“This won’t do.”

Woodrow paced along the border of the thick trees, hands on his hips. Our necks craned to see through the gaps of the dark trees, but it was like struggling through a thick black curtain. Even for our eyes, we cannot see past the shade.

Wilbur bent down and inspected the dirt. “It is curious.”

The natural soil from this side of the farm did not mingle with the soil under the gnarled roots of the dead trees. It is as if the world had split into two. Wilbur scooped up the natural brown soil and scattered it onto the other side. We watched the dark soil slowly swallow the fresh brown earth into its depths. When Wilbur did the reverse, the black soil turned to dust as if it were nothing but memories in an aging mind.

“Well, that’s ominous.” Woodrow pondered, two fingers supporting his chin. “This is really where we're headed? Then again... all the unnaturalness in the world is bound to be with us.”

I closed my eyes. There was no mistaking the pull through the trees. “I am certain.”

He shrugged. He touched the bark of a dead tree, hand pale against the bark. “Fine, let us see this through.” He squeezed himself carefully through the trees. He disappeared into the shadows like a feathered pen dipped into an ink pot. Wilbur and I followed him, feeling the cold wash over us.

We were in a vacuum, noiseless. The sounds of the night fell silent. I did not notice that the crickets on the farm were chirping until they ceased. The soil did not crunch with my steps. Not even the night wind blew. As I passed through dried twigs and ducked under thick branches, not one of them snapped. Wilbur and Woodrow were nowhere to be seen.

I wove through the decaying bark and branches. The trees twisted and coiled like burnt matchsticks when the flame had eaten away most of the wood. I called my brothers' names in vain. My voice sounded like I was screaming underwater.

I stopped and felt the weight of their pull. They were tugging me.

“Ryne?” They were shouting from far ahead, their voices frantic. How did they get so far away? To be so close but to be separated yet again. I did not like it. Thankfully, their chains acted like a compass, and I simply followed the strain of their weight.

I had thought that it would get harder to pass through the woods. But the deeper I went, the farther apart the trees separated, at least enough for a small boy to wander about its depths. I stepped over roots that were so high on the ground that they made the main bodies of trees lean sideways. The topmost branches began to intertwine with one another, forming what looked like the patterns of leaves. Moonbeams slid through these veins, falling on small boulders and more curved roots.

I felt my brothers stop moving somewhere nearby. They were calling for my name, more frantic now. “We cannot move! The forest is attacking us!”

Panting and avoiding the sentinels of bark and stone around me, I pulled against the chains. They protested not far from the twisting path. I followed the tension. But when I was almost sure I could see them—pale skin against the shadows—my steps sunk on soft wet ground. My old boots sloshed through mud. The thick scent of undisturbed water assaulted my nose. I was in a bog or swamp.

The mud gasped for air as I took each step. I grabbed the lower branches and pulled my weight from the wetlands until I emerged from the shade and into a small clearing where the branches did not obscure the night sky, where the trees formed a small circle on the edge of the clearing.

There was grass here. Colorless grass even as the moon shone wide. The clouds have revealed its face once more. I hope it shone on Claude and his family. Right now, it shone on the paleness of my brothers, suspended in the air by more dead trees. Branches and vines snaked their way on their waists and arms like sacks of grains attached to ropes. They struggled, only stopping when they saw me.

“Ryne, don’t come near,” Wilbur whispered.

The branches were slowly strangling them. Briars, their thorns thick and sharp as swords, emerged from the depths of this mysterious woods. They wound through the branches and aimed their pointed ends at Woodrow’s eyes and Wilbur’s neck. It knew. The forest knew. It wanted to damage what it thought my brothers needed to use their powers. Woodrow and his eyes and tongue. As for Wilbur’s rapid healing, I am not sure how long he can heal bones, especially from a delicate thing like his neck. I am not sure if he can survive that. I don’t know how final our limitations were.

“Stop!” I presented myself in the middle of the clearing. The moonbeams pulled my shadow so that it fell on Wilbur and Woodrow’s limp bodies. “Let us through. Let all of us through. I was summoned here. But I came with my brothers. They are with me and I am with them.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

The briars and branches slowed. If they had eyes, they must surely be analyzing me. Several drums of my heart. Then, I saw the branches uncoil around my brothers, saw the thorns retract like claws. They dropped my brothers to the ground as they slithered back to their homes. Wilbur swallowed mouthfuls of the night air. Woodrow looked warily at the darkness.

I helped them both up. Wordlessly, they nodded and we continued on. “Stay close to me,” I said.

“I was with you as soon as we entered the trees, but then the earth shifted around me.” Wilbur’s voice was hoarse. “And then the soil swallowed me whole and spit me out next to Woodrow. Before we knew what was happening, we were bound by the anger of the forest.”

