Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  Tad swallowed, hard. To think that he had drunk the stuff, without stopping to ask or to ponder what the consequences might be! But he had been under the spell of Decadence, drunk already on the gaudy power of that atmosphere. “But I thought you said that there were only certain times when Essence was accessible. How is it that Daddy has an unlimited source?”

  “To those who are willing to wait for the natural allowance, it is indeed available only for the one night, every seven years, though one of the many enchantments on this place makes that night stretch longer than any other. But James has ways of getting what he wants from the earth, and he knows how to siphon the Essence off at other times too. But again, it is a naturally occurring cycle he is challenging, and no good can ever come of that. He gets what he needs, but it is tainted and impure, like moonshine that will make you blind. He is raping the earth, not harvesting from it. And he does not care.”

  From somewhere in Tad’s mind came a chuckle, like muffled laughter from the bottom of a well, though he hadn’t found the last statement funny at all. There was a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, like the sudden exposure of his ignorance, the acute embarrassment when the teacher called on him and he’d been daydreaming. “Stitch,” he said huskily. “How long does it take for the voices to go away? I didn’t have that much, and I’ll never have any more!”

  “Never,” came the prompt reply. And a moment later, as the boy was standing with his mouth open, seemingly unable to respond, “Told you that you wouldn’t like my answers very much. This isn’t like alcohol, where the worst you’ll be dealing with is a bad hangover for a few hours after overindulging. Once it’s in you, it’s in you, and it doesn’t go away. The voices don’t stop. I’ve always thought of it as sort of like being schizophrenic, only there’s no medicine to control the outbreaks. There’s not a whole lot you can do about it, it’s just that if the voices happen to be telling you to murder your family with an axe, you might want to consider it carefully before going through with it. The best recommendation I can give you is to try to make friends with them. If my theory is correct, and these are manifestations of your subconscious given voice, then they’ve always been a part of you anyway. You might even say that you’re more in touch with yourself than the average person.” He clapped his hands together loudly. “You are liberated, my son! Huzza! You have cast off your mental shackles!”

  “Forgive me,” Tad said, “if I don’t share your levity. You’re telling me that I’ll have to live with this for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s not the half of it. You may not be addicted, like James, but once you’ve tasted the stuff, even the tiniest drop, you will have an unquenchable craving for it for the rest of your natural life. That’s why so many people who have been to one Decadence event find their way back here every seven years. It’s not for the ambiance, I assure you.” He chortled, obviously highly pleased with himself.

  Tad felt only sick. It was like being diagnosed with an incurable disease. Even if he could find a way to rid himself of Daddy’s attentions, he would bear the scar of their meeting forever. The voices would never be silent. Even as he thought it, he could hear them tittering away again. And the anger returned, hot, righteous anger, flooding his extremities, kindling the fire behind his gold-infused, hazel eyes. When he spoke again, the tone of his voice made Stitch’s laughter stop. If Tad had been in his presence, it probably would have elicited a closer look from his father than Walt was accustomed to giving him. It might even have stopped Casey from pounding on him for a moment. “I have only one more question,” he said. “Daddy…wants me. Yes?”

  “Yes…”

  “To do what, exactly? He wants me in a sexual way, doesn’t he, or is it something more than that? What is he, a fruit?” This was one of Walt’s words. He’d heard his father use it on a number of occasions, and he regretted doing so immediately after having said it.

  Stitch appeared to give this matter some thought, his hands continuing their work. “You’re young,” he said at last. “Fantastically bright, and inquisitive, but still, very young. I don’t expect you to understand this completely. Daddy…is not a “fruit”, nor is he straight, or bisexual, or any other convenient classification that you might hear thrown around in polite society. He is simply…a dynamo of rampant sexuality…like a…a…” he struggled for the words, going so far as to drop the knitting and pluck at the air with one hand, as if he would snatch the proper term from it. “…a vampire of carnality. It is yet another of his addictions. His attraction extends beyond gender, or even species. Man, woman, animal, or object, if he can conceive of a way to violate it, he will do so. The man is a pervert in every sense of the word, but what he hungers for more than anything else is vitality. It’s like I was telling you before, if he sees the spark, the life in someone or something, then he wants to posses it and take it for his own. He is not willing to share it with them. He is intent on sucking them dry, and then he casts them aside like a melon rind. I’ve seen him do it before, to many who have caught his eye. And once you have caught his eye, he will pursue you relentlessly. I don’t mind telling you, I wouldn’t be in your position for the world. The fact that you resisted, and the fact that you posses the certain unique qualities that you do, all mean that he won’t let up until he’s taken what he wants. He wants you subservient to him, and I’m sure he’s made promises to you how you might benefit from the arrangement.” He paused, and when Tad nodded, he continued. “I thought as much. Believe me when I tell you, it is all lies. All he has to offer is misery, degradation, and humiliation. Those are his gifts. He fancies himself many things- seer, philosopher, man of the world, pillar of taste and sophistication. But he is a harbinger of chaos, an outcast, a rabid dog, and you’ve gotten too close. I’m sorry for you. I can’t tell you what he’s going to do next, because he probably doesn’t know himself. He is predictable only in his unpredictability. And you’re going to have to find a way to deal with him.”

