Chapter 1
They were playing the prince, the princess, and the dragon in the castle courtyard. And Arnie always got to be the dragon. At least, that's the way Fairchild put it: "The dragon is a powerful beast, a ferocious creature! You should be proud being the dragon!”
"Roar!” Arnie called out. His dark, lucid eyes darted around, constantly looking for inspiration.
“That's more like it!” Fairchild raised his small wooden sword and shield, both gifts from his father, the Duke. His raven-black hair, normally combed and oiled, was tied in a knot at the crown of his head.
"Jon, do I get a stick to fight with?"
"Arnie, you're a dragon. Dragons use claws." Arnie looked at both of his small brown hands.
Fairchild clicked his tongue, "This is how the game will work. If I hit you with my sword, you die. And I save the princess. But if you touch me with one of your hands, I die, and you get all the treasure of the kingdom. Okay?" A real dragon would just breathe fire, Arnie thought to himself.
Fairchild looked past Arnie for a moment, "And Samantha will be the princess." He smiled.
Samantha rolled her eyes. She was one year older than Arnie and the same age as Fairchild. She was taller than both. Most of the village regarded Samantha as beautiful. She, too, had a mat of black hair, but the castle’s maid would pin Samantha down in the mornings and comb it for her.
The delicate features that gave Arnie a womanish look made Samantha look like a goddess. She had high cheekbones and a small nose that didn't reach the point of turning down. Her hands were delicate like Arnie’s, but always fidgeting looking for something to do. And now they drummed on her upper arms as she crossed them.
Arnie didn’t think either Samantha or Fairchild knew why they played this game. But Arnie did. Fairchild loved Samantha. She was beautiful. She was determined. She was defiant. She was all the things Fairchild wanted and wanted to be.
"I'm coming, Arnie."
Arnie looked back towards Fairchild. Fairchild had trained with the quartermaster. He knew the basics and kept his distance. He didn't charge like he had once done. Instead, he inched forward, always keeping one foot on the ground. Ready to turn, parry, and thrust.
Arnie immediately saw he was at a disadvantage. Yes, both his hands served as deadly weapons, while Fairchild only had a sword. But the sword gave him the distance, a
distance Arnie couldn't close. Not without being struck by the deadly implement in Fairchild's right hand.
Arnie bent down to pick up a stick himself.
Fairchild snarled, "Arnie, dragons don't use weapons. Use your claws." He lunged forward, thrusting at Arnie, and Arnie jumped back, almost falling over.
Without a weapon, it was going to be impossible. There was no way he could close the distance. Impossible...
He heard his father's words echoing in his mind. "If you think it’s impossible, don’t distract those doing it." His father smiled, roughing up his hair. Arnie had an idea.
Arnie crouched, his arms at his side. His fingers splayed in fake claws. Fairchild backed him into a corner. There was nowhere he could run. He was waiting for the final thrust.
Suddenly, Arnie stood upright and bowed. "My Duke."
Fairchild's eyes widened. His father had returned. He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow. "Oh, father." Fairchild turned around to look. But no one was there.
Arnie lunged forward. His claws reaching for Fairchild's back, but the noble was too quick. Fairchild spun around, and tapped Arnie’s head with the tip of his blade. "And now I rescue the princess.”
He smiled to himself triumphantly. That is, until Samantha jumped on his back and put him in a headlock.
“Samantha, you’re supposed to be the princess!”
She wrestled Fairchild to the ground, and they all laughed until their ribs hurt.
Chapter 2
Arnie clenched his eyes closed, trying to remember the good times, from before.
He felt two rough hands on each of his arms. He was being dragged along.
He tried to stay as still as possible. If he were limp, if he barely moved, he wouldn't be hurt. His hips and legs skirted over bricks and loose stone. Branches and briars snapped on his hemp pants and scraped his tan legs.
"Hurry up." Fairchild commanded the boys. He didn't joke. He didn't poke fun. He was deathly serious this time.
“W-w-what we gonna do this t-t-time?” Toby asked. Toby was a lanky pimply youth whose stutter worsened when anticipating the group’s cruel machinations. “What if we go to the manure heap at M-m-morstan farm and dunk’em?”
Fairchild dismissed the idea, “Shut up and leave the thinking to me.”
“Yeah, Toby,” Marty said, “You can’t even speak good.” Marty yanked Arnie up with one hand while the other explored his left nasal cavity.
