I scrambled to my feet and drew my pistol. The darkness was infiltrated only by the light of the moon. I faced the open meadow with my back against the tree for perceived safety and pointed my gun at the nothingness. I focused my ears and discovered the sound was not coming from the field but from above. The willow actually was weeping. The tree sobbed and moaned in terrible agony. The melancholy outcries tugged at my own misery, and I struggled to contain my sorrow.
The intensity soon increased, and every nearby tree joined in to create a dissonance of the multitudes in joint suffering. Then I realized why I had not built my home in the grassland. But was the skull wasteland any better? Either you had an eyesore in the wasteland or an earsore in the grassland. Which was worse? The trees continued their lamentations for the entire night, making it impossible to sleep. I laid under the sad tree thinking about The Green Maiden until morning arrived, and then I journeyed onward.
With limited rations I decided to confine my meals to once per day and after skipping breakfast, I decided to eat. I sat on the ground and enjoyed the berries all the while wishing I had something to accompany them. With my meal out of the way, I carried on. I reached the top of one of the many hills and observed the area ahead was flat and bereft of the sad trees I had encountered the previous night. In the distance I spotted a small village I assumed to be The Town of Diminished Desire. There wasn’t a single soul in sight, so I made my way to the town for further inspection.
When I reached the city I was greeted by a rotted sign hanging from a pole by a thin iron chain—Welcome to The Town of Diminished Desire. We are so sad that you are here. I laughed out loud at someone’s strange sense of humor. The place was laid out like an Old West town. In the center was a wide dirt street with buildings lining each side facing the street. The small structures were made of wood and looked weathered. No one emerged to greet the weary traveler. Where was everyone in the middle of the afternoon?
I passed several of the buildings when I saw a huge overhead sign that simply stated, Inn. It was located in a decrepit two-story building, but I approached the entry feeling good about the prospect of sleeping in a snug bed that night. I opened the door and expected to be immediately welcomed by the innkeeper, but still there was no one. I rang the bell for assistance, but it echoed without any human response.
“Hello! Anyone here?” I yelled.
No answer. Nothing but silence.
I looked at the guest log that appeared to be fresh, but no names were listed. I signed my name anyway and waited a bit longer.
“Hello!” I yelled louder. “Anyone working today?”
Still no answer.
The first floor was one open room with tables and chairs and the front desk. There were stairs behind the counter leading, I supposed, to the rooms. I tiptoed up the steps, but each one creaked anyway. At the top was a short hallway with doors on each side. The doors were open, and I examined each room. There were no occupants, and the beds were stripped of their pillows and blankets. It seemed the entire property was vacant and probably had been for some time. This sent my mind into a frenzy. I retraced my steps down the stairs and outside. Then I noticed a sign on the window that I had overlooked before. It read simply, Closed Forever.
I ventured next door where a sign hung that said, County Sheriff’s Office. I opened the door, which at first refused to budge. Once inside, I observed another lonely, vacant room just as void of life as the inn. The jailhouse door was wide open with the keys still in the lock. There were papers strewn across a wooden desk, and I decided to browse their contents for any useful information. From the best I could tell, the town was under a mandatory evacuation order, and its residents had been relocated to an undisclosed area. I pondered the reluctant questions lingering in my head. Was the town emptied due to an epidemic? Am I now infected with a contagion?
I left the sheriff’s office and walked farther through the center of town. I stopped when I came across another interesting sign that read, Office of Henry Fimbley. Henry was the short, heavy-set man who had delivered the late night copies to my home. I went inside and just as I expected, the building was void of human life. In one corner was a worn printing press, no doubt left behind due to its deteriorated condition. Attached to the press was a note that read, If you need my assistance, please locate me at my new office. But there were no directions to this new office.
“That was a waste of paper,” I observed out loud. Just as I was laughing at the uselessness of Mr. Fimbley’s note, I heard a sound outside as if something were roaming about. Questioning who or what would be in this ghost town, I approached ready for anything. I slowly opened the office door and saw a uniformed man loading boxes onto a horse-drawn carriage. I had seen nothing of them when I had entered the town. The man’s clothing was beige from top to bottom so that he looked like a city employee.
“Hey!” I shouted.
The man spun around, and when his eyes found the gun tucked under my belt, he bolted toward the sheriff’s office and slammed the door behind him. I followed in heavy pursuit. I jiggled the doorknob and realized it was locked from the inside. The man was frightened, and I guess it didn’t help that I had chased him.
“Go away,” the man said in a low, timid voice.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want some answers,” I said reassuringly.
“What do you want?”
“Like I said, I just want some answers.”
The man opened the door slightly and peeked outside.
“I know you. You’re that poet who lives in the cabin in that horrid skull wasteland.” The man spoke with a confident tone this time.
“Yes, I am. I’m Vincent Carpenter, and you are?”
“Sheriff Warren Baker,” the man answered while opening the door. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“Where has everyone gone?”
“Did you not read the sign?”
“What sign are you referring to?”
“Well, the sign at the entrance to town,” he answered as if it were all too obvious.
