Forest of the Mind (The Book of Terwilliger 1)

by Michael Stiles

  It was like a twisted version of the worlds he’d visited with the gnome. The creature had described those places as the minds of other people; Ed wondered if this forest existed within Arthur’s own mind.

  A glimpse of light in the darkness drew his attention to his left. Ed spun around, eyes open wide to see better in the gloom. There was the light again—a yellowish glow that turned the gnarled trunks of the trees into grotesque shadows. Then the source of the light stepped out from behind a tree.

  It was Arthur’s demon.

  The beast was walking through the forest, swiveling its horned head to the left and right as though looking for something. Then it saw him. Its eyes locked onto his, and it began to walk toward him.

  Ed turned and ran. He wove his way through the trees, looking back now and then to find the demon gaining on him. Ed ran for what seemed like an hour, although he didn’t become tired or out of breath. Occasionally a branch brushed his arm or tangled in his hair as he ran, and whenever this happened, images popped into his head: a heavyset, middle-aged man readying a belt as though he was about to hit someone; a large building that looked like a school and filled him with dread; a group of men kneeling on the floor in a finely-furnished room, their shaven heads shining. Arthur’s memories, Ed knew. Each image vanished when he pulled away from the contact with the tree that held it, and he ran on.

  The demon pursued him to an area, roughly circular in shape, where the trees thinned out. At the center of this clearing was one massive old tree with branches that curled down to the ground, like a nightmare’s representation of a weeping willow.

  Ed skirted the outer branches of the huge, gnarled tree, careful not to touch it, intending to run around it to the other side. His only chance of escaping the beast was to stay in the thicker parts of the forest. But as he reached the far side, he found the demon waiting there.

  Stopping only for a moment, Ed turned to go back the way he had come. But the beast that had been chasing him was still behind him, just now stepping into the clearing.

  He looked to his left, into the forest, and the thing was there, as well. He could see its yellow light between the trunks of the trees. He backed up, toward the big tree, knowing he was trapped.

  Desperate, he looked up at the black sky. Running wasn’t helping; he had to find another way. He focused his mind, intending to float upward as the gnome had taught him, but the yellow demon was upon him in an instant. He saw now that there was only one demon—there had only ever been one, even though it appeared in several places at once. It strode up to him and seized him by the hair. The beast regarded him silently for a moment with unblinking yellow eyes, then shoved him into the branches of the twisted old tree.

  A bitter chill gripped his heart for an instant, and then he was somewhere else, somewhere that felt more real than the forest. Still dark, but this was a natural darkness. It was a cool night, and he was standing on a narrow dirt road. There were stars overhead—regular stars—and a barely perceptible grayness near the horizon that had to be either sunrise or sunset. Birds were chirping; Ed decided the light must be sunrise.

  Turning around to get his bearings, he leapt backward with a startled cry when he saw Arthur standing right next to him. But Arthur didn’t notice him; the bald-headed man was looking off into the darkness along the road.

  If that forest was Arthur’s mind, Ed thought, this must be his memory.

  Arthur began to creep along the road, moving as quietly as possible. Ed followed him. The track took them along the edge of a canyon for some distance, then steeply downhill into an overgrown wilderness that was still untouched by the approaching dawn.

  A cluster of sagging wooden shacks came into view amid the brush. They were constructed of old plywood boards roughly nailed to decaying wooden frames, and looked like they might fall down at any moment. One of them had a tattered old tarp in place of a roof. Ed shivered in the cool air and hurried to catch up with Arthur, who was nimble for his size and made surprisingly little noise.

  A car was parked at the end of the dirt road, barely visible as a silhouette against the darker background of the thick foliage. Beyond the car, to the left of the sagging little buildings, was a wide grassy area that was littered with refuse.

  As he looked at that clearing, Ed realized that Tom had described this place to him. A hideaway for hippies and criminals, the buildings were illegally constructed on public land but never torn down by the authorities. The police did conduct occasional raids up here, sometimes seizing drugs or making off with one or more of the seedy characters who called this place home, but for the most part the hippies were left alone.

