by Hal Bodner
He hoisted his mug, and the assembled guests gleefully toasted whatever they thought Eb had said. Brandt spoke again.
“Perhaps you would be so good as to start, then.”
Armin let out an involuntary groan.
“Going back as far as I can recall,” Eb started, “this being at least a whole two weeks …” He paused while the assembled revelers laughed. “ … Arm and I were in town, doing some repair work, and I said to him, ‘Arm, how far you think I can spit?’”
It was far from the kind of story Armin thought his new father-in-law would approve of, though the miller listened and seemed to be as entertained as any of the villagers. Armin chewed his meat and thought about what he would say during his turn. He didn’t have Eb’s facility for making a few minutes foolery seem like the most hilarious time ever, and he doubted he should attempt anything profound. Likely, he thought, he would have to settle for a simple description of the first time he met Viveka.
Neither Otto nor Heidi was among Eb’s audience, a fact that bothered Armin. It was one thing for Otto to have gone off with the barmaid for a private tryst, but another for him to lose track of time and fail to show. At least, he hoped that was what happened—the possibility they had met some misfortune while alone in the woods was an idea which refused to go away.
He glanced at his bride, and realized she had become withdrawn. Her eyes were downcast, and her lips slowly moved, as if reciting a prayer. She clutched something tight with both hands.
For a moment, he thought her abashed at what she heard—a tale of a simple misunderstanding that had nearly gotten both him and Eb arrested—but concluded she entirely disregarded the story. It was as if she were trying to summon something from within herself. Perhaps, like he, she was trying to think of a story.
Then she opened her eyes, and those sharp green pools drank him in. He almost missed the tiny upward curl of the edge of her mouth.
The villagers applauded, and Armin realized Eb had finished. Brandt Muller waved his hands to urge quiet as the large man sat down.
“Thank you, Eberhard,” he said. “Now I know why you always hid while I asked around about Armin’s character.”
Armin laughed, and hoped he didn’t sound nervous.
“Now, who would like to speak next?” Brandt asked.
Several people murmured, but none volunteered. Armin again scrutinized Viveka, who now regarded the assembled wedding party with serene calm.
“Now, sweetheart,” said Armin, “do you know no story? Tell us something.”
Viveka gave him an inscrutable look. Something was within he had never seen before in her—a mixture of amusement, love … and cunning.
“I will tell you my dream,” she said.
Armin’s mouth went dry. He nodded.
“I walked alone in the wood,” Viveka continued, “on my way to visit you, my love. Though you had marked the trail with ashes, I had doubts as to how long they would last before the wind carried them off, so I marked my own way by casting peas and lentils to either side of me as I walked, so, if necessary, I’d have a trail of budded sprouts to follow back here.” She smiled and dropped her eyes. “Rather silly, I know, but is that not the way of dreams?”
Where Eb had played to the surrounding crowd, Viveka talked in a quiet tone, as if no one was present but the two of them. Despite this, her words filled his ears, pushing outside sounds away.
“Finally, I reached the darkest part of the forest,” she went on, “I came to a dismal house. An ugly and forlorn place, but I was frightened … so I went in.”
Armin opened his mouth to protest his house was not all that terrible, but she silenced him with a raised finger.
“Sweetheart,” she said, “the dream is not ended.”
Dumbly, he nodded.
“The house was empty, and seemed to me as if the walls had seen the last of their good days. The only living thing was the bird in the cage by the door … the beautiful parrot whose ability to speak of unseen things I have heard rumored. Do you know what it told me?”
He shook his head. He felt the color leaving his cheeks.
“It said, ‘Turn back, turn back, thou pretty bride, for within this house thou must not bide, for here do evil things betide.’“
Viveka rose from her chair as she spoke, her eyes never leaving Armin.
“Or perhaps it said something else,” she said. “Perhaps it only repeated some doggerel I spoke on a whim. What do you think, my love?”
Armin managed a tiny shake of his head.