I thought for a second, and the only sign I remembered seeing at the entrance to town was the unwelcoming sign.
“Sorry, but I don’t recall any sign other than the welcome sign.”
“Well, come on and I’ll show you.” He then headed toward the edge of town where I had first entered.
I followed all the while unleashing unsaid complaints in my head. Why didn’t he just tell me what the sign said instead of actually taking me to it? Wouldn’t that have been easier?
When we arrived at the edge of town, he pointed to a sign on the opposite side of the road from the welcome sign. The short sign was low to the ground and almost entirely covered with tall grass that rendered it nearly impossible to see unless you knew it was there.
“That sign.”
“Oh, that sign,” I repeated. “Sorry. I was unaware of its existence, and with it being covered with weeds…” Before I could finish, the sheriff was heading back to his office.
“Wait.”
“I can’t! I don’t have time!” he yelled, still marching full steam ahead.
I pulled the plants away from the sign and read, “Town closed indefinitely due to mass killings of its residents. Flee while you still can, and beware of the beast along your way.”
I gasped at the words as I read them out loud. “Beast. What beast?” I was unaware I had been traveling in a feral creature’s hunting ground. I hurried to catch up to the sheriff, but it was too late. When I finally reached his office, he was loading more items onto the back of the carriage.
“What kind of beast has been terrorizing the townspeople?” I asked while trying to catch my breath.
“No one knows. None of its victims survived.”
I swallowed a deep lump in my throat and forced my next question.
“How do you know it’s an animal and not a human?”
“The victims’ bodies were severely mangled, and according to the measurement of the bit
e marks, the beast is of great size, far larger than any human,” he answered with a look of bereavement. Based on that expression, I was sure he had known many of the beast’s victims personally. “Their carcasses were torn to pieces and were mostly consumed by the monster. The only means of identifying the deceased was to count the town’s occupants and determine who was missing.” The sheriff followed his words with a few tears.
“Was there an effort to find and exterminate this monster?”
“Tried, but strangely enough, when we searched it was nowhere in sight. It was if the thing knew we were coming—like someone had warned it and sent it into hiding.”
“Strange indeed.”
“Even stranger, the beast doesn’t attack livestock; it seeks only human prey.”
“That is perplexing,” I said, wondering why the beast didn’t attack the defenseless farm animals. “What are you still doing here?”
“I’m the last to leave. I was just gathering a few overlooked items before heading toward our refugee camp beyond the rolling hills,” he said, and he looked more homesick than I did, even though he hadn’t even left town yet.
“Do you mind if I stay the night at the inn?” I asked out of politeness as I supposed it didn’t matter with the town having been abandoned.
“No, go right ahead. We’re building a new town far from here. We’ve left this place forever. But as the local authority, I advise you to flee as well. The beast’s appetite is insatiable, and it has taken almost half the town already.”
“I see. I will definitely keep an eye out.”
“What, may I ask, are you doing here, anyway?” questioned the sheriff.
“I’m on a personal quest. I’m looking for someone—or something—known as The Purple Swan.”
“Ah, The Purple Swan.” And the sheriff’s face lit up as though recalling a distant memory.
“Then you know of this swan?”
“It’s a local legend I’ve heard since I was a child. Haven’t heard anything about it in a long time though. People around here no longer tell such tales.”
“Do you know where the swan makes its home?”
“No one knows for sure if the swan even exists. Supposedly, it guards an enchanted land and resides somewhere beyond The Black Castle. It was just a bedtime story. I’m pretty sure the thing doesn’t really exist.”
“Where do I find The Black Castle?” I asked, realizing I had another clue.
“The Black Castle is northwest of here on the other side of a great canyon. The canyon is deep and has steep cliffs,” said the sheriff as he loaded the last box on the carriage. “There are only two ways across the canyon. One is a suspended bridge that’s old and unstable. The other is through a passageway that leads into the ground and empties on the other side. Neither is reliable; the bridge is not in good condition and the passageway is said to be hidden in a haunted crypt.”
“Well, thank you for the information.”
“You’re not really going to try to locate the swan, are you? I mean, it’s only a myth.”
“I might as well try. I have nothing better to do.”
The sheriff tossed me a brown bag and said, “Here. Take this.”
“Thanks, but what is it?”
“Some bread for your journey.”
“Thanks again!” I shouted as the sheriff rode off.
I watched the lawman until he disappeared over the horizon. I was most appreciative for the information and that I had something to eat other than the berries. The berries were delicious, but they needed something to complement them.
I made my way back to the inn and found a suitable room with a view overlooking the rolling hills in the distance. I ate and drank my fill and turned in for the night. I knew that I would be much safer there than sleeping in the open. As I lay in bed I wondered what would cause the beast to attack the townspeople. Ignoring the livestock and attacking only humans was out of character for any known predator.
“As I travel toward the suspended bridge tomorrow, I must keep a proper lookout,” I reminded myself. Then I turned my focus to other troubling matters. Was The Purple Swan indeed just a legend? Why would The Green Maiden direct me to a myth? It must be real. It must. I closed my eyes and attempted to sleep while keeping my ears open.
