Chapter Seven
Arnold, the Fay, and the Treants
"And who's that supposed to be?"
Marge had stopped shouting long enough to notice the starved tree-man. The portal to the kitchen shimmered dully as Arnold arranged a table, silverware, and a cushioned stool in the mossy clearing.
"Is nobody," Arnold said gruffly. The young man had tired himself out screaming like a maniac. Arnold had tried to pull the lout out from the tree, but the gnarled bark had essentially become a second layer of skin.
"What happened to that other lass?" Marge asked as she passed a plate of venison meat pies through the portal. The puffy pastries were the width of an apple, and Arnold plopped two into his mouth instantly.
"Lash? Who'sh that?" His mouth was sticky with delightful meaty mush. He leaned forward and accepted a large glass of wildflower ale from Marge. "Ooooh. Daring Dyan. She'sh fine. Left her behind."
He took a hearty chug of the crisp draft and sighed blissfully.
"Daring Dyan...?" Marge handed over a steaming bowl of soup, which made Arnold frown. She normally saved the creamy mushroom delight for dinner.
"Get the cobwebs out of your head," Arnold said as he put the bowl aside for now. He stuffed two more meat pies into his mouth and took another swig of ale. "Daring Dyan!"
Marge did not look convinced, which made Arnold shake his head. Age was a terrible thing. The wife had just seen Daring Dyan and yet here she was all befuddled.
"Whatever you say, husband," Marge said, which meant she thought he was a fool. "And take a break from your gluttony. That little lad looks half dead."
Arnold frowned and glanced over at the tree-man. She was not entirely wrong, but what did she want Arnold to do? The human should not have upset the fay.
"Don't shrug like that, you rotten little man!" Marge said, her dandelion white hair bouncing with frustration. "Give him some of that soup! I don't think he can feed himself, the poor lad."
"Give him my shoup?!" Arnold almost choked on his ale. He accidentally rushed the meat pie in his right hand.
"You little devil!" Marge shouted, and she stuck a hand through the portal and tried unsuccessfully to smack Arnold. "You'll give him that soup or there'll be no desert tonight!"
The breath went out of Arnold.
"If I don't see you ladle- " Marge began, and Arnold pushed away from the table. A devil had slipped inside Marge's heart, and he did not doubt her threat.
"Eat my soup, eh?" Arnold snatched the mushroom soup off the table and waddled over to the tree-man. The starved lout watched him approach wordlessly. "This world... This rotten world..."
The young man was not about to feed himself, and Arnold could not reach his mouth. A red shame touched his cheeks as he was forced to use [Floral Manipulation] to create several oaken steps up to the lout's head.
"This is my soup," Arnold said, staring into the young man's eyes. "You're a tree. All you need is sunlight to survive. You can have one spoonful of my soup."
"Arnold Grubbly, you little terror!" Marge shouted, and Arnold jumped.
He mouthed several curses Marge could not see as he reluctantly tipped the bowl towards the young man's open mouth. Arnold winced as some of the creamy broth dribbled down the tree-man's bark. What a waste!
"That should be enough..." Arnold said, pulling the bowl away, but Marge made several quick threats that made him tremble.
He was forced to empty the whole bowl into the tree-man's mouth. The young man lapped at the creamy mushroom soup like a starving dog.
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"I'm still hungry..." Arnold grumbled as he shoved furniture and tableware back through the portal. "Did I even eat, Marge?"
"Oh hush," his wife said. Her wrinkled face was a perpetual scowl. "Where's Bobbit?"
"I'm still lookin' for the lout!" Arnold sputtered in agitation. "Want we should switch places?!"
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
"Will you be home for afternoon tea?" Marge asked, not unkindly. Her wrinkles softened, and he could tell there was more she wanted to say.
"Of course," Arnold said gruffly, and he waved away her unspoken concern. "This gnarled lad knows where Bobbit went. We'll be home for cake and tea. I'll want a double helping after all this adventure!"
Marge did not say anything. He could tell she was still chewing on some unspoken complaint, but he was in no mood to hear it.
"We'll be home soon," Arnold said flatly, waving away the portal. "Kisses. Lots of kisses."
The forest clearing fell suddenly silent. He stroked his beard, but there was nary a crumb to be found. You would think he was on a diet!
"Is Bobbit... your son?" the tree-man asked, and Arnold jumped in surprise. He had almost forgotten about the starved lad. "Is he... lost?"
"He's not lost," Arnold said, tugging on his beard. "He's a nuisance! I missed brunch because of his little adventure. Scarcely had a crumb for lunch either because some lout stole my soup!"
The young man chuckled, which almost pushed Arnold over the edge. The tree-man's gnarled bark was still coated in white splotches of wasted lunch.
"The way you two talked..." the young man said, his voice distant. "That's what I want. What I wanted. Someone to grow old with. A big family. That's the whole reason I entered these godforsaken woods. But now... now I'm a tree..."
