Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  He came now to the fence and tried first to climb over it, but he was hampered by his injured arm and leg; he ended up sticking his head between the second and third wires and trying to scramble through them. One of the barbs caught hold of his sling and ripped along its underside, slicing through some two thirds of it. He stood on the other side of the fence, noticing, as he always did, the slight difference between this consecrated ground and that which he’d just left. The sling could no longer support his arm, so he held it to his chest, the rags dangling, and continued on. There was no choice. There was no time.

  He turned to the left and moved downhill, stumbling sometimes on rocks and roots, his mouth open, panting. He felt like an unwelcome guest at a cocktail party; all around him the many whispered conversations were taking place, both inside his head and out of it. He wanted to shout for them to be quiet. To return to their normal lifeless state. He knew that they were talking about him, and all the while desperation was growing within him. He felt that as fast as he came, it didn’t matter. He would be too late. He knew he was coming toward The Bottoms, partially from the changing of the ground under his feet, which was becoming gradually softer again, partially from the smell that he’d come to know so well, a smell that he somehow enjoyed even though it was also repulsive. The smell of rich earth and aquatic life oozing and thriving in the slime ridden channels deep underground. Bubbling to the surface to form the still and quiet ponds to which Daddy served as caretaker. He could hear the noise, becoming louder, of those many forms of animal and insect swamp dweller. They were all awake, this night, and joyful. Ecstatic to see him out at this hour. Glad of this rare opportunity for a show. He whispered a thousand curses to them.

  The mud was hot between the toes of his bare feet. He could feel, with his newfound notice of the natural functions occurring around him, a mosquito landing on his right shoulder by the base of the neck. A moment later feeding on his blood. At first he did not swat it away. It rode with him, and he could feel his energy, his raw and untainted essence, passing into the other tiny body, providing fuel, sustenance. He could feel it growing complacent as it fed. And then, just as he sensed that it was nearing the end of its meal, he slapped at his shoulder, smiling a gross and heathen smile as he drew his hand away to see the smashed wings, the crushed abdomen. The bright spot of arterial red. He looked up. He had come. He had arrived.

  Ahead of him stood the thick and unyielding wall of reeds, like prison bars between him and Daddy’s private playground, the man’s home away from home, his court with its attendants of flora and fauna that he knew all the customs of and the names for. He limped up toward them, still holding his arm with the ragged remains of the sling against his chest, and felt along them for a spot where he could squeeze through. He had left the comfort of solid ground and he could feel the muck pulling at his legs; if he remained standing in one spot for too long he sunk down to his knees. Every step was a labor, and as he found a chink between two of the stout growths and pushed his way past them he looked back to see the deep depressions his steps had made slowly filling up. Winged insects, midges and gnats chasing each other in buzzing circles over each one.

  He was in the reeds now, feeling the same sense of claustrophobia he always did, the sense that he was isolated and apart from the rest of the world, hemmed in on all sides. But he did not stop to dwell on his feelings of unease; already he felt he might be too late, and there was no time for further delay, no time for thought, for anything. He slogged forward, using the hand of his good arm to shove his way through the most impenetrable section of vegetation. Some waterfowl, disturbed by his passing, went crashing and shrieking out of sight, calling out again and again its harsh warning. And then he was wading through the shallows, covered in the muck and the mire, his pants dripping, several times their normal weight, threatening to fall off; he clutched at them with the one hand. His shirt flecked with fragrant mud. The pure white light of the moon and the stars in the cloudless sky lit the scene as though it were day. The rhythmic thump of the bullfrogs like a musician keeping an awkward time.