It was just before dawn when I heard something prowling at the center of town. The noise of heavy feet striking the ground jolted me awake. I looked out the window and saw that dawn was just arriving and that the sky was filled with the usual storm clouds.
I slowly climbed out of bed, trying not to make the slightest sound. I listened closely…very closely. The sound faded into silence. Then a loud boom sounded as if something had burst through a door across the way. The boom was followed by a rustling noise as if the thing were searching through the building opposite the inn. This was followed by another moment of silence. An additional boom sounded, and I assumed the thing had burst into yet another building and was searching its perimeter as well. Only one explanation came to mind. It must be the beast. The sounds repeated their upsetting tones as they drew closer and closer to the inn. I was beyond terrified. Suddenly, the boom turned into a huge blast from the inn’s door downstairs. Standing there in horrific fear, I trembled frantically as I drew my pistol. The floorboards gave way under the weight of something heavy strolling across them. The sound of the beast’s snorts echoed throughout the building. Then came a shocking silence. I braced myself for what appeared to be the inevitable. I would fire as soon as I saw the beast’s head rise from the stairs. The silence grew longer, and just as I thought I could no longer stand the delay, I heard the heavy footsteps turn in the opposite direction and move away from my position. I stood immobile and listened as the beast appeared to exit the town. Even long after the booms and blasts had stopped, I remained stiff as a statue, too afraid to budge a single inch. When I was finally sure the beast was gone, I exhaled a sigh of relief and began to move again.
“Why did the beast not sense that I was here, only a few feet away?” I asked myself. But I had no answer.
I was afraid to leave the safety of the room and nervously ate my breakfast. Eventually, I would have to leave the inn and venture to the bridge. Finally, I gathered the needed courage and crept downstairs. The inn, or what was left of it, had been ransacked. The tables and chairs the innkeeper had left behind were knocked about the room as if a small tornado had wreaked havoc inside. On the floor, I noticed imprints of the beast’s paws. They were huge and intimidating.
The town looked as devastated as if a great army had laid siege to it. The doors on all the buildings were smashed in with only a few splintered pieces of wood dangling from the hinges. Paw prints littered the dirt street through the town.
I tried to shake the idea that I had almost been a monster’s meal and directed my mind back to the task at hand—the bridge. I must find the bridge and cross it to reach the canyon. I set out and left the perceived safety of the town keeping my eyes peeled and my ears open. I traveled through more of the rolling hills and headed northwest. I must have been a couple of miles out when I heard something and stopped. Far in the distance I detected the music of a violin, and this time I was sure of it. The music filled the air with an eerie melody and left me covered with goose bumps. Who in their right mind would be playing an afternoon serenade with a beast roaming about? Feeling even more unnerved, I hurried along at a faster pace trying to block out the sound before it drove me mad.
I sped through the grassland as if I were running from death itself. It was then that I recognized my latest fear was about to come true. It would be night soon, and there was no shelter, no protection from the beast or the mad musician. But I had to stop because the land was littered with rocks and with the fading light, I might stumble and suffer a broken bone or other major injury. I stopped under one of the weeping willows and sat with my back against its trunk. There would be no sleep tonight.
When night settled in, the trees began their song of despair and com
pletely blocked out any other noise. This is great, I thought. The beast could be right on me, and I would never even hear it. But the trees continued their sad symphony just the same.
With the thought of the beast ripping at my body and consuming my insides and the tree’s wailing, I found myself at the edge of lunacy. When dawn finally broke, the trees stopped their wailing, and the silence became deafening yet again. At last, peace and quiet. I picked myself up from the madness and marched onward. I was not a bit hungry, and my stomach was far too nervous for breakfast, so I went without. I also knew this would save time. One extra moment in this place was one too many.
Again I found my thoughts racing as fast as my feet. It would be a complete triumph when I escaped this land, or so I thought. If only I could make it to the bridge, then maybe I would be safe. As I raced on like a frightened animal about to become the beast’s dinner, I thought about the townspeople. I hoped they were safe in their new home far from here; I felt empathy for them knowing what fear the beast inspired.
I was lost in thought when again I heard the violin’s call. It was close this time—too close. I stopped and surveyed the land with terrified eyes, growing more anxious with each passing note. The ambient tune working itself into a manic frenzy. Can’t they shut up? With that racket the beast would find us, and I knew what would happen when it did. There would be no more violin playing for that musician, and I would never find The Green Maiden.
I scanned the countryside for the insane violinist and spotted him on a small hill just to my right. When I saw his ghastly appearance, I almost wished I hadn’t found him. He was a stout man dressed in total blackness with a red violin resting against his shoulder. His skin was a brilliant white, as white as a bed sheet. On his head was a black top hat, and he wore a twisted grin on his porcelain face.
“What are you doing?” I yelled. “It will hear us!”
The man said nothing and kept playing his maddening melody.
The Spitting Post Page 5