Arnie heard the sound of the windmill, the creek of its blades. Why were they taking him here? Arnie thought of the miller’s daughter, whose strands of hair were caught in the millstone during a tryst. Surely they wouldn't do anything that serious. Arnie felt his heart’s pace quicken and a tightness in his chest. All he’d suffered before were scrapes and bruises. “I’ll be fine as long as I don’t mess anything up,” he thought. He pushed the tightness down, the heat and heartbeat receded, and he became numb.
Arnie was pulled up and pushed into a room.
“Com-come on open your eyes.” Toby managed to jeer.
Wham. Toby’s hand plowed into Arnie's stomach. Arnie keeled over, coughing and almost vomiting. His eyes involuntarily flinched open. He was bent over facing the doorway out of the mill. Arnie sucked in air, and caught a glimpse outside. He saw somebody coming down the road, but they were a long way off.
Toby and Marty continued to pinch, slap and jostle Arnie, until suddenly Fairchild’s voice rang out. “That's enough,” Arnie peeked and saw Fairchild with a hempen rope slung around his shoulders, “Let's have the real fun.” A wicked smile spread across his lips.
The two boys grabbed Arnie from either side and began to hoist him up. Fairchild ascended the stairs of the windmill and motioned for the boys to follow.
At first, confusion swept over Arnie. What in Freya’s name were they doing? Were they going to toss him down the stairs? Or maybe even off the windmill? Arnie began to involuntarily shake, imagining the fall, the drop, and then the smash.
Fairchild’s keys jingled and the door to the roof of the windmill swung open.
The wind was fierce. Arnie felt that he had to crouch to stay afoot. The wings of the windmill, we're slowly rotating. And the Duke’s red and white flag danced. Fairchild pointed towards the flagpole, more like a thick wooden mast than a pole, and the two boys pushed Arnie towards the parapet.
Arnie began to squirm involuntarily.
Marty looked towards Fairchild. “We’re not pushen em off, yeah?”
Fairchild scoffed and approached Arnie. He bent down to Arnie’s ear and whispered, “I heard a little secret Arnie, supposedly you're not so coolheaded after all.”
Fairchild gave the rope to Marty and pointed to the pole. “Make sure he's got a good view.”
Marty shrugged and Toby stuttered, “Alright b-b-boss.”
They neared the edge of the windmill. Arnie could start to see the drop. He felt hot all of a sudden. The air was filling with smoke. Someone had lit a fire below and the whole land was burning. “It’s hot, ah.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Fairchild looked at Arnie, confused. It was chilly, if not freezing, up here.
Arnie began to panic, he kicked, bit, and spat. His heart raced. He wasn’t thinking. He was panicking. He was going to be thrown into the fire below, and burned alive.
At first, Toby and Marty stared at him, mouth agape. Arnie was always limp and unfazed by their torment. Then slowly they cracked wicked smiles. They finally found something that could harm their prey.
Marty grabbed one of Arnie’s arms and thrust him forward to the edge of the mill, his calves hitting the parapet. Instantly, the contents of Arnie’s stomach erupted. They sprayed over Toby. The boy lost his grip. Marty snorted with laughter.
Arnie yanked himself back from the edge and grabbed Marty. “Get off me,” the pudgy boy pushed against Arnie, but Arnie wouldn’t let go.
“Idiots.” Fairchild wrenched Arnie's other arm around the pole. He grabbed Arnie’s leg and had him straddle the pole backward, his spine against the wood, his chest and chin hanging above nothing but air.
Arnie’s breath came in gulps. His lungs were filling with smoke. He heard the roar of fire and the sweat started to pour down his cheeks. Or was that tears? His eyes started to cloud over. He could still feel the rope, digging into his wrists, securing him to the pole.
Arnie began shouting, blubbering, “Dad, dad, don’t go in there, dad!”
Marty was chortling. Toby was ringing vomit out of his shirt. Fairchild’s face was a mask of pain. His eyes wide and skin drained of blood. “The fire…” He said to himself. Fairchild turned abruptly and descended the stairs. The boys followed close behind.
Blackness almost enveloped Arnie’s entire vision. His long fingernails dug into the meat of his palms. And for a moment his vision cleared, the whine stopped. He no longer felt the rope, just the wet feeling of blood on his hands.
His fingers relaxed. The pain receded, and his vision went blank. If he lost consciousness, would he fall? Maybe he’d wake to something better…
“Arnie, Arnie!” He heard Samantha’s voice. How did she find him? How did she get here so fast? She was untying the rope. “Be careful, grab my hand.” Arnie reached his bloody hand toward Samantha. The ropes no longer bound him, he had to rely on her to ensure he didn’t fall.
