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The Woods
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Chapter 9:- The Woods
Just as the Lady Gayle had told her half-sister, the members of the Uprising were indeed gathering troops. In fact, the very moment Glia’s shaking sobs finally lulled her into restive sleep, a mere mile from the palace, a very agitated warlock waited for a very important… delivery.
“Where are they?!” Daemn hissed at the wizard Summum. Despite the howling wind, the venom in his voice carried as though he were shouting.
“I do not know, Master. They were supposed to arrive this morning…”
The two men were standing alone in a large clearing, surrounded completely by the towering, white trunks of the Whispering Woods. There were bits of tea scattered amongst the dry leaves on the ground near Daemn’s foot.
Again, the Warlock’s fear unsettled the wizard, but he didn’t let on.
“They are travelling a great distance, Master. I am sure that they will arrive.”
“And if they don’t?” Daemn threw up his arms in frustration, causing the earth to shake, the little bits of tea danced and scattered, and the woods began to whisper.
“And even if they do?! They may help us initially, but we need that center to progress any further. Damn it, Summum, I just don’t know—”
He lowered his arms in defeat, and the ground shook again, more violently.
He had not been expecting this.
“Summum, did you feel that?”
Before Summum could answer, though, there was a sound like the low beating of a drum, amplified, and shaking the ground beneath them. It grew louder, closer, and Daemn was forced to hold on to the wizard’s shoulder, to keep from falling.
They’re coming… they’re coming…
The trees began to sway in discordance from the wind.
The vibrating sound drowned out all noise. The veins on Summum’s neck and forehead stood out from his skin as he screamed something and pointed above the tree line to the east. The earth’s floor was the taught leather of a drum, and they were bounced around and deafened as the noise grew louder. Birds were flying from the trees in flocks, but if they cried out, nobody could hear them.
And as quickly as it had approached, the noise stopped. Daemn and Summum sat back to back on the forest floor, crumpled and covered in leaves.
They’re here, the woods whispered, and then they were still.
From the east there was a loud cracking noise, and several uprooted trees landed like pickup sticks in the clearing, just yards from the pile that was warlock and wizard. At first only the giant’s head emerged, rising above the tree line. There were more cracking noises as the giant moved through the trees, uprooting those in his way, tearing large branches off with his body as he squeezed through small gaps.
When he reached the edge of the clearing, he crouched down before Daemn and Summum. Even in this position, he loomed over them by at least twelve feet.
“Lord.” He whispered.
The warlock was standing now; Summum was still crumpled on the ground at his master’s insistence.
“Gilbrath. Have you brought the others?” Daemn asked boldly. He would not show fear in front of the giant; he would be in control from the beginning, or so help them all.
The giant rose and turned toward the wrecked path he’d created. A few heads, almost all identical to Gilbrath’s, popped up above the tree line, like terrifying weeds growing in fast motion. A bit further off, a few more appeared, and more, and on and on, until they could see no less than fifty grotesque, roughly hewn faces, peering out at them from the forest.
“My family,” Gilbrath indicated with his table-sized hand.
The giants were all dressed in rags, covering them only from hips to thighs, and not very modestly at that. Their skin was gray, rough, and as thick as the hide of a rhino. Their faces were a mess of lines and shapes; they had sharp jaws and cheekbones, but their small, pale, eyes were round and their noses were misplaced mounds of flesh in the center of it all. They were also covered from scalp to collarbone, with thick, black, swirling tattoos. The beautiful, flowing marks contrasted with their monstrous features unsettlingly.
“Good,” Daemn finally said, tearing his eyes away from a nearby female giant. She, too, was naked but for the small cloth; the only difference in her appearance were her sagging, gray breasts, and a small bit of red in her swirling tattoos.
“As you all know, you are here to aide us in a battle against the royal family, their freak half-breed wives, husbands, and children; and anybody immoral enough to support them. We are living beneath an unnatural rule, friends, and it is time we restore power where it is deserved!”
The giants stamped their feet, literally stamped the life from the earth, sending trees crashing to the ground, avalanches of snow and ice from their bows. Gilbrath pounded his chest with his huge fists, creating the sound of a drumbeat.
