3 The Watcher

Seasons turned apace and nothing of note occurred in the small hamlet until the appearance of the hunter. He came asking of rumor and legend, the story of a beautiful woman, a child, a storm. Met with suspicion and distrust from people not wanting to rouse ill-omened spirits that had been silent in the intervening years, the information he gathered came grudgingly and after much prodding. When in turn questioned about his reasons for disturbing things best left to their rest, he replied that he was a seeker after the unknown, a hunter of the mysterious and profound.

Staying in the village two days, he gathered what information he could. Departing on the third day, he followed the trail of answers that led into the forest. He familiarized himself with the surrounding area, the trails and animals, the hillocks and dells, the tributaries and streams.

It was during just such an investigation that he came upon the path of felled trees, the earth desecrated and blackened. Old wounds, yet still nothing grew where the earth had been blasted. Not even moss or lichen found purchase on the scorched soil or trees, and the air was smelled like the smelt from a blacksmith’s forge.

The razed earth made a path deep into the forest. He stayed to either side of that swath of destruction. One time, moving across that lane of scored earth, he had his arm sliced wide when he brushed up against the blackened limb of a tree that looked to be more of ash than substance. Except for that lane, sunlight barely breached the thick canopy.

Deeper into the forest he went until he came to a concentric ring of fallen trees. It was as if a giant hand or shattering wind had slammed into the earth and the detonation had flung the trees, layering them one upon the other. It was a dense barrier, but he began to notice a pattern as he traced the outline of the fort. Either of happenstance or planning, gaps allowed a way through.

 He had to climb over or slip through, avoiding the stiff and prickly branches as best he could. He was a pincushion of small nicks when he finally made his way through.

Breathing heavy he climber over the root ball of a particularly ancient Oak, he wiped his brow and thought, At least it had not been as bad as stepping through the path of scorched earth.

Lifting his head, he scanned what was before him: a huge circle of an area, full of trenches and craters from where trees had been uprooted, in the distance a small glade, the center of the eruption, and the dilapidated fashioning’s of a small cottage. The air above the glade was not proper, it shimmered, danced almost as if light spooled from to.

As the hunter moved closer, the shimmering dance of light became more prominent, more dissonant like the ringing buzz of some incessant insect, and that ringing called something forth.

The hunter stopped for a moment, took a swig from his water bladder, wetted his kerchief, and wiped free the sweat that had pooled dust around his eyes. He went to wipe the itch at his brow, shivered, and never made the movement, forgot to.  (The Third Eye had opened to measure the composition of power before it.)

All his reason cautioned restraint, maybe retreat, even. But he did neither. Prompted by some counter urge, he continued forward with each step harder and harder, the pressure increasing, weighting him as if a stone of lead were added with each next step toward that shimmer of heatwaves twisting the air, distorting sight, pushing against him.

He came it from a greater angle, and though the pressure weighing him did decrease, the gaping nightmare in front of him was no less daunting. It throbbed and a faint thrum swept his flesh. He shivered, not from some imperceptible anxiety or chill, and put a name to what he was felling, dread.

Ragged, and garish, it had breached the sky. A monolith carved out of air and light and darkness instead of stone, darkness bordered by a roil of condensed air shot through with lightening, tall but not that wide at the base or tip, it floated above him, waiting. Then there was a flicker in the darkness, tiny, fiery motes, expanding, collapsing, disappearing, swirling to that other place.

The amount of power to open such a rift was beyond his imaging. Then e felt it again, something imperceptible, foreign. Quickly, he turned his head and caught it, what he had forgotten, what he had come searching for.

The Third Eye considered, then, relented. Would not take control . . . yet.

Upright, with white, unblemished fur, two spiraling golden horns rose from the crown of its head. It gazed serenely, intelligently, back at him from the glade’s edge before the span of craters and ridges took over. It walked worlds, had many names, in many places. Its horns were valued beyond worth, as such things were measured, would bring much subsidy, and garner much power, as such things were weaseled, across worlds.

Then it turned and fled, and the hunter was quick on its heels, expending what little mana he had accumulated from the fount to renew his vigor. There was no other thought but the lemox. That overrode all.

He spanned ditches in leaps, closed the distance with pumping arms and legs. He needed to close the distance because it would have the advantage among the logs of felled trees.

The lemox made it to them first, and the hunter could only catch glimpses of white through the gaps as he ran across decaying tree trunks made slippery and treacherous because of rot and brittle branches.