  Stitch’s words had an air of great finality. As he spoke them, Tad felt a sense of despair, heavy and bleak, settle around his shoulders like a blanket. The more he’d heard about the threat facing him, the more hopeless it seemed. It was all he could do to give voice to his thoughts. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” he said miserably. “You know him better than anyone, I’d imagine. What can I do against him?”

  Stitch took his time answering again. The movements of his hands deliberate. “I don’t know what more I can tell you that might be of use. I’ve told you the secrets behind a couple of the tricks in his arsenal, but there are many more. He is a master of influence and treachery. Even if you keep yourself locked away from him mentally so that he can’t locate you so easily, he has other ways of finding you, and of invading your mind. He knows these woods like the back of his hand, and they obey him; when you are among them, you must always assume he has the upper hand. The best I can tell you is this. Like James, you seem to know intuitively and inherently how to utilize skills that many others do not. What I’ve seen you accomplish only in the course of this afternoon it would take the majority of the normals hours and days of practice and study to match, if they could even do it at all. If you feel in your mind that there is something you can do that will be of help to you, my advice is this- do it, even if it seems illogical or you don’t see the sense in it. You don’t have anything to lose.”

  “There was a time not too long ago that I might have agreed with you,” Tad said, taking a step toward the door. “But now I’m not so sure.”

  Stitch shrugged. “Whatever happens, I wish the best for you. Truly. I wish I could do more.” He rose and extended his hand, and Tad allowed it to engulf his, wordlessly. “I like you, my lad. I see something in you that reminds me of the long ago, and it makes me smile. Why don’t you take this? I finished it just now.” He handed Tad the object made of dark cloth that he’d been working on, and without saying anything further he walked through the doorway on the right and further into
the interior of the house. Tad could hear his heavy footsteps, and a moment later they had become only one of the many noises signifying movements in the house by other entities he could not see. He strode out into the sunshine and was engulfed by the dismal heat of the late afternoon that raked his face with talons of light. It was only when he’d stepped out into the waste high grass that he looked down at what Stitch had given him, stretching it out to its full length. It was a shroud.

  Scrimmage

  He walked back with his mind filled to bursting, so much so that he felt he could not keep all his thoughts contained. So that if he stopped to look back there would be a trail of them that had scattered behind him along the wooded ground. So much he had wanted to know, and now he knew, but the answers ranged from the perplexing to the horrific. He shuffled along, occasionally casting glances at the trees and undergrowth, checking for any signs of malice. As if they would suddenly reveal themselves in Daddy’s employ, going about some dread purpose. He held tentatively to the fragile mental state that kept his mind blocked from intruders, but he felt no safer. The shroud thrown over one shoulder, sometimes slipping off to stir the long-dead fallen leaves.

  He came out from the woods right at the normally scheduled dinner hour, just by chance. He’d been in such a state that the appearance of the house came as a surprise to him, and he stood on the driveway blinking at it for a few moments before he was able to get his legs moving again. In the time it had taken him to walk back he’d come to believe that the power of the story he’d heard would be enough to sweep away all that had been familiar to him. He’d half expected to never meet another living soul. He’d thought that he would be left to wander the wilderness forever, bereft of the possibility of any joy, of any hopeful expectation for the future at all. But reality intervened, appearing on the porch in the form of his mother, and when she called for him to come in wash up for the meal, he did so without complaint, and he found that he was grateful to see her, for the first time in a long time.

  They were four for dinner. Casey was absent, and Tad, seated next to Daisy with an air of contentment, wondered if this was another aberration or perhaps the beginning of a new trend, when The Governing Principles no longer applied, and they could all come and go as they wished. More likely it was yet another example of the greater freedom that came with being the eldest child, but it had been a full and harrowing day, and he was not in the mood to question too deeply. After this day, it was enough to pretend that he was back in the same atmosphere that he knew so well, and he was content to say the same things that had been said so often before and to make the motions so steeped in familiarity and the mundane; here, everything was visible and firmly rooted in reality. He could almost have fooled himself into believing that it was the time before, except he could feel the new knowledge, the new things he’d experienced and heard, pressing in around him closely. He thought back to other times in his life when he’d had a big secret to keep, and he vaguely remembered that when he had, he’d felt when others were around as though it were percolating, bubbling inside him like a pot on the boil, ready at any moment to spew out and be exposed to the light of day. This was different. Here, the secrets were like unwelcome guests seated all about the room, and it was only a matter of time before a family member elbowed one of them in the ribs. And he found it strange that he should feel this way, when for so long he had wished for some excitement so much that he’d needed to invent fantasy worlds to run away to, fantasy worlds that had encompassed his whole reality. In his peripheral vision he watched the three other human beings in the room going about their small lives, until Daisy, who’d eaten as sparingly as ever, excused herself and he followed her upstairs.