“Tonight, friends, we rest and take peace in the fact that we are together, now physically as well as magically. Tomorrow, we cut out the cancer that has been infecting us all. Tomorrow, we attack the palace!”
The giants howled and snarled, and all began beating their chests, these hollow, drum-like instruments. The din that ensued was terrible. Daemn fell again to the forest floor, nearly landing on his servant, Summum. As he laid there, cheek pressed to the soil, he watched bits of tea, leaves, and ice, jump from the shaking ground like popcorn. His own words echoed in his mind as the giants rejoiced and the forest suffered for it.
We need that center…
The drumbeat slowly faded away, the bits of tea mixing indistinguishably into dirt.
We need that boy, he thought, still laying on the ground after all was still.
Paintings and tapestries fell from the palace walls and their glass frames shattered beautifully. The huge hallways were filled with bodies: scattered ogres, half-gnomes, fairies, people, and other creatures, all covering their heads and ears. The bits of glass shimmered like ice as the candles continued to burn in their sconces.
“Is it over?” A young boy asked his mother once the noise finally stopped and the building was still. The young elf woman only peered out from under hands at the wreckage and began to cry. It seemed as though their vacation was over.
“What the hell was that?” Jack asked, peering up from his book. “Was that you?”
Lydia did not look up from her own book, a much thicker volume, written by hand in tiny cursive. The two were sitting, as had become somewhat of a ritual, in the center of Lydia’s room on the floor. Since they had begun their lessons with Howard and Tillibrun, they had developed a sort of schedule. It made Jack feel like they were an old married couple, which he found quite comfortable. He jokingly told Lydia once and was surprised by how sad it made her.
“Let’s just get through the winter first, shall we?” She had said.
But nevertheless, they continued with their schedule. Every morning they would meet Howard and Tillibrun in the woods at 7:00. Then they would return to Lydia’s, where Jack had taken up Mrs. Lippman’s offer to stay in the guestroom rather than his parents’ cramped hotel room. After lunch they practiced their spell work while Mrs. Lippman was working at the high school; after dinner they read books on the Uprising and the Royalists; and then Lydia would yawn loudly, and Jack would say goodnight awkwardly, and return to the guestroom.
And so it was that they were sitting on Lydia’s floor, Jack reading Maine’s Magical Mysteries, and Lydia, The Faeans: A History, when they heard something that sounded oddly like the beat of a drum; a drum the size of a house.
“What was that?” Jack asked again, as the noise sounded again, vibrating the floor slightly like subwoofer.
Lydia put down her book and blinked a few times, her eyes were red from reading.
“It’s thunder, Jack. A storm is coming.”
Lydia pushed one of about a thousand buttons on her phone and tossed it to Jack. Sure enough, the weather screen showed a 60% chance of thunderstorms for the next few days, which would probably turn into snow storms, which would probably mean they’d be practicing combative magic in the woods neck deep in the stuff.
“Wonderful…”
The phone began to ring in his hands. To his surprise, it was his mother’s cell. Lydia reached for her ringing phone instinctively, but Jack answered it first. Her anger melted when she realized it was his mother.
“Everything is fine, Mom. No, I guess I left it in the other room… Okay, okay. No, don’t wake him up…”
He grimaced and held the phone a few inches from his ear. On the other end, Jack’s father picked up. She couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t seem to be telling him how much he missed him.
“I didn’t tell her to wake you up. Right. I’ll keep it on me from now on. Okay, good luck tomorr—”
He looked at the screen.
“He hung up on me.”
Lydia shifted uncomfortably and closed the forty pound tome in her lap.
“So what’s new with your parents? How are they holding up?”
“Oh they’re great, I guess. They’re holed up in a nice little bed and breakfast, new clothes, insurance is paying well over what our house was even worth in the first place. If they didn’t hate each other so much, I’m sure they’d be really happy.”
Lydia traced small pathways into the rug with her fingernails and didn’t respond. This was too familiar and she didn’t want to talk about it.
“My dad is going out of town tomorrow, though,” he went on. “He’s got an interview in Portland, and if he gets the job, he’ll probably be gone five nights a week. Insurance sales or something.” Jack laughed quietly and then just looked at Lydia, waiting for some kind of response.