“Finally I found the cellar,” she continued. “There, I met an old woman. So I asked her if my bridegroom lived in the house. She replied, ‘Ah, my child, if he is the carpenter who pays me to cook and clean, then yes.’“
Armin realized the silence outside her voice was no longer an illusion. The entire betrothal gathering, even Eb, had gone silent. They watched as Viveka leaned closer to Armin.
“I answered, ‘Grete, you are wrong. This is a house of cut-throats. My bridegroom does live here, but he invited me to his home for the sole purpose of killing, slicing, cooking, and eating me.’”
Armin started to protest, but stopped when Viveka placed a fingertip on his lips.
“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice taking the tone of a warning, “the dream is not ended.”
He tried to answer, or even nod, but failed.
“Grete was deeply distressed when I told her these things,” Viveka said, “She wanted to flee right away, but I told her it was folly. You and your cruel gang would be home soon. They would have her set a kettle of water on the cooking fire, and have me for their stew right then and there. I told her these things, and as I spoke, she came to know they were true.”
Armin regarded her other hand, still tightly clenched, and wondered what she held. Again, he struggled to speak, and failed.
“Grete had me hide behind the great cask. ‘When the robbers are asleep,’ she said, ‘we will escape. I have been waiting a long time for an opportunity.’ ”
Armin understood then that Viveka had made Grete believe it was so, changing far-reaching memories with her hypnotic power. For as she spoke, he stared even deeper into the wide green pools of her eyes, and thought, somehow, he saw that night there. Only it was not the inside of the house he saw, but the outside door, growing close.
“Then you came in,” said Viveka. “You, Eberhard, Otto, and that bitch Heidi. So full of wine you couldn’t stand without swaying. I crouched behind the cask and watched.”
In his mind’s eye, Armin entered the house, nearly tripping as Eb shoved him over the threshold. Heidi laughed loud, while Otto let the wine bottles land in the straw. Armin watched, vision lurching, as Heidi kissed Otto hard. Eb slapped the lad on his back before pulling Armin up into a roughly vertical position.
“Sweetheart,” Viveka said, her voice floating somewhere above the phantasmal sights that now consumed him, “the dream is not ended.”
Armin had the ill sensation of being a rider in his own body. Every move he made struck him as a move he willed and one that would have happened regardless of his will. He tried to stop when Heidi leaned back to him and offered her lips. He didn’t, and found Heidi tasted of ale, wine, and something else he found intoxicating.
“So I rose,” said Viveka, “and whispered words beneath your loud carousing. Though I persuaded my father you were of our kind, I later doubted. So, I had to learn for myself.”
The four drunkenly reeled through the room, barely avoiding upsetting the kettle. Armin heard whispers beneath everything. His senses further blurred into an ecstasy that threatened not only to unravel his thoughts but also his body.
“It is said strong drink loosens one’s judgment … but as regards some things, even a loosened judgment can be too strong. I whispered that night because I had to know … if yours could be overcome.”
Armin’s blurry vision coalesced, and he realized there was an axe in his right hand. Before him Heidi bled and screamed as
Eb and Otto tore at her with knives and fingernails. He swung, striking her shoulder and cleaving through the bone.
“You became violent. She became dead. But sweetheart … the dream is not ended.”
He chopped again and again, reducing Heidi’s body to chunks. Howling, Otto threw a piece of her thigh at Eb. Eb ignored the missile as he fixated on pulling Heidi’s ring from her severed hand. Armin pulled the limb from him, threw it to the ground, and swung his axe at her fingers.
“You consumed the deepest of my whispers in the darkest of your thoughts. You experienced a new hunger.”
Armin flung pieces of Heidi toward the pot, not caring if he hit or missed. The scent of cooking meat soon filled the house, and Armin struggled to keep from plunging his hands into the water. Eb stomped about, searching for the finger with the ring. Otto cried.
“You saw me then, before the great cask. Wordlessly, I came to you, and bade you drop your weapon.”
The axe struck the ground. Armin found himself unable to turn away from Viveka’s sharp eyes. His fingers trembled on her shoulders.
“The time was at hand to show you pleasure.”