Dashing into the trees the hunter pursued through thistle and bramble that snagged his clothing, through densely packed trees that afforded only a glimpse of white between the gaps, he pursued the animal. The undergrowth became so thick that thorns scored his flesh with thin, small scratches, and he had to shield his eyes so that nothing pierced them. He passed through clearings where flowers bloomed in a marvel of colors brighter than the day and more vibrant than the sun and whose scents wrinkled his nostrils with their pungent aroma. Other places he passed shone with magic that called to him, trying to turn him from the chase. There were deer, bird, and other animals most rare and beautiful which cast startled glances at his approach and darted away. Sights wondrous beyond compare he noticed only fleetingly because for him there was only the chase.

            He lost all track of time and distance in his pursuit, but some part of him marked the lateness of day, the sun descending, the lengthening shadows. With the coming darkness, there would be little hope of continuing pursuit. Time, and his own flagging strength were against him, but the lemox was no longer a fleeting glimpse between trees in the distance. It was no more than ten paces away, and the trees were thinning.

The hunter summoned one last desperate surge of speed. Bursting from the undergrowth in a hale of broken twigs and tumbling leaves, the distance between them was halved: five paces, three paces, then two, then one. With one last, desperate sprint he closed the gap and was within reach of laying an outstretched hand on supple fur and rippling sinew, but as his fingertips brushed gentle fleece, he tripped. He tumbled across the forest floor, bruising himself on fallen tree limbs and knotted roots before he came to rest on his back.

Ribs burning, he could barely draw a ragged breath. He raged behind tightly closed eyes: so untimely, so out of character. Slamming a hand into the dirt, he pressed to rise on burning legs. He was exhausted, well and truly lost, and the waning sun would not be an ally in finding a way from this place.

Picking himself up from the ground, he proceeded across the clearing. Mind dulled by fatigue and exhaustion he was halfway across before he realized he had been lured into a trap. He was sinking into the soft, wet soil. Soon it had swallowed him up to his waist. To turn back was doom to go forward more so, but he would not relent. He was already too far into the sinkhole, so he continued across.

Fighting through exhaustion and despair, fighting for each hard-worn step, he pressed forward. Vines draped from a massive willow that spread its branches over the sinkhole was his one slim chance. He strained toward those trailing low enough for him to grasp.

Focused on survival, he did not notice the lemox returned to watch as he clawed through the thick muck now up to his shoulders and strained desperate hands toward dangling vines. And at the last, with his face turned to the darkening heavens as creeping death spread over cheeks and mouth and nose, he screamed defiantly against his fate, spitting mud from his mouth as he sank beneath the cool, wet earth and into the soothing comfort of death.

With no warning, he was no longer sliding beneath the mud, could no longer feel the thick wet earth clinging to his body, covering his mouth, his face, his eyes. He could breath. He fell to his knees and wept with relief. It was only after the tears had dried on his cheeks and the rush of emotion had subsided that he noticed the lemox.

It stood gazing placidly back at him, and the hunter wondered what glamour had been worked upon him. The lemox watched as he rose, making no move to flee. Slowly the shape of the lemox began to blur and melt, to soften and elongate until the semblance that stood before him was that of a naked youth.

The boy was slight of build with long, matted locks of hair falling to the back of his knees and bound with a cord at the nape of neck. His face was lean, dark and wasted, his eyes large, disturbing, fathomless and mute. They gave nothing. The hunter grew cold under that dreadful regard and wanted to be away from this place as quickly as possible. He was no longer curious, only thankful that he had survived.

The Watcher let him depart. There was opportunity here. Forces of dark malice and impartial disdain, banished beyond time and space, would be drawn to the rupture. Old, spiteful, petty, they were ancient gods of dark chaos before creation. They could be used; they could be manipulated. But there were also other things that would be drawn to the rupture as well. Those beings were uncompromising in their corruption and malevolence and would also seek to use the Ancients’ power to break free of their imprisonment. And then there was the unknown of the child. . . .

 Upon returning to the village the hunter sat in the smoke-filled tavern gazing into his cups, lost in the swirl of dark liquid as if in their depths could be found some truth concealed from him. When no truth except drunkenness was found, and with a tongue loosened by ale, he related to any who would listen what had transpired in the forest.

And from there, the legend of the forest child spread like milkweed seeds cast upon the wind.