  Ed saw movement in the doorway of one of the buildings; a woman—he thought it was a woman, anyway—was peeking out at Arthur around the tattered sheet that served as a door. As Arthur came closer, she snapped the sheet back into place, hiding her upper body from view, although her bare, spindly legs were still visible beneath the bottom of the curtain. Other than her, there was no sign of life in this place.

  I’ve been here before, the gnome’s voice said inside his head. That one. Ed walked to the doorway of the last shack in the row, stumbling over a rock that he couldn’t see in the darkness. Small and windowless, the building was the same as the others, with an old, gray blanket in place of a door. As Ed drew close to that doorway, he could smell something foul within, like a mixture of feces and old, fermented vomit. He raised his hand to the blanket in the doorway and tried to move it aside, but it wouldn’t move. Touching it was like pushing against a solid wall.

  It was here, the gnome whispered. I remember. He trailed off into unintelligible muttering.

  “What?” Ed asked, both curious and full of dread at what Nathaniel might be remembering. His hand was still clutching the filthy blanket-door.

  It didn’t reply.

  “Tell me what―”

  Ed trailed off as Arthur strode over to where he was standing. Ed quickly moved aside to get out of his way. Gripping the blanket, Arthur thrust it aside so hard that it tore away and hung limply in his hand.

  The shack was empty. Ed peered into the building’s cramped, dark interior. Other than a stained mattress in one corner, a few bits of garbage strewn across the floor, and a smell like nothing he had ever experienced before, there was nothing inside.

  I remember, the gnome said again, sounding excited. The sound. She made such a sound.

  She... It was talking about Eleanor. Ed staggered out into the open air, fearing that he might throw up. This was where Eleanor had died. Probably in that very shack. And the gnome—Nathaniel—had been there. The pink glow of sunrise was beginning to show through the trees to his right. He sat on the hood of the car and rubbed his face with both hands.

  There was enough light now for him to see the car more clearly. It was hers. Ed could see the dent in the rear bumper from the time she’d been rear-ended on Sepulveda. Ed stared at the dent for a long time.

  I brought her here in the trunk, the gnome said wistfully. She handed the keys right over. It was so easy. He repeated these last words in a sing-song voice. Sooo easy, sooo easy. What’s that?

  Ed looked up. He could see most of the grassy area from where he sat. The ground was trampled and strewn with bits of garbage, and a broad darkened section appeared to have been burned in a fire. Arthur had come out of the shack and, tossing the old gray blanket away, he stood by the corner of the building to observe the clearing without being seen. The first rays of the sun appeared on the horizon, casting long shadows across the uncut wild grass. At the far side of the clearing, which had been empty a minute before, the dark figure of a man now crouched close to the ground with his back toward Ed. He was digging with his hands near the far edge of the clearing, where the grass gave way to thick, bristly growth. Nearby, the gnome stood watching with intense interest. Look, it whispered. He could hear it distinctly even though it was at least twenty yards away.

  Ed crossed the trampled grass to where the man was diggi
ng. As he walked away from Arthur’s vantage point, everything seemed to become fuzzy, as though his eyes were going slightly out of focus.

  The man stood up from his work, wiping his hands on his jeans. His lanky frame made him look like a scarecrow. At his feet was a mound of dirt, six feet long and two feet wide. Apparently he had not been digging a hole, but filling one in.

  I used to be taller, the gnome explained.

  Ed had once seen a picture of Eleanor’s killer, a black and white photograph that had appeared alongside the newspaper article the morning after the arrest. He had cut out the article and saved it in his dresser drawer, but had never looked at it after that first time.

  The glare of headlights flashed in their direction from the road. Ed turned to look. Two cars were coming down the dirt track, going very slowly but still kicking up billowing clouds of dust. Nathaniel brushed off his hands once more and went to meet them. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, but Ed was sure he was still watching.

  And your girl, said the gnome.