Viveka pressed herself against his chest and buried her face. He pulled her head back, and she tore the collar of her dress, baring one milk-smooth breast. Armin stared for an endless moment …
… then buried his teeth in her.
“And pleasure you took.”
He lost the ability to make sense of his vision after that, as it flew apart into blood and flesh and screams. Eb collapsed by the doorway, while Otto tore bloody strips from an unidentifiable part of Heidi. The parrot spoke a low, maddening chant that didn’t end even as Armin’s foot kicked down its cage.
“So good,” he murmured over and over, as he ripped more from Viveka’s breast. The wound, to his amazement, closed and sealed after every tear.
“Do your will,” she commanded.
She dissolved from his eyes as he kissed her bloody lips, consumed by a sea of crimson light.
“But sweetheart,” said Viveka, from within the light, “the dream is not ended.”
Her face loomed before him again, and Armin realized it was the Viveka of now. He was seated at their table, with her father, his best man, and the majority of Resau surrounding them.
He still could neither move nor speak.
She brought his hand to her chest—to the exact place he had torn flesh from her in his vision.
Beneath her dress, he felt the depression of a wound—not as deep as he had imagined, but nonetheless real. He started to shake.
“You have a choice to make,” said Viveka. “You see those around us?”
Armin looked about, only moving his eyes. He struggled to do even that, so intense was her gaze. In those fragmented glances, the villagers stared, slack-jawed and silent, entranced themselves. The beer in their mugs was forgotten, along with their plates of meat and bread.
“When I tell you the dream is not ended,” she said, “I talk of their dream. In it, I have come to visit you for the first time, as I described at the start. I met Grete, and she warned me of the terrible band of robbers and cannibals who held her prisoner. We watched, horrified, as you cut up poor Heidi and ate her. All except for her finger … and her ring.”
Viveka opened her left hand, revealing a slender severed finger. Heidi’s ring, though tarnished and stained with blood, was unmistakable.
“If you agree to become as I am,” Viveka went on, “they will not remember the story I compelled them to hear. You will later undergo a ritual, in which you will become as my father and I are. Long life and ease of healing will be yours. The ability to mesmerize and compel will be yours.” She gave him a light kiss. “I … will be yours.”
She turned the finger idly over in her hand.
“If you do not agree … you know what will happen.”
Armin knew. He would be tried and executed with haste.
“I wish I could compel you,” she told him, “as I did last night. However, to become what my father and I are … you must choose of your own volition. That is how it works.”
She spoke truth, Armin realized. Otherwise, she would not have worked such an elaborate trick to bring him to this point. He could not guess if she had set up his fateful night with Heidi, or if she had been at his house with another plan in mind, and had simply taken advantage of circumstances. Not that it mattered. She had laid the choice before him, after weighting consequences in her favor.
“Sweetheart, the dream is almost over,” she whispered. “Choose.”
Staring into her eyes, Armin thought about his death. He thought of his neck snapping on the gallows. He tried to picture heaven, though it was hard with Viveka filling his sight. He tried to think of hell, and had the same problem.
He thought of how easy tearing Heidi apart had been. He thought of her flavor, raw and later cooked. He thought of the taste of his bride, still in his mouth that morning.
Considered so, he had no choice at all.
The dream ended.
***
He knew he was back in his house the moment he opened his eyes. He recognized the pattern of the thatch above him. At his left was his front door, now repaired and bolted, along with new wood shutters over the windows. At his right …
“There you are,” said Grete, as she stirred the kettle. “Thought you’d sleep all night.”
Armin tried to move, and realized two things. One, he was tied to a table, his wrists, ankles, neck, and waist firmly held still. Two, he was naked.
“Grete …” he said, and found his voice weak and thin. “What … what has been done … ”
The crone ignored him, and continued tending the kettle. Armin realized she was still entranced, as he had been. Close by, in the repaired cage, Judda the parrot watched them both.
“So good, so good, thou handsome groom,” Judda softly called, “your will is done, now sealed your doom.”
