26 - Over-the-Hill and Through the Woods

Outskirts of the Woods of Volunar, Nearing Teatime

The fellowship of unlikely heroes in likely hero bodies glanced back and forth. Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. They called out, but there was no reply. After a search of the immediate area, they found his clothes discarded near the tree line. Petra gathered the garments and walked toward the edge of the woods. "I'm going in."

Before anyone could object, Petra moved beyond their sight.

"But my dagger won't be able to guide us! No one has made it out of these woods alive!" Annelise called and ran after her.

Tim pulled his crossbow from his back and headed toward the trees. When he realized no one was following him, he said, "Aren't you guys coming?"

"I don't know, dude," Aiden said. "People get killed in there."

"You'll get killed out here too, but at least we would all be together. Stronger together, remember?" Tim said.

"It only counts if we're alive, dude."

"Yeah, it's like till death do you part. Stronger together, until one of us is dead," Sissy added.

"We are not getting married. She's not dead yet!"

"I don't know, dude," Aiden said. "You seem to like her."

Tim's cheeks turned red. "As a friend. I don't think I'm ready to be a father."

"That's why it's so hard for mothers with children to date these days."

"You're joking around while she could be dying in there!"

"Isn't that what this place does? Kill people?" Jack said. "I say we go with the trap idea."

"The three of us here," Sissy said. "We got some pretty sweet magical powers, so let's set a trap."

"Now you're talking," Aiden said.

"What about Petra?" Tim anguished.

"She's dead, dude. Get over it," Aiden retorted.

"Some fellowship you turned out to be," Tim murmured, and tromped toward the woods by himself.

"It's not The Hobbit , bro," Aiden yelled after him.

"That's Lord of the Rings ."

"Whatever. You're going to get yourself killed."

"At least I'll die helping a friend," Tim said, as he crossed into the threshold of the forest with his middle finger raised behind his back.

***

It seemed as if the place was in perpetual twilight. The trees closed in around Tim, and the vegetation seemed impenetrable in places. He could hear the sounds of strange creatures calling out around him. Hopefully, they didn't eat dwarf.

He stepped through a patch of silver grass, and it coiled around his legs attempting to drag him to the soil. He chopped at it with a knife from his belt and was eventually able to free himself. He thought all the hype of the woods was overrated when a gecko-shaped creature with yellow scales and streaks of fiery red climbed up a log and cocked its head.

"Hey, little guy," he said.

The thing hissed, puffed out a mane of red skin, and spit acid at him, hitting the front of his armor with a hiss. He pulled out his crossbow and missed. The creature hopped towards him. He pulled out his miniature crossbow with two bolts, and the first one missed. The thing's folds around its neck unfurled, signaling another attack. He breathed deeply and shot a bolt through the critter's head. The acid continued to burn through his armor. He stripped down and tossed it to the side as it dissolved. He made a mental note to shoot on sight the next time he encountered one of them.

His trek through the woods involved all sorts of various plants and animals that had it in for him. At one point, when he decided to take a break next to a tree, it attempted to pummel him. Flying rat creatures breathing small flame spouts almost roasted his head. He would have been a goner if it weren't for the roar of a giant beast panicking the flying critters. They broke off the assault as a substantial green sauropod foot bigger than a tree trunk smashed the ground next to Tim, shaking the earth. It lumbered through the forest, unaware that it had saved and almost squished a dwarf underneath.

During another break to get his bearings, a red flower clamped down on his hand like a bear trap. It seemed that everything in the woods was genuinely trying to kill him, and it was probably only a matter of time until he stumbled into the final fern or the jaws of a hungry beast. The worst part was that he didn't even know if he was going the right way. He wasn't a tracker, nor did he think Bolt had any skills of that nature.

When he attempted to look for footprints, displaced vegetation, or anything that would clue him in which direction everyone had gone, he didn't have the slightest idea. Even after he concluded that he was in way over his head, he couldn't find his way back to the edge of the forest. He was lost and going to die.

Which was a shame because he really had intended to write a book about their adventures. Tim had always wanted to be an author. Still, he only ended up writing Magic: the Gathering fan fiction on the internet. It got started with a website that would give him store credit for writing about Magic: the Gathering on their blog and he then found himself deep into writing fan fiction about the red wizard Meathook and his Goblins of Destiny.

Even though he had made enough of a name for himself that people would call him by his username, MeathookSmash, at conventions, he was always sitting in the audience watching his favorite writers geek out on stage. He wanted to be in the club but was afraid he wouldn't be very good at doing it. Instead, he had spent a lot of time posting and answering questions on various writing communities. Still, he could never get past the first page in his novel about an orcish princess.

Orcwena touched the broad-shouldered human man's chest. He pulled her closer, and she could feel his arousal.

"My father would rip out your eyes for even looking at me," Orcwena swooned.

"Let him come, baby. My sword is bigger than his."

"Clearly," Orcwena smiled, as she put her hand into his pants.