She put his arm over her shoulders and put a finger to her lips, motioning him to be silent. She pulled him along. The boys were lunching in the back of the mill, Fairchild merely staring at his food sullenly.
Arnie and Samantha crept down the stairs. They could hear Toby and Marty talking, “What if we just left him?”
“M-m-miller’s not back for another t-t-two days, he might st-t-tarve.”
“Well, I’m not coming back to feed him.” Marty swallowed a sausage whole.
They were almost to the exit of the mill. The door was ajar. Samantha passed through first, then Arnie. Just as he was through the door, Fairchild looked up.
“Run!” Samantha called out. Arnie’s body obeyed instantly.
Chapter 3
Samantha must have known if they went back to the village, the boys would easily catch them on the road. Instead, she led them around the windmill and to the woods, Freya’s woods.
Arnie followed Samantha. They lept over browning shrubs across the frosty ground, all the while Fairchild and his followers were catching up. The woods loomed before them, tall, dark, and verdant. Samantha leapt in. For a moment, Arnie lingered on the precipice. Perhaps he should just wait. Wait for Fairchild and the others to catch up. Let them take him. But Samantha poked her hand back out and dragged him inside.
It was as if they were in a dream. While the rest of the town was sinking into the dormancy of winter, Freya’s wood was still vibrant. Flowers, mosses, and ferns carpeted the ground. A fat elk jumped over a toppled tree now bursting with insects and fungus. The woods were kaleidoscopic in their colors, but all around, suffused with a deep emerald.
But with that beauty came danger. Arnie heard tale of a boy come to the woods to fish. The next day, the entire family was struck with pestilence. Large pus-filled lumps swelled on their neck. At first, they could not turn their head, then swallow, then breathe. Priests disallowed the bodies to be buried in the cemetery, fearing “posthumous infection”.
Most parents would scold and switch their children they found trespassing in Freya’s woods, but Arnie and Samantha didn’t have parents anymore.
They heard from outside the wood, “We c-c-c-can’t go in there, we’ll be c-c-c-cursed for certain.”
“Why would you chase them in there, you idiots! We’re not trying to kill them…” Fairchild’s voice cracked with worry and faded in the distance.
Samantha and Arnie were out of breath. Arnie’s hands rested on his knees. He felt a dull pain throughout his body. His hand was bloody, and his knees were scraped, but he was alive.
Samantha grabbed his face, and turned it from side to side. "Arnie, are you all right? What in Freya's name were they doing?”
Arnie nodded. He was panting. He couldn't say a word.
Her hand, at first a gentle inspection, splashed against Arnie's cheek. He heard the slap ring out. "What were you doing?"
Arnie's cheek burned. Tears welled up in his eyes. He panted. He couldn't speak. What could he say?
"Arnie, they could've killed you. They dragged you halfway through the town, and you didn't say a word. You didn't struggle, you didn't call out for help. Arnie, you could've died."
He panted and regained his breath. He couldn't look Samantha in the eyes. He had nothing to say. Saying anything would just make it worse. She was right. He was the reason they were in this mess right now.
"Arnie, why didn't you do anything?" Now Samantha's eyes were filled with tears.
His nostrils flared. He smelled smoke. The acrid scent of burning chemicals.
Samantha took one deep breath in, and exhaled. "We need to find a way out of here." She said softly. Her eyes were determined, and her hands immediately began to fidget.
“Come on then,” Samantha pulled Arnie.
“Can’t we just wait?”
Samantha frowned, “He’ll have one of the goons wait there till nightfall. We’ll have to go around…” She was right. But maybe it would be better to be caught by Fairchild than Freya.
She pulled Arnie deeper into the woods. The trees seemed to hum with life and the path they took seemed to unfurl before them, almost as if others had walked it before. They wandered for nearly an hour, ever trying to turn back towards the edge of the woods, but always finding the paths leading inwards.
It was getting dark, and they came across what appeared to be a small clearing with some dried branches and sticks.
“Arnie? Help me gather wood. We'll need it for the fire. “
Arnie looked at her, his eyes widened. “We can't stay here, Sam.”
"We have to." He looked up, the sun was already setting. She was right, at least for this night they had to make do in Freya's woods.
Samantha gathered the firewood, setting Arnie to task with gathering the tinder. They placed it in a rocky overhang that offered some shelter, and set up the fire there.
Samantha fished flint and steel from her trouser pockets. The voice of their father echoed in their head. “Fire, never leave home without it.”
Arnie gathered nuts and mushrooms he believed were safe and placed them on a rock near the fire to warm.
Samantha was staring into the fire, her eyes reflecting the flames.
“I said no… like always.”