  There were two, waiting for him. His own sister, the youngest of the Surrey children, whom he loved with a strength that he was not entirely able to understand, a strength so great at times it caused him physical pain, for which he felt he could endure anything. She stood in the shadows of the trees, their branches throwing soft kaleidoscope patterns across her face. Her eyes were open but did not see. Her expression was not like Casey’s had been, full of the fierce and uncompromising desire to please. He could not read her. She was emotionless, as one dead. The other was the man he’d once called friend, who he had considered following blindly, who had torn a veil from his eyes that could not now be replaced. He stood on the bank, fully in the light, between Tad and his sister, and when Tad saw the outfit he’d chosen for the occasion, he could not help but smile bitterly. Daddy was dressed as Satan, in a red tunic and boots, complete with a barbed tail snaking out behind him, and a horned cap. Sequins glittered across his chest and along his knuckles. He grasped in one hand a black staff, planted in the ground, topped with a skull, yellowed with age, of what animal Tad could not say. His face was painted red, with a curving white mouth that only accentuated that awful grin; his lips were the red of overly ripe berries, and he ran his long tongue along them, slowly and grotesque, his eyes goggled out, red veins plain against the white, and his hunched shoulders shook with the silent glee he could not contain. Tad could feel again the wrongness of the man. This close it came emanating from him in waves. It was dizzying; it made his eyes water. And all around him the heat and the energy crackled and fizzed like the chemical reactions of some child’s science experiment. He was a plague and a cancer to these woods, a canker. He raised his arms, staff in hand, and Tad felt him calling down all the suffocating power of ten solid, rainless weeks. The heat rushed in around them, wrinkling the sky. The trees moaned. He staggered, holding his good arm out as if he could use it alone to hold back the will of the man in red. But he did not fall. And using all he had, all that he had learned, he forced himself to raise his lips into a smile. “That outfit is a little much,” he said. “Even for you. But I suppose I’m forgetting who I was talking to, aren’t I? You’re the crown prince of excess, isn’t that right? You’ve dedicated your whole sad, pointless existence to it.”

  Daddy giggled, his shoulders fluttering. “Now what kind of a way is that for you to talk?” His voice tonight was smooth as an oil slick. “Sad and pointless? I bring joy to the world, Grumpy Gus! What would your life be without dear old Daddy?”

  “Boring. Normal and boring, the way I like it. The way it was before. But it can never be that way again, can it? I’m contaminated now, aren’t I? Infected. Like you.” Daddy’s smile widened, if that were possible. Daisy had not moved. It was as if she’d been turned to stone. “So you bring joy, do you? Who are you, Santa Claus? That’s not his outfit you’ve got on. But you’re not Satan, don’t you see that, and you’re not any of the other characters you play. You’re not your father. You’re not “Daddy.” You’re James Crawley. No more, no less.” Daddy’s smile flickered slightly at the mention of the name, like a nervous tick. Tad saw it, though he gave no sign. “But it’s not enough for you, is it? It will never be. You need to play dress up to feel real; you need to speak in different voices, you need your tea time and your hide and seek and your orgiastic parties. And you need pain, don’t you, the suffering of others, you crave it. It’s the tribute you demand for your friendship.” He was looking down at the ground, talking as much to himself now as he was to the costumed figure before him. “Have I ever even heard your real voice? Do you have one?” He looked up again, meeting unflinchingly the bulging eyes in the red face. “There’s no one else around, James. Why don’t you speak to me in your real voice, for once? Why don’t you wipe that paint off your face?”

  When Daddy spoke, his voice had indeed changed. When he began the sentence it was high and reedy, but by the end it had
dropped down to a growl, a rumble that Tad could feel vibrating beneath the ground, shaking the branches. “I told you not to call me that, damn you! My name is not James. Hem, ahem! I am the evolution of James Crawley; I have moved beyond him.” His neck jerked, involuntarily, once, twice. Tad could see his fingers trembling.

  He’s barely in control, switching from one persona to another. Like flipping through channels. Talking about his past infuriates him; he can’t bear for me to speak about his father, or to hear his true name spoken. All Tad was concerned about was Daisy. His own safety didn’t matter. But Daddy stood between the two of them, and although Tad couldn’t actually see anything that was physically capable of harming his sister, he could sense the tension in the invisible filaments that hung in the air. Everything was charged, every plant, every wilted leaf, every particle was poised to rip itself apart. If he moved to help her, Daddy would spring the trap. When he spoke again, there was a tremor in his own voice. He felt so helpless, so alone, so betrayed. And so very weary. He just wanted this over and done with. He wanted the threat gone forever. And if it meant giving himself to Daddy, submitting, once and for all, if it meant that Daisy would be okay, then maybe he should just do it. Do it and be done. “Why don’t you just leave us alone? Why don’t you let me take my sister and go home? Leave us be, just leave us in peace. Go back to that decaying castle of yours, put me out of your mind, and I will never trespass in your domain again.” He looked into those merciless eyes and choked back a sob, because he knew what he asked was futile. He ended in a lament, because he already knew the answer. “Won’t you please just leave us alone?”

