep saying, there is nothing—”
“I agree!” The words came sharp and sudden amid the dim light of the Gloaming. The Chittering Underground pushed and prodded her way through the trunks and bramble that made up the tentative borders of this new world.
“With whom?” The Growl in the Night, suddenly up on all fours, alternated his weight from side to side, pressing one paw and then another into the solid ground beneath him.
“This is an abomination.” The Chittering Underground scurried to the light from the nearest Cave of Fire. She lifted herself on all of her legs to her full height—a scene very few beings had witnessed and lived to tell the story. “We, the Elder Forms, must take back Creativity!”
The words floated in the air, hung in the Gloaming, and settled into the shadows. The Growl in the Night sucked in the near-night air, filled his lungs to capacity, then left out a howl that reverberated throughout all of Creativity.
“That’s more like it.” The Slashing Hero picked up his sword and shield and made ready for war. The Eternal Gloaming blinked.
PART TWO
Chapter 85
The Slashing Hero
The dragon slept. The dank cave heaved with its powerful breath, in and out, in and out. Warmth mist spilled out of the cave’s mouth and into the frigid night. No living creature dared come near the dragon’s cave—no living creature, that is, except the Slashing Hero.
He walked with purpose, his chest thrust forward. His sword was drawn and at the ready. It glistened white with red hues in the moon’s forceful beams. Blood from newly vanquished foes dropped with every step. The scent of copper mingled with the sulfurous stench from the cave. The world smelled of danger.
The Slashing Hero strode onward. He dared step foot inside the cave. Without hesitation, he entered the dragon’s realm. The dragon stirred, intimately aware of the invasion. The Slashing Hero continued forward.
The world outside the cave was just as peaceful as any night had ever been. The night birds sang sweet songs of gentle eventides, the trees whispered soothing sonnets upon the breeze, and the moon gleamed on the sleeping world, but inside the cave. In the heart of death, the dragon rose.
The Slashing Hero wasted no time. Propelled by the thought of losing the advantage, he rushed forward and leaped into the air, his sword aimed for the dragon’s throat. The sword shattered on the dragon’s thick scales. The Slashing Hero tumbled over the beast and into a dark-shrouded corner.
The dragon shook the remnants of sleep from its head and huffed into the copper-tinted air. The scent pulsed behind the dragon’s red eye, mingled with the sulfur-breath, and excited the fierce hunter within the sleeping giant. It t
urned its jagged head, crowned with vicious spikes of unbreakable scales, and spied the glint of broken metal in the darkness.
A roar entwined with fire filled the cave, chased the darkness away, smeared the rocks with soot, and shook the foundations of life. The Slashing Hero crouched. Tense muscles straining with anticipation, he sprung forward. His bare hands clawed at the beast’s eyes, desperate to achieve any semblance of harm. He fell across the dragon’s snout before flopping to the cave floor once more.
The dragon attempted to turn, but the bulk of its body filled the cave too fully. Instead of turning, it slammed its head into the rock wall over and over. The cave shuddered. The mountain released boulders in response. The moon and trees took note of the commotion.
The Slashing Hero faltered not. He searched quickly around the cave. Bones, laden with fleshy residue and bits of cloth and deposited in haphazard piles, caused brief moments of consternation. Then, against all odds and despite any sense of reality, he found a sword.
The dragon slipped into the correct position and whirled. Tail, wing, and gullet flashed by the Slashing Hero, and instinctively, he stabbed. Angry, red, ooze poured from the beast’s breast. The sword flashed again, and another wound opened. Again and again, red filled the cave, and copper overtook sulfur. The Slashing Hero panted as the dragon’s breath quieted.
Outside the cave, the moon and trees turned back to their own endeavors, the mountain settled into its peaceful existence, and the cave stood solid and empty. The Slashing Hero took his prize, more gold than he could easily carry, and headed toward home and fame. He slipped his new sword into the leather folds of his belt and felt more formidable than he had ever felt.
Chapter 86
Interlude
The Chittering Underground tensed, and her giant body rose into the air, perched atop the eight tree-like legs. “We shall come to order!”
The First Story Page 22