That was about as far as he would get. He wanted to name the man Chuck but wasn't sure if the leader of the Warrior-Roguemage Guild would be named Chuck. Either way, the Warrior-Roguemages were the fiercest fighters in all the land and hunted demons from the Abyss for sport. If Chuck had been in Moria instead of Gandalf, the Balrog would have been dead before they even got to the bridge of Khazad-dûm.

Tim knew the novel would be game-changing in fantasy literature. He just needed to get it out of his head to words on the page. However, every time he sat down to write, he would start looking up photos of celebrities he thought would make a good Orcwena in the movie version of his novel and waste a good hour of writing time imagining how that love scene would play out.

One time, his mom had interrupted his creative process. He had barely managed to throw a blanket over his brainstorming session before his mom had burst into the room pestering him about homework.

"Mom!" he had yelled. "I'm writing my book."

"It doesn't look like you're writing," his mom had said.

"It's a creative process! It's a brainstorming session."

"Uh-huh. Is this brainstorming session going to write your history paper?"

"I'll get to that. I'm going to pound out a few pages of my novel first."

"Right, well, when you finish pounding, get to that history paper. Don't make me come in here again. Please, really, don't."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

And, of course, that's how it always was with his mom. He'd sit down to write, and she'd bother him about his homework or taking out the trash. It was amazing that he got any words on the page at all. If he could just be a famous writer, he could get his own place and buy his mom a maid. Then maybe he could finish his book, which is why he wanted to chronicle their adventure.

He was being handed a story. With a few green, snarling love scenes, he'd be ready to publish it on Amazon. All he had to do was survive and make it home to his computer.

He was beginning to question his decision to follow Petra into the woods. With each step, he felt like he was getting closer to his demise. A reverse griffin creature with the head of a lion and the body of a falcon staring down at him from its perch on a rocky outcropping didn't help.

He forged on ahead, knowing that this was his one chance to prove to Petra that he wasn't some dweeby kid. He'd had a crush on her since his first year in high school when he saw her at the prom. It had taken two full-sized security guards to escort her to the quiet room when she was caught pouring rum into the punch bowl and replacing the cheese snacks with vape cartridges.

Tim had no idea why he was attracted to such women, though Freud would have had a field day with his mind. When he was seven, he witnessed his mom beat up a postal employee with a rolled-up magazine because she thought the man had stolen their tax refund check. When his mom wasn't busy fixing the everyday injustices of life with her sassy attitude and the occasional issue of Sister 2 Sister , she worked two jobs, put his brother through college, and made sure Tim ate a decent meal every day.

While, like Oedipus, Tim didn't have a dad. However, unlike Oedipus, it was systemic racism that killed his father. His pop had committed the crime of being Black and reaching for his glove compartment, and Tim's mom had to pick up the pieces ever since. The lawsuit that followed paid for their move from North Portland to the suburbs, and Tim, who was five at the time of his father's death, didn't really know any other way.

Now, he wished for even a fraction of his mother's resolve. After hacking his way out of another patch of silver grass and avoiding being pummeled by another tree aiming for his skull, he heard laughter in the distance. It sounded like a giant man had been told the funniest joke he had ever heard in his life.

It had to be Jonathan. Tim called out but didn't get any response. He pushed forward, and a badger-looking creature with a beak and a spiked tail hissed at him from the canopy above. He didn't have time to think. The thing bounded off the trees with surprising grace. Tim had time for one bolt before it was on top of him.

The bolt embedded in the creature's thick hide but didn't seem to slow it down. However, the shot had disrupted the beak attack. It crashed to the ground and whipped its tail, impaling his thigh. He pulled out the morning star from his belt and knocked it back before he went down himself. The critter rolled until it hit a tree. It flipped over and dashed toward Tim. He attempted to crawl backward, but a wave of pain shot through his leg.

Just as the creature was about to impale Tim with its beak, a hand came down seemingly from nowhere and lifted it by the tail. It was Jonathan. He held the creature while it snarled. He laughed and said, "What's your name?"

"No, no!" A small, green creature that looked like a mix between a Roswell alien and a house-elf from Harry Potter , except with wings, fluttered to Jonathan. It was about two feet tall and had violet eyes. It gently took the critter from Jonathan's hands and set it on the ground. Instead of charging Tim, it purred and nuzzled up to the flyer.

"That's not how you hold a grandorbork. They like it when you scratch their chin like this." The flying house-elf rubbed the creature's chin, and its leg shook like a puppy. "Yes, that's a good boy. Who's a good boy? You're a good boy. Pulling on their tail like that is liable to get you poked by the poison barbs you see here." It pointed to the spikes that had punctured Tim's thigh just moments ago.

"Poison?!" Tim yelped.

Startled, the grandorbork scampered off, and the flyer took to the sky. It fluttered back down after a moment and eyed him suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Jonathan over there. I mean, Lovantus," Tim said, and raised his hands.

"Well, which one is it? Lovantus or Jonathan?"