“That’s great,” she said and she opened her mouth wide, her eyes closing tightly. The yawn.
Jack reached over and put a hand on Lydia’s knee. She was sitting cross legged and was very aware of how with just a small movement, miniscule really, his hand would be on her inner thigh.
“Lydia, I—”
“Well, I’m going to go brush my teeth,” she stood up too quickly and got a head rush. She didn’t waste time steadying herself, though. “Goodnight!” She said as she bounced into the doorframe like a pinball and out of the room.
Embarrassed and feeling more alone than he had in the month since his house was obliterated, Jack left the room carrying a few books. He was exhausted but knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, especially if a storm was coming. He could never understand the people who were comforted by the sound of rain and wind and thunder outside. “Do you know what is going on just outside of your walls?” He had once shouted at his roommate in New York. “Don’t you know how much energy is moving around out there?”
Lydia understood. She never slept through storms either, and when they were younger they’d often stay up late together on the phone or chatting online while lightning flashed through the blinds and thunder boomed.
“Isn’t that cool how I can hear it here first, and then on your end?” He’d say. Lydia was never very impressed with this observation, though. She was more interested in the energy of the storm; that much energy could fuel some very powerful magic.
And why not use it? Jack now thought as he tiptoed past the bathroom where Lydia brushed her teeth. She’d been at it for almost four minutes.
The trip to the guest room was short, it was only at the end of the hall; but within the few strides it took him to get there, Jack had formulated a rough plan: 1) Gather energy from the storm, 2) Create a neat scrying spell and see what was going on in the forest, and 3) Heat up some lasagna for a snack. He was debating whether or not he should have ice cream or leftover apple pie for dessert, when he nearly collided with Mrs. Lippman.
“Jack! You nearly gave me a heart attack,” She said, holding her hand up to her chest, the very picture of an older woman in fright.
“Sorry. What are you doing in here?”
She indicated the new sheets and comforter on the bed; it looked like a department store display or a picture from a catalog. Each of the fifty or so pillows was perfectly fluffed; the yellow comforter was folded neatly and deliberately down at one corner, like a little “pull to open” tab.
“Oh, you didn’t have to… I mean, I could have…” He stopped himself and put his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you, Nina. Thanks for everything.” And he pulled her into him and hugged her. He didn’t know exactly why, but looking at that perfect bed, holding Nina Lippman in his arms, made his heart ache for a mother, a real mother, in a way he never knew it could.
So he was surprised when she started crying.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Jack,” she stepped away from him, using her sleeve to mop up her tears. Her voice was thick, like her throat was too tight. “It’s just all changing, you know?” She plopped herself onto the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under her rather hefty weight. Yes, things were changing.
“I mean you and Lydia are growing up so fast, and I never even get to see her, Jack. I thought when she was off at school, maybe we’d spend some real time together over the break, and now, now she doesn’t even want to go back to school, and I still never see her!” She began to sob again. Jack shifted uneasily. As though she were reading his mind, she went on.
“Oh, it’s not your fault, Jack. You were always such a good boy. It’s just Lydia has always been kind of a follower, and she always did love you so much…” Jack held his breath, willing her to go on, give him some bit of insight that he might be missing. But she merely straightened her shoulders and shook her head a few times.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t be laying all of this on you. The divorce was finalized today and I guess I am just a little bit emotional.” Did Lydia know? If she did, she certainly didn’t let on. For a while, the only sound was the wind picking up outside; the two could have been a million miles apart, lost in their own thoughts. Then, abruptly, Nina stood up with her chin held high and shoulders set. There was a large indentation on the perfectly smooth comforter where she’d been sitting, and she smoothed it over self-consciously before she walked to the door.
“I’ve left a flashlight on that bedside table, dear, in case the power goes out. A storm is coming, you know.” And she walked out of the room, the wooden floor boards groaning beneath her steps.
“Goodnight, Ms. Pierce,” Jack muttered as he walked toward the window and undid the latch.
By the time Jack had finished setting up the spell, the storm had arrived. Lightning flashed, momentarily illuminating his little workspace in between the bed and the open window.