  The answer was all the more horrible because of how gentle it was. “But I can’t do that, ahem, don’t you see? You’re my prize, you don’t know how special you are. I can’t allow you to squander your gifts, living with these, these…” He gestured with his hand toward Daisy, looking her scornfully up and down. “…these pigs, swine. Hem! They don’t know what you are, what you’re capable of. Only I do. I know it is hard, but you must trust me. You must…”

  “But I don’t!” Tad screamed. “I don’t trust you! I’ve seen who you are, behind the theatrics and the paint! I’ve seen how black your heart is, I’ve seen your soul! You’re a perversion, misfit, freak! Trouble us no more!” Something was happening again, born of his anger. He could feel it swirling around him, a miasma that flickered and pulsed, seething, urging him to take action. Stitch had seen it rise in him and feared it and done his bidding. But Daddy was not afraid, for though he could sense it too (and see it, much more plainly than Tad could), he knew the boy was not capable of harnessing his own power. He did not know how.

  “I’ll speak it plain,” he said, giggling. His face and neck jerked and twitched, his fingers shook as he held them out. What a prize the boy was! And he would have him now. There would be no mistake. “This girl, the life of this skinny, thin-legged meat sack, waste of oxygen, for yours. A fair trade. I will release this little butterfly. She can flutter away. It’s very simple. This is all you must do. Kneel down.” Tad’s whole body was trembling with the very power of his hate. He wanted to run at Daddy, the source, the embodiment of it all, and pummel him with his fists, knock him to the ground, stomp him with his bare feet, rip the very horns from his head. But he could not. He could not. And he found himself dropping to his knees. The trees shook as a hot wind blew through their stifled branches. The rhythmic chorus of the bullfrogs thumped like tribal drums. The insects chased each other in circles with agonizing slowness. Daddy raised his staff on high, holding out both arms in a state of pure bliss, taking it all in and making it a part of him, the sky, the trees and animals and insects, the very air. They were all his. He controlled all. Tad was not fighting one man alone. He was fighting a force of nature on Daddy’s own consecrated ground, where his shaman father held sway, and will power was not enough. “Repeat these words. I do pledge myself to you, body and soul, and make of myself an empty vessel.”

  “I do pledge myself to you, body and soul, and make of myself an empty vessel.”

  “Servitude without question, obedience in this life and the next, to you, my true and only master.”

  “Servitude without question, obedience in this life and the next, to you, my true and only master.”

  Daddy came forward, with the regal bearing of a monarch in a throne room, and held out the staff, touching the skull to Tad’s forehead. The bone was smooth and cool, a comfort in the agonizing heat. He could feel a great sense of peace growing within him as he repeated the words. Why had he been afraid? Everything was going to be okay after all. “Say now that you agree, and bind yourself to me for all time. Take up the mantle of the follower, and leave all else behind you.”

  All he had to do was say the two words. I agree. Daddy’s eyes were all he could see, like in his dream, two palely glowing orbs, disembodied, hovering in the air above him. The thump of the frogs, the buzz of the insects was like thunder in his ears. The world wavered. “I…I…”

  “Stop.”