"Don't you start blubbering again!" Arnold warned as he waddled over to the tree-man. "A big family, eh? More like a big waste! I have six sons, lad, and do you know where they are now?"
The young man stared at Arnold with tear-filled eyes. He tried and failed to shake his head.
"You don't? Well, neither do I!" Arnold tugged angrily on his beard. "Could be dead! Could be heroes! Whatever they are, they aren't here! Ungrateful louts!"
He turned away from the tree-man, confused at the sudden irritation that seized his chest.
"I'll get you out of that tree," Arnold said gruffly. "I'll talk to the fay and then you'll tell me what Bobbit said. Is that understood?!"
The young man did not say anything, so Arnold twirled around angrily.
"Y-yes! Please!" The young man's face filled with fresh tears. "I'll do anything if you save me!"
Arnold grunted, spat, and coughed into his hand. He should have gone to the fay in the beginning. They would have been upset no matter what he did. The prickly little bastards!
"Stay here," Arnold said as he pinched the fabric of reality. He did not need to sniff the air to know where the fay folk dwelt. He had lived in these woods long enough.
He puuuulled the world closer to himself and arrived instantly at a colorful glade. A babbling brook zigzagged across the leafy sanctum, and small rat-sized fay fluttered in the air full of song and dizzying dance.
Arnold took a step into the Fairy Glade and let go of the fabric of reality. The tree-man disappeared, as did some of the singing and dancing. There was a marked shift in the air as the fay caught a whiff of his scent.
"Don't forget to be polite," Arnold muttered to himself. The fay were a temperamental lot. He had to be respectful. He was a visitor in their woods.
A small group of fay turned to one another, their rainbow eyes wide and brilliant.
"It's the old man!" one of the fay screamed. "Everybody run!"
Complete pandemonium broke out throughout the idyllic glade.
"Noisy little rats!" Arnold roared as a mosquito-like whir filled the air. "Who's an old man?!"
Flowers wilted as the fay fled with horror in their pebbled-sized hearts. You would think Arnold was an ogre! Forget being polite and respectful. This was downright insulting!
"Come back here, you little gnats!" Arnold cursed, and magickal energy flooded his hands.
He thrust his hands into the mossy soil of the glade, and three pillars of mud exploded out from the ground. The pillars swallowed several retreating fay, though many were able to flutter out of harm's way.
Arnold dragged the mud pillars back towards him like a fisherman and their net. Five fay squirmed madly in his snare. They looked like miniature humans with insect wings.
"What?! What do you want, old man?!" one of the trapped fay screeched. They were all such noisy little rodents.
"I want you to free that lad you have trapped!" Arnold said, jabbing the talkative fay in their tiny chest. "The human!"
"Let me go! Let us go!" the talkative fay shrieked. "We'll wake Mother! We'll- "
Arnold squeeezed the mud that trapped the fay, and that seemed to motivate a little cooperation.
"The treants!" one of the other fay squeaked. "We only listened to the treants!"
"And now you'll listen to me, eh?" Arnold said. He looked around the Fairy Glade and found the place had completely transformed. All the color had disappeared, and the once babbling brook was now choked with weeds.
"Talk to the treants, old man!" one of the fay whined. "They're the ones! Leave us alone!"
"You're the ones I want!" Arnold said, and he squeeezed the mud even tighter. "I'm a busy man! Hurry it- "
"I'VE. GOT. HIM."
Rope-like vines wrapped around Arnold, and he was thrown high into the air. The trapped fay buzzed away like a cloud of mosquitoes as he reached the apex of his flight and began to fall.
Arnold beckoned the same pillar of mud that had trapped the fay to catch him, but several more vines shot out and began to pull him in a dozen different directions. He had not noticed at first, but the Fairy Glade was crammed with trees, many of which shook with violence.
"IS. THAT. THE. OLD. MAN?"
"WHAT. OTHER. GNOME. WOULD. IT. BE?"
"TEAR. HIS. BRANCHES. OFF. ONE. BY. ONE."
"SOMEONE. CALL. BIG. BEN. HE'LL. WANT. TO. WATCH."
"Get your gnarled roots off of me!" Arnold roared as he dangled in midair. His first impulse was to reduce the surrounding treants to kindling, but he suppressed the violent urge.
Arnold was lowered close to the ground where at least a dozen oaken treants glowered down at him. The creatures were indistinguishable from trees except for the unusually flexible movement of their branches. Most of their roots remained above ground, as well, like unkempt oaken hair.
"YOU. ALL. SHOULD. BE. ASHAMED," one of the treants said, their voice as oaken as their bark. "TRADITION. MUST. BE. FOLLOWED."
"YOU. DON'T. MEAN." another treant said in the same emotionless tone. Arnold only ever knew which treant was talking by the movement of their branches.
"THE. GNOME. STANDS. ACCUSED. OF. MURDER," the other treant said, which made Arnold roll his eyes. This business again! "HE. MUST. STAND. BEFORE. THE. TREE. COURT."