He kept the area as simple and neat as possible. The blue and green hand-woven rug was covered with various supplies. There were three books in one corner: The Faeans: a History, Spells from A-Z, and Maine’s Mysteries Explained, which, aside from the section on Big Foot, had a surprising amount of accurate information. In the center of the rug was a large, shiny metal bowl. After Jack had finished the remaining lasagna—for magical purposes only, of course—he scrubbed the dish scrupulously, leaving it shining like a mirror. It was filled about halfway with water, and with each boom of thunder, it rippled, distorting the room’s reflection. Surrounding the bowl were three burning candles, which he’d silently gathered from various bathrooms and surfaces throughout the house. According to the spell, the candles should be made of South African bees’ wax and contain the back hair of a Yeti; but Jack hadn’t had one of those candles in years; so Apple Spice, Vanilla, and Fresh Linen would have to do. They flickered angrily as wind and mist poured through the open window.
Jack crouched down on his knees in front of the bowl, facing the window and placed his hands firmly on the cold, metal surface. He turned the bowl three times counterclockwise, leaving the water spinning, a small cyclone in its center.
“Tribio mihi vox,” he said looking up and out the window. Lightning flashed, revealing the pouring water from the small lip of the roof, giving shape to each drop.
“Tribio mihi vox!” He called louder to the raging sky. This time the lightning was close—instead of a mere flash of light, he could make out its shape, even through the rain. The thunder that followed shook the house and water splashed from the bowl.
“TRIBIO MIHI VOX!” He shouted, but lightning and the thunder’s crescendo drowned his voice. Beneath his eyelids he saw a flash of light, felt the water slosh from the bowl onto his hands, and then felt everything. Every pore on his skin opened up and seemed to inhale; the hair on his body stood on end and trembled. His wool pants were suddenly too rough; his cotton T-shirt was excruciatingly soft; he wanted to burry his face in it, but he seemed frozen in place with his hands on the bowl. After several moments, he could feel the hairs on his arms and neck flatten, tickling his skin. He breathed in and out, in and out, until he no longer noticed the world in such clarity; it was a relief. When he opened his eyes, he saw that his hands were shaking and most of the water from the bowl had soaked into the carpet and the open pages of Spells from A-Z.
He had done it. He had invoked the energy of the storm, and though he was no longer uncomfortably aware, he could feel the electricity vibrating through him. Jack had no idea how much energy a magical center had in the first place—he assumed, immodestly, that it must be quite a lot—but with the added power of the storm, he felt pretty confident in his scrying abilities. After all, he’d passed the first hurtle (he hadn’t keeled over invoking the storm), so a little spell like this would be easy; no complications.
“Jack, what the hell are you doing?!” Lydia hissed from the doorway, causing Jack to jump and spill the little water left in the bowl. Enter complication number one.
He spun around and made himself as large as he could, awkwardly spreading his limbs so as to hide the obvious spell.
“I, uh, couldn’t sleep. I finished the lasagna,” he added lamely once he realized she could clearly see the bowl. She walked toward him and looked at the floor: water soaked the carpet, the candles sputtered as mist drifted through the open window from the rain and sleet, and lying on the corner of the carpet, Spells from A-Z, opened to a very damp page simply entitled “Scrying Spells Made Simple.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” he started. She put her hands on her hips and looked a lot like his mother. He felt better when she quickly wrapped her arms around herself, the outside air chilling her.
“Okay, it is what it looks like.”
“It looks like you’ve been electrocuted.”
Jack touched the top of his head, and sure enough, his untidy brown hair was standing up about an inch from his scalp.
Lydia sat on the bed and pulled the perfectly creased comforter around her shoulders. She listened as Jack told her what he’d been doing since he left her room—he left out the part about her mother—and when he was finished she leaned back into the perfectly fluffed pillows.
“Well, if you want to use all that power for anything other than looking like a maniac, you’d better do it soon. I don’t think it’s going to stick around.”
Even as she said it, Jack could feel some of the tingling in his limbs subsiding. He felt heavier and more solid than he had just moments before.
“You won’t say anything? I’ll need to concentrate.”
Lydia mimicked zipping her lips with her fingers. She leaned forward subtly as he turned his attention back to the bowl and candles. She held her breath, watching, waiting; and then…
“Needs more water,” Jack said as he stood up with the bowl.