  Of course she wanted to know everything that had transpired. He tried to be forthcoming, but it was slow going. He wasn’t being intentionally reticent, it was just that he had trouble even recalling some of the language Stitch had used to describe certain episodes of his life, and he didn’t have any of his own vocabulary to adequately substitute for it. But he emphasized the same parts of the story that Stitch had, and he described in detail the other man’s mental and emotional state during the most critical bits. Daisy played the attentive listener again, seated among the blankets with her eyes open as wide as they would go, her jaw set, nodding slightly at places. It took some time, even the abbreviated version, and as he went along the evening settled languidly over the house.

  When it came to the lesson in Tad’s newly discovered talents, he had even more trouble describing how it had gone. But he tried to do so to the best of his abilities, closing his eyes as he recalled the dizzying sensation of shooting out from his body, light and insubstantial, and then wafting like smoke in an updraft with the green blur of the trees below, drawn with unwavering magnetism toward the target, the person he was aiming toward among the millions of others that shone a single beacon lit among the dim and drifting fogs of that other plane. And he remembered the thrill of movement and of mastering a new skill that he’d been unaware of possessing until that moment, like discovering a use for a limb that had previously been thought of as useless. Daisy did not comment, and her expression was unreadable. If she was surprised by what he said it did not register, nor could he tell whether she approved or disapproved of any of it- Stitch, and Madeline and Remy, and their “vulgar art,” or the mysticism that had intertwined with it to form the very unique atmosphere that had given birth to Daddy, the outcast in the woods, as surely as Madeline herself had. When he’d finally finished, tired of the rise and fall of his own voice, he sat and studied the subtle interplay of greens and blues in the aquatic portion of the mural on the wall, while the silence lengthened in the room under the eaves until Daisy rose quietly to pad across the floor in her bare feet and strike a match from a book of them she produced from somewhere on her person. There were many candles about, and she circled the place, stooping to light each one in turn, before returning to sit where she’d been before. Only then did she say something, and her voice gave Tad a jolt, as he’d been having an impromptu conference with some of his new acquaintances. He sighed and asked her to repeat herself. “Are you afraid?” she said again.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I’m feeling a lot of things right now, and one of them is most definitely fear.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve felt good, in this whole affair, since I took it upon myself to be proactive and take steps that I thought would protect myself. And…others who might be in danger.”

  “Others like me, you mean.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling despite himself. There was just no hiding things from her, or softening them. “Others like you.”

  “So you think I’m in trouble, then.” She sniffed. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

  He wanted to smile again, but her face and tone of voice wouldn’t allow it. “Listen. I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself. It’s not my intention to belittle you. But haven’t you been listening to everything I’ve been saying? This isn’t just some schoolyard bully who’s after your lunch money and is going to push you down if you don’t cooperate.”

  “You’re wrong. That’s exactly what he is.”

  He shook his head, exasperated. “No. This is a dangerously demented lunatic, with powers of the mind to call on at will. He can control his environment and bend it to his bidding; he can invade your mind and screw you up until you’re in real physical danger.” She sat silent and watching him with her eyes hot, arms folded across her tiny chest. He wanted to grab her and shake her. “Your mind, Daze, your mind! He can crawl inside it when you’re asleep and your guard is down. He can trigger another episode, Daze! Just like before!” She blinked, stunned. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her directly about her condition, and he was instantly ashamed. But he hadn’t known how else to get his point across but to break the taboo.

  “Get out of here,” she whispered.

  He held a hand out toward her
, rising to his knees. “Daze…”

  She was on her feet in a flash, stepping over to him and slapping the hand aside. “You’ve really gone and done it this time,” she said. He hadn’t meant to say what he had, but this anger from her was unexpected. He’d thought she’d be sympathetic, more frightened than he was. Instead he was faced with this tiny firebrand. “You had to go meddling in things that didn’t concern you, and now you see what happens. You see?” Her voice shrill, and he shrank from it. “You see what happens?!” She turned on her heel and walked back to her blankets, dropping down cross legged again and glaring at him from the shadows. “Go away,” she said. “You and your fucking voices. You tried to use me as your noble cause, did you? You tried to pawn me off as an excuse not to be with him. Well, don’t do me any favors. Make decisions for yourself from now on, okay, and leave me out of it. I hope that you are frightened, I really do, because it sounds to me like you’re just about into it up to your neck. Well, you’ve always been such the creative one. Let’s so if you can come up with a way to deal with the mess you’ve made.” She made a dismissive gesture with your hand. “Go on.” Slowly he stood and walked over to the ladder. He looked back, but she had taken up one of her books and was pretending to be reading. He didn’t want to leave things this way, but when she got like this he knew there was no point in trying to reason with her, so he went slowly down. When the trapdoor closed, Daisy immediately threw the book aside and her face dissolved in tears. Wrapping the blankets tightly around her gaunt frame, she set about burying herself in them as effectively as possible. Her shapeless shadow on the wall rocking back and forth like a hibernating bear trundling itself into the corner of a cave in anticipation of the long winter to come.