“Moving trees. I have never been more grateful to be alive and scared of what will happen next,” Woodrow said. He observed Ryne. “I’m glad you remain unscathed.”

Now that it did not see us as a threat, the forest was watchful, but the mystery enshrouding it was slowly ebbing away, like how mist reveals the hills. The trees let us pass through them. The mud did not hold our boots.

The noise returned gradually. First, the night air; the breeze blowing through dried branches and grass. Then the sounds of frogs splashing on ponds. Then the sound of crickets. And then slowly, the smell of deep moist earth. I touched a boulder, wet with moss. I placed my hand against the bark of a withered tree. Fireflies appeared, casting green flecks all around us.

There was life to this dark forest after all.

“The place isn’t cursed. It’s just angry. It wants to protect something,” I said.

An owl hooted on branches above us. Scared by its noise, the unmistakable scurrying of footsteps coursed through the undergrowth. Far away were sounds of padded feet on grass. The feeling in my chest glowed warmer. My palms had begun to sweat, my heart beat quicker with each step. I wiped the sweat off and grabbed Wilbur and Woodrow’s hands and walked quicker, passing through more trees and boulders until the shape of the trees twisted into a pattern, the branches forming a natural arch overhead. If I nailed a lantern on each trunk, it would look like a charming path to guide visitors.

I felt Woodrow grow excited as he squeezed my hand. The air shifted around me, casting away the heavy damp air of the forest. The moon appeared again, waiting for us at the end of the path, a curious shape blocking its face the closer we reached the end of the forest. The shape grew sharper and wider and taller. Something about it was eerily familiar.

Recognition hit us even before we emerged from the dark trees. Woodrow made a sound. Once we were out of the forest, once we stepped on softer yet infertile ground, I dropped my brothers’ hands. We did not move as we took in the massive structure.

“No way. There is no possible way you expect us to…” Woodrow trailed off. We stood, breathless and awed, unnerved and exasperated. Looking at a marvel and a joke.

On the other side of the dark forest was a monastery.

___

It was a giant looming thing, and I felt it stare down at us like the forest, watching us as we took it in.

Though similar in the layout of most monasteries, this was grander than anything Ealhstan ever built. Twice as tall and wide. I stepped forward as if presenting myself to an ancient beast.

There was the nave, its doors wide open. The land we were on must be the granges, barren and black. Directly beside the nave was what I think the refectory was, blocking the rest of the monastery. Curled ivy crept all over the walls and windows. I looked behind at my brothers. They were still looking at the structure, frowning, mouth agape. I took them by the hand and assured them. “It is here. I think it’s here. I have to go inside.”

They nodded and followed me slowly. Their robes were torn from the sharp briars and branches. I wondered briefly if we could fashion our own clothes or purchase them from somewhere.

My pulse warmed away the cool fear that pricked my skin. I did not like the nave of the church, especially during Saint Korbin. But this one… this one had not the stink of Blake nor Knox. Our Abbott was in us, yes, but dormant.

I only now realized that I did not focus on that part of myself for so long. So, when I parted the chains of my brothers and looked deeper into myself, I saw in my mind the freezing darkness, like a spiked gemstone deep under a volcano. There was a nervousness there, an unsettling feeling like it wanted to claw its way out. My heart was split in the middle like the boundary of Claude’s farm and the dark forest.

But the fire in me, the warmth, beckoned me to go to the altar. The quiet stillness received us as we passed through the wooden rotting doors. Moonlight was here, too, falling like beams through the ruined ceiling. There were no pews here, just empty spaces with cracked stone floors. Overhead were candelabras that swung on metal chains. I saw, standing at the altar, a statue of pale stone. I saw as I walked nearer, mounds of rubble close to the statue. Four statues must have stood here, watching people as they prayed. Now there was only one.

I saw, unmistakable in the moonlight, the figure of a man with a short beard. His eyes looked downward, directly at me, his hand outstretched as if to offer guidance or assistance; like I had fallen down and wanted me to grab his arm. As I looked upon his face, pleasant heat burst from my chest, silencing the footsteps of my brothers. Those colorless eyes bore down into mine.

At usual monasteries, there were saints in the alcoves. But these were on the altar itself as if they were the ones to give the sermon. I have never seen statues of the Saints. Only portraits that differed depending on the artist.

But this one did not feel like a rendition. This was like the Saint himself was turned to stone. The warmth in my heart flowed out of me, like sunlight in a rushing river. I stretched my hand out and I felt my lips move.

“Gaelmar.”

And the light swallowed me whole.

Ryne. The voice said.