Arnie looked at her. A couple of months after the accident, Fairchild actively started pursuing Samantha. He would ask her to go hunt or to spend the day reading in court, what was left of the court, that is.
“I didn’t exactly say no… I told him to go to Freya's Wood. I guess in hindsight, it's a bit funny.”
Arnie’s eyes opened wide.
She looked up at Arnie, biting her lip. "Yeah. That's why I think… That's why he did this. I think he got really angry, and as always, you’re the one he takes it out on…”
She looked back down. Arnie was quiet. His sister's face looked pained.
“Anyways, the next time he asks, I’ll say yes.”
“What?” Arnie blurted out. “You don’t like him though…”
“Arnie, if I don’t say yes, he's going to end up killing you. And yes, I know, I'll never forgive him for what his dad did to us.”
“It wasn’t him…” Arnie looked downcast.
She looks back up. "You still think it's your fault?"
“It is…”
Samantha stood abruptly. Her hands clenched into fists. “Both you and I knew what dad was working on had consequences. It was dangerous. It was important…” Her eyes, still reflecting fire, rested heavily upon him.
Convincing her was impossible, so he just turned around, his back warmed by the fire, resting his head on his arm, and pretending to sleep.
It was his fault. She knew it just as much as he did.
She stomped around, but her anger, meeting no resistance, quickly subsided. She bedded in a huff, but in time her breath became slow and steady. She slept.
Arnie heard the roar of fire behind him. He smelled its acrid fumes. He knew it was small, in his head, but in his heart it felt like a bonfire. It took all he could not to turn around, not to make sure that Samantha was all right.
He wished he could stay calm like a sister. He admired how quickly she was able to assess the situation and take action.
From the second, they entered these woods, Arnie knew this would happen. They were damned. No one left Freya’s woods alive. And they wouldn't be here if not for him. If he had just stood up. If he just fought. If he just pushed back an iota against Fairchild. But it seemed impossible.
He tried thinking of his dad. What would he do? He wouldn't fight back like Samantha, instead he would make some scheme to bring everyone on his side. He would make the impossible possible.
Slowly, the smell of soot and flame was replaced with that of his dad, of leather, lacquered wood, hempen ropes, oiled pulleys.
His dad's workshop was a place where nothing was impossible. It was a field’s length. Great contraptions lined every inch of it. There were two paths, either the left or the right. The left was lined with practical inventions. Irrigators, farming equipment, tools for weaving, for crafting better pots, and those for lifting heavy objects. On the right were his miraculous inventions to be. Supposed contraptions to lift objects without touching them, to make rainbows from light, or make water into ice.
The workshop sat in the inner castle courtyards, exposed to both rain and shine. You could easily see all the machines from the overlooking balcony, as often the Duke would do upon inspection.
A large wooden frame with strings laced around crude metal pulleys stood in the back of his father's workshop, lodged somewhere in between the practical machines and the miraculous ones. His dad sat at the machine, twisting gears and screws.
He was a small, bespectacled man. His green eyes darting to and fro. His small, pale hands constantly grabbing pieces of his inventions and putting them together in interesting patterns and configurations.
He put his hand on the great contraption, his eyes looked up at it lovingly, “It's a version of the duke's ledger machine.” He looked down at Arnie's bright eyes dancing over the ropes and screws, “Here, lemme show you.”
He pulled out a tablet engraved with strange scrawlings, odd-looking symbols. The tablet had a small section that was open, as of yet unfilled.
“We fill these little sections with these blocks” His dad picked up small bricks with etchings on one side and showed them to Arnie. "See this one?"
"Oh, it's a zero."
"Exactly."
He fitted it into the machine. "And this one?"
"That's a one."
"Perfect. Now, what about this one?"
He held it up to Arnie. The small brick looked like nothing he'd ever seen. A curved line into an angle, jutting out with a line to the left.
Arnie squinted. "A squiggle?"
“Well, yes, but not precisely,” His father winked and reached into his pocket.
Arnie smiled. "Getting your fire?"
His dad guffawed. "You can't carry fire in your pocket,” He tapped Arnie on the nose, “But you can carry water.”
Instead of the flint and steel, he pulled out the small water pouch. He poured it into a cup and let the water settle, then brought the small cube next to the water and beckoned Arnie to peer in.
In the reflection of the water, instead of a squiggle, Arnie saw what he knew to be a two. "Dad, that's a two! It’s a two in reflection. You’ve written the numbers in reverse."
His dad laughed. "Exactly."