The bird met his horrified stare, as if in challenge, and then looked up. Armin realized there was someone else in the room.
“Well, then,” said a rough voice, “maybe parrots are capable of prophecy—at least, as Grete defines it. Viveka only had to say that once.”
Brandt leaned into Armin’s field of vision. His grin betrayed hunger.
“You and your crew were tried and hanged,” he said. “At least, Resau will remember it as such, should they ever wonder about you at all.”
The miller appeared briefly sad.
“How were we so wrong about you, Armin?” he asked.
Armin didn’t know how to answer him. All he knew was, on the cusp of the choice, he could not say yes to Viveka. No matter his gain, or what it would cost him to turn it down.
“She … left her taste in my mouth,” he finally rasped. “I liked it… and hated that I liked it.” It was all the explanation he had.
Brandt said nothing to this. He glanced up as the door opened.
“Here we are,” said Viveka. “Softly, now. I know you’re hungry …”
Young Otto was with her. He was shirtless, his black hair disheveled, and his brown eyes wide. An axe was in his hand, blade raised.
“Hello, my love,” said Viveka. “I assume father has already told you about how you, Eberhard, and Otto died.”
“What have you done with Otto?” Armin asked, his eyes never leaving the axe blade. Otto hefted it and grinned.
“After we finished last night,” said Viveka, “while you and Eberhard slept and Grete removed most of what remained of Heidi, I drew young Otto down to your cellar, bound him, and left Grete with orders to keep him concealed.”
She joined Brandt and Otto at the table. Though her features didn’t change, she somehow seemed older to Armin, as if the mask of a girl was only something she wore for the sake of keeping the outside world unaware.
“He was to be my father’s last meal,” she went on. “The following night, in the ritual, you would in turn have eaten my father and fully become our k
ind. We would then have left Resau and taken up our lives in a new place, where our faces were not known.”
Armin looked wildly up at Brandt, who did not seem the least bit disturbed by the news of his imminent death.
“You are … witches?” he asked.
Brandt laughed. Viveka gave him a sad shake of her head.
“We’re the descendants,” said Brandt, “of ones who, long ago, sought immortality through sorcery. Through rough magic and iron will, they found a form of it. Those too greedy for life never passed it on, and learned even their longevity had limits. As with all life, we can only aspire to immortality through what we pass on to our heirs—quite truly in our cases.”
“When my mother reached the end of her far-lengthened span,” said Viveka, as she leaned close, “father fed her to me in the ceremony. I took her memories, her abilities … and her hunger. Since my father had no male children, and I was unlikely to have any before his passing, I needed to recruit one amenable to the change. Hence, you, or so we thought. Hence now Otto.”
Otto snarled and raised his axe.
“Don’t!” Armin exclaimed. “It’s me, Armin!”
“He can’t hear you,” said Brandt. “He is too hungry.”
“He, too, is close to being our kind,” Viveka told him. “Not my first choice, but …” She considered Otto. “He’s quite the impressionable lad. I think, when the time comes, he won’t say no.”
She kissed Armin. He did not need to be told it was the goodbye kind.
Unlike the dream, the nightmare was slow to end. As the axe blade came down, and as knives cut and teeth ripped, Armin’s screams were the last of him to go.
About the Author
Gary W. Olson sightings have been reported in Michigan since 1969, though few scientists give serious credence to his existence. The only claimed video footage of him, in which he emerged from the woods and made weird hooting noises while waving a copy of his debut dark fantasy novel, Brutal Light, has been thoroughly debunked. Some researchers claim to have extracted his DNA from copies (licked by Gary) of the dark fiction anthology, Fading Light, to which he reputedly was a contributor, though this has also been dismissed as a hoax. There are some who claim that Gary is not a mythological deep forest creature, and that he works as a programmer for an insurance company by day while writing weird dark fantasy, horror, and science fiction tales by night. Their chief evidence is his website and blog, which is at www.garywolson.com, and his supposed ravings on Twitter as @gwox. One day, hopefully in a lucrative special for the SyFy Channel, the question of what manner of creature he is can be settled.