  Ed looked down at the freshly-dug mound of dirt. It was, he realized, a shallow grave. Beneath that dirt... The thought was too much for him. He sat down on the ground and stared at the spot, eyes suddenly burning from the all dust in the air.

  Footsteps approached.

  It’s him, the gnome rasped.

  Four men had gotten out of the cars and were walking past the shacks. The rising sun was behind them and Ed had trouble making out their faces, but he could see that two of them were wearing uniforms of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Office. Two others wore dark suits with narrow, black neckties. As they came closer, their forms blocking out the sunlight, Ed recognized Tom Kajdas. The other suited man carried a shovel, which rang musically as he planted it on the ground with each step. The two local cops had their pistols pointed at Nathaniel, who strolled at the head of the group like he was leading a parade. He was taking them straight to Eleanor’s grave.

  This time Ed got a better look at Nathaniel’s face. He had stubbly hair and several days’ growth on his face, and his mad eyes—two of them—twinkled with excitement at what he was about to show his visitors. He was tall and impossibly thin. Ed stood up to get a better look at his face as he walked past. He wanted to burn that face into his memory.

  As the group passed by, Ed thought for the briefest of moments that the murderer looked right at him. He reminded himself that his was just a memory, it had happened a long time ago, but he still cringed as those eyes passed over him.

  Nathaniel stopped next to the grave. He seemed so proud, like a boy showing his parents a school project that had earned an A.

  It was Kajdas who broke the silence. “This is her?”

  Nathaniel closed his eyes and tilted his face skyward, putting his hands together as if in prayer. “I did it,” he said jubilantly. “I called him!”

  “Who did you call?” said Tom, walking up next to Nathaniel to look down at the grave. The local officers both had their hands on their holstered weapons “Was someone else involved?”

  Nathaniel didn’t answer. He looked from the sky to Tom’s face.

  “Gentlemen,” Kajdas said to the others, “I’m going to need a minute alone with the suspect. Would you excuse us?” The local cops hesitated until the other FBI agent stuck his shovel upright in the ground and ushered them back toward the cars.

  Nathaniel tried to look away, but Tom took him firmly by both shoulders. “Why did you do this, Nathaniel? You weren’t supposed to do this.”

  Nathaniel’s mad smile faltered. “How do you know my name?” He leaned closer to Tom, who took an involuntary step backward. “Have I met you?”

  “She never did a thing to you! How am I supposed to explain this?” Kajdas let go of Nathaniel’s shoulders and walked away from him, running a hand through his sweaty gray hair in frustration. “She was married. Nice young guy. This is going to kill him.”

  Nathaniel looked at the grave and shook his head. “Not kill him.” The pink-tinged light of the sunrise was reflected in his eyes. Ed could see, just for an instant, an odd resemblance to the ceramic creature Nathaniel had used as the entryway into his mind.

  Ed’s mind was racing. Tom knew the murderer. The way he spoke to Nathaniel, that much was clear. You weren’t supposed to do this, he had said, as though there was something else that Nathaniel was supposed to do.

  “Nathaniel,” Tom said, his voice taking on a more comradely tone that Ed found disturbingly familiar, “I need you to tell me something. Nathaniel, listen to me.”

  The killer, who had been humming a quiet tune, looked at Tom again.

  “Nathaniel, do you know who I am? Have you ever seen me before?”

  Nathaniel frowned as he gazed into Tom’s eyes. For an instant, Ed saw recognition in his thin, drawn face. Recognition touched with fear. Half a second later, his gaze became blank once more. “I don’t know you.”

  “Tell me why you did this. You’ve never done any violence before. Why now?”

  “I had to call him. To break the cycle.”

  “You’re not making any sense. I asked you why you killed this girl.”

  “To become him,” Nathaniel replied. “To save the world.”

  Tom stared into Nathaniel’s eyes for a long time. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “Pick up that shovel,” he said.

  Nathaniel glanced at the shovel, sticking vertically out of the ground where the other agent had left it.

  “Pick it up.”

  Hesitantly, Nathaniel walked to the shovel and picked it up.