"Both, kinda. Jonathan's mind. Lovantus's body."

"Is that why the big man is so delightful? Got the mind of a cherub spirit. I have never seen someone so obsessed with colors. And here he had me thinking that humans have finally done away with that silly tradition of clothes! You don't see us Fae folk wearing clothes. Awfully restrictive."

"Green!" The naked barbarian pointed to the hovering creature.

"That's right!" it said, and Jonathan clapped.

Tim glanced down at his punctured leg. It was beginning to ooze dark green pus. "Um, so, green guy, about that poison?"

"My name is Babalador. Not 'green guy'. Do you want me to call you 'dwarf guy'? Or 'pale skin'?" the forest sprite chided.

Tim was about to object to being called a White guy when he realized that he resembled a miniature Jason Momoa. His black beard was braided into knots, and it was a little strange not to be the Black guy for once. While most of his friends were well-intended, they often treated him like he was Black Wikipedia. He was not the knowledge keeper of all things Black.

"Okay, Babalador, please tell me about the poison!"

"What about it?"

"How do I cure it?"

"Why would you need to do that?"

Tim pointed at his leg. The dark green crept through his veins, and the area around the wound had turned black.

"What'd you go and do that for?" Babalador remarked.

"That grandorthingy attacked me."

"Grandorbork, and it's going to attack you again if you don't set about learning its name. That's the problem with the humanoid races. They go about the place like they own it, and they don't even learn the local names."

"I learned about colonialism in school! Could we just focus on the problem, please?!" Tim said, as the necrotic tissue expanded around the wound.

"And impatient, that's the problem with you. You come in, cut down all the trees in the forest to build a house out of them when you could just wait a couple thousand years for them to grow a nice dwelling."

"I don't think I have that long!"

"Brown!" Jonathan yelled and pointed to a tree trunk.

"Yes, brown! Very good!" Babalador said, and Jonathan clapped.

"Please, help me," Tim pleaded, as his leg felt numb and began to shrivel.

"I can't."

"Why? For all I know, I'm the only person that Jonathan has left!"

"Oh, don't mistake can't for won't. If I were a necromancer, I'd suck the poison right out of you. Makes no difference to me if you live or die, but I don't have any blood magic, nor water for that matter. In fact, I don't have any magic at all! Except I can fly. I don't think the math works out on the body to wing size ratio, so maybe that's magic."

"There was a necromancer who came into the forest before me," Tim said, and winced from the pain. It was getting intense. "Blond hair, had a green dagger."

"Green!" Jonathan said.

"The green dagger lady? She and the other one were dragged away by lizerdlings. Probably will end up in the stew pot, I suppose."

"Petra! Annelise! We must save them," Tim exclaimed, and tried to stand. His leg collapsed beneath him, and he fell to the forest floor.

"You are not doing any saving like that, but I'll tell you what. Since Jonathan here is the most fun I've had in millennia, I'll help you out." Babalador cleared his throat and hocked a loogie into the wound.

"Ye-yo!" Jonathan said.

"Yes, yellow!" Babalador said and gave Jonathan a high five. They both did a little dance.

"What'd you do that for?" Tim said.

"Spit from the elder fairy? Never bought a Fae potion? Now you know what's in them. We call 'em potions because who'd drink a vial of spit? Also works wonders on your complexion. How do you think all those nobles stay young?"

"You spit in vials and sell it to noblewomen?!" Tim cringed, but then the pain began to recede. The wound was still black and festering, but it stopped expanding.

"And men use it, too. As well as non-binaries. It's not a gender thing. And we don't sell it! Every couple hundred years or so, some noble gets it in their head that Fae potions hold the secret to immortality. So, they quest into these woods and get the lot of themselves killed. If any are lucky enough to survive and capture one of us for our potions, we dutifully make it, so they don't run us through. Then, when they are old and dying with great-looking skin, we beg for our freedom. The tyrant, softened by the years of smart conversation, lets the fairy go free. Works every time. Happened to me for the seventh time five centuries ago."

"How old are you?"

"That's the fairy secret. You can have nice skin at any age. You'd think I'm ten, but I'm pushing thirteen."

"Thirteen hundred?!"

"Millennia. Centuries? Tsk. Can you imagine only getting hundreds of years? Certainly would make waiting for your slave masters to die out a poor option. By the way, the potion won't save your life, only delays the inevitable. Your necromancer friend will have to drain the poison if you want to survive this. Well, come on. We haven't got all day. You'll be dead by morning if you sit around."

Tim attempted to put weight on his leg, but it was still too weak.

"I thought you dwarves had wings," Babalador said. "Do any of you have wings? Can't imagine what that is like. Righto. Jonathan, could you pick your friend up, and we can go find some more flowers."

"Yeah!" Jonathan squealed with delight. The hulking toddler picked Tim up with one hand and slung him over his shoulder. The three set off through the woods while Babalador identified more colors with Jonathan. The kid pointed at everything he saw, sometimes dropping Tim when something exciting came along.

‎