  The cool surface of the staff was taken away as Daddy spun around, and for Tad, the world blinked slowly back into focus. He shook his head, trying to clear it. It was Daisy who had spoken. She had drawn herself up to her full if not imposing height, and the glazed look was gone from her eyes; they sparkled with all the light of intelligence and perception. She had stepped out of the shadows of the trees, and now stood on the shore, her back to the pond, arms folded across her chest. Daddy’s face showed clearly his frustration at yet another interruption, at this most critical of junctures, no less. “What are you doing?” he hissed, his face and hands jerking sporadically. He made an impatient pass of his hand in Daisy’s direction, and Tad, still on his knees, could feel something happening, a change in the quality of the air as an invisible energy moved through it for some malicious purpose. But Daisy waved her hand through the air in return, as if swatting a fly, and Daddy recoiled, as if stung. A sharp intake of breath escaped his lips. Daisy only smiled, and it was a smile unlike any Tad had seen before on the face of his younger sister. There was pity in it, and sorrow too, but it held a hardness underneath that was inconceivable in one so young.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “I don’t care to be held in your power, Daddy, or whatever other name you wish to call yourself. It doesn’t matter a lick to me.” She stood, with that smile playing on her edges of her mouth, and faced down the painted man. “At last we meet; it was inevitable. I have anticipated this moment for a long time, ever since my brother first spoke of meeting a harlequin vagabond with a silver tongue. He is more easily impressed than I, although I don’t fault him for it. I like to remain more rooted in pragmatism, at least until it fails utterly.” Daddy didn’t seem sure of what was the best action to take. He stood clutching his staff with both hands, running his tongue over his lips and twitching and muttering. He looked from Daisy back to Tad and then back to Daisy again. “And there are situations where it does fail. Totally. Utterly.” She chuckled, a completely mirthless chuckle meant only for herself. “Look who I’m trying to explain that too. Forget it. It doesn’t matter. The point is that you can’t have my brother, or myself, or even Casey. And it’s not enough just to ask you to go away, is it... you would never allow it to end that way, would you? I know you wouldn’t, because I know you better than you know yourself...I can see you. I can see you perfectly well.” She looked away, at the swamp behind her, at the slime-choked water and the flashes of the lightning bugs, and Tad could see that her grim smile had softened. She looked merely tired, weary in the way that this affair had made him feel too. “But maybe,” she said, very softly “if I asked you just nice enough, you would go away.”

  And then it was Daddy’s turn to chuckle again, an ugly sound. “You think so, little girl, ahem, yes? Then you are more foolish than…”

  “No. It is you who are foolish. And for all your power, blind.” They stood there on the shore, their eyes locked, in their own world for
a time, Tad momentarily forgotten. He remained on his knees, feeling, though he knew not why, that things had been taken out of his hands again. The stare down had brought back unpleasant memories of Much’s fate at Decadence. All that was missing was the raucous crowd. This was ever so much more intimate, more personal. As on that other occasion, he felt himself being transported from the realm of his personal experience, coasting along an unfamiliar highway at night, without headlights, hearing only the sound of the wind in his own ears. A hush and a calm, here, and then Daisy spoke again, her voice strong and sure. “Just go away.”

  “No.”

  “Just go away.”

  “No.” And then, all at once, something began to happen. Tad, learning in much the same way a child takes his first steps, was becoming more and more in tune with alterations that took place near to him, changes in his surroundings or even in the empty air that the naked eye could not see. It began in such a way; he could sense but not see energy gathering around the unmoving form of his younger sister. She kept her eyes on Daddy’s face. Her own was expressionless. She could have been concentrating, or she might have been merely bored. It was hard to say. Tad was frightened, and that made it difficult for him to clear his own mind, but he heard, as before, Stitch’s voice speaking to him: Concentrate on your breathing. It all starts with the breathing. He nodded, and then he took as deep of a breath as he was able, then another, forcing his heart rate to slow. He tried to clear his mind, forget his fear, forget the physical, and allow himself to enter the mental plane, that place of internal stillness. And then he became aware of opposing forces. They extended, via the invisible filaments that stretched through the air, connecting every object to one another, coming from Daddy, from his sister. They were taking stock of each other, probing at one another in much the same way that two people under the effects of Essence can do. And at the same time they had both begun to move, slowly, circling each other like duelists before the first meeting of the blades, or like bull and matador, but who was which, here? Daisy’s face remained unreadable, but she kept her eyes on Daddy’s, and her body language seemed relaxed. Not so with Daddy. His face was contorted in a snarl, and his eyes were narrowed to slits. Every so often his head jerked of its own accord, as it did whenever he made one of his odd little noises.