  “Now hold it up high.” Nathaniel obeyed, still looking puzzled. His puzzled expression turned to one of alarm as Tom drew his automatic and pointed it at Nathaniel’s chest. Nathaniel lunged to his left at the moment Tom pulled the trigger. A spray of blood erupted from Nathaniel’s right arm as he leapt over a prickly bush and ran into the tall grass, still carrying the shovel. He had to take comically high steps to avoid the thorny brush. It was like he was dancing, like something from an Ingmar Bergman film Ed had seen once. Tom took another shot and missed, then ran after Nathaniel—or tried to run, but the underbrush was so dense that he could only pick his way through with some difficulty. Ed followed, using the path that Tom cleared.

  Ed heard a shout behind him. The other agent and the police officers had heard the gunshots and were running across the clearing, guns drawn, to assist.

  Tom was gaining ground on his quarry. Nathaniel, hampered by his injured arm, was struggling against the prickly bushes that blocked his path. As the agent planted his feet and aimed his weapon again, Nathaniel suddenly wheeled about and charged him, swinging the shovel wildly with his left hand. He knocked the pistol out of Tom’s hand, sending it tumbling into the weeds.

  Nathaniel was already bringing the shovel back around, but with his injured arm, his movement was clumsy. Tom darted forward and yanked it from his grip. With a grunt of effort, Kajdas swung the shovel’s blade with all his strength at Nathaniel’s face. The impact whipped Nathaniel’s head around, his whole body jerking as he fell. He lay at Tom’s feet, writhing and moaning, while Kajdas raised the shovel to deal another blow.

  “Tom!” the other agent called out. The three men were working their way through the weeds. Kajdas stopped himself and lowered the shovel.

  Ed stumbled over to where Nathaniel lay. The drifter’s face was a bloody mess. He rolled over, panting and groaning, blood streaming from his slashed face to collect in a puddle on the ground. The blood didn’t soak into the earth; it rolled across the hard surface like mercury on a tabletop. Where Nathaniel’s eye had been, there was only meaty flesh hanging off his face in ribbons. Ed retched and had to walk away.

  “Get him out of here,” Kajdas rasped. While the two police officers handcuffed Nathaniel and pulled him to his feet, Tom took his colleague aside. “Don’t let them talk to him,” he told the agent. “Take him into federal custody. I’ll call Albert and meet you at the office.” The agent nodded and set off after the ot
hers.

  When Ed came back to Eleanor’s grave, he found the gnome looking at the mound of dirt with its blank ceramic stare.

  I can remember now, it said.

  “Go to hell,” Ed replied.

  I’m already there.

  * * *

  Arthur let go of his head. Ed reeled for a moment, disoriented. He wasn’t in a field; he was in the bedroom in Arthur’s house.

  “Did you see anything interesting?” Arthur asked with a knowing smile. He folded his arms and watched Ed with a haughty expression that made Ed want to punch him. “Take a seat. You look bushed.”

  Ed fought down the urge to attack him; he knew things wouldn’t go well for him if he tried. Instead he paced the floor like an animal, shaking with fury. “It was Nathaniel,” he said. “You knew it was Nathaniel. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t the Guru tell me?”

  Arthur unfolded his arms and raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t know why the Guru wouldn’t tell you. I tried to, didn’t I? But you had to see it to believe it.”

  Ed ignored him. “And Tom knew him! He knew that murderer before any of it happened. But Nathaniel didn’t remember him.”

  “Nathaniel’s memories are tricky. Hard to pin down.”

  “How did they know each other?”

  Arthur sat down on the bed. “Not long after I found Nathaniel and brought him to stay with me, he disappeared. I tried to maintain contact with him, but eventually I couldn’t reach him anymore. He was gone about six months, and when he showed up again, he told me he couldn’t remember where he’d been. It took me months to put him back together. My attempts to dig out his memories only brought out bits and pieces. I figured out that Nathaniel spent some time with Kajdas and his pals. They turned him into an animal.”