He fitted the piece into the tablet, then placed the tablet in front of him. He took what looked like a pillow and smeared it with a black goop, making gentle circles to ensure a smooth coating. He gave the pillow to Arnie, “Now punch.” Arnie punched the tablet of squiggles with the pillow, his eyes sparkling.
His dad put the tablet into the machine with a sheet of vellum. He pulled a lever and the machine clamped down, and spat out... A ledger. A perfectly readable order to a merchant for 210 bales of wheat. The description of the quality of the wheat, the expectations of the delivery, everything was there.
“It's perfect. Dad how did you do that! It would take a scribe half a day to make this.”
His dad’s eyes were twinkling, and his hands were already reaching for something new, “Here, let me show you a secret,” His father pulled out a small bag and spilled its contents on the table.
Arnie picked them up. At first, they too looked like squiggles, but as Arnie held them over the water, he saw what they were. “These are letters…”
“Exactly! Up until now, books were treasures, knowledge from centuries past. But with this modification, in a matter of days, we can make books and books. Knowledge for everyone. What would've taken tens of scribes years to create, we can now do with the pull of a lever.”
Arnie’s eyes sparkled.
His father pulled the lever again and suddenly the strings snapped, and the contraption gave a groan.
“Well. After I work out some of the kinks.”
Arnie was ebullient. He had to tell somebody about this. His dad was making the impossible possible. He ran out of the workshop, almost crashing into Fairchild.
Arnie's eyes sparkled. “Jon, my dad is making the most amazing contraption!”
Chapter 4
Both Arnie and Samantha awoke unscathed, but he couldn't understand how. They were in Freya’s woods, and no one left Freya’s woods unharmed.
Samantha pointed towards the sun,“ East, that's home.” She gave him a look that told him she was determined. Determined that they both make it out alive.
They followed the path east as far as it would go, but found as the day went on they twisted and turned their way back to the west. They kept doing their best, turning this way, and that, until Arnie made out that they were walking east again. East, then North, then West, then South. There were walking in circles. But Arnie knew better, the circles were getting smaller. They weren't retracing their steps, they were spiraling. Spiraling inwards.
Until, they met what seemed a dead end. Arnie felt like sitting down. Resting for what time they had left, until the woods did something particularly nasty to them. Samantha pulled back a thorny bush, “Here.”
There was a hole, if Arnie hadn't known better, it almost looked like a passage. Arnie peered through the hole and there was light on the other side. Not a green canopy light, but a bright light. Maybe Arnie was wrong, maybe they were almost through.
Samantha went on all fours and crawled in the hollow. “Hurry up, I see a light.” Arnie followed. They crawled for some time in silence. Arnie could barely make out his sister in front of him. He shut his eyes and listened. There was the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves. Was that water he heard and the sound of a distant melody?
Suddenly, Arnie could see a light shining from the other side. Samantha inhaled, “Amazing… get over here Arnie,” and stood up in a quiet sheltered glade.
Tall trees with flowering vines soared into the sky around them. Their branches were filled with hundreds of colorful birds that seemed to sing in sync. Sunlight reflected off dewy leaves, projecting rainbows. In the center of the glade was a bubbling brook spurting crystalline waters.
Samantha raced to the brook. Arnie was awed and then suddenly filled with dread. This was no natural glade. He felt as if vines had crept into his chest and gripped his heart. He could not move. He froze, fearing anything he did would upset the balance of the place.
Samantha’s hands dipped into the spring and splashed water on her face, “Arnie, we can follow the water out.”
Suddenly they heard laughter. A mirthful man appeared from behind one of the trees. He was dappled with sweat. Thin muscles poked through his tight skin. The angles of his cheeks and chin were clearly visible. Small, well-groomed bushes of hair sat on his scalp and eyebrows. And his eyes, they were painted with mazes of such complexity Arnie could spend the rest of his life navigating them.
He looked at the children, first with surprise and then with delight. “Freya, what silly illusions you've made. Children from the town drinking from our brook.”
From behind the tree they heard another voice or something akin to a voice - part water cascading down rocks, part wind rustling through leaves, and part chirping of birds. The voice was the most beautiful and melodic Arnie ever heard, “What illusion Byron, I’ve made no such thing.”
The man’s face, mirthful and bright, contorted. His brow furrowed with deep lines and his eyes narrowed with purpose. The man sprinted forward, his hand darted out to rip a branch from the nearby tree. The branch snapped, and the man lept at Samantha, leveling the branch like a lance at the young girl's neck.
This was it. They were meant to die here. The plight of all who enter Freya’s Woods. His heart pounded, and his chest tightened into one great knot. Smoke filled his lungs and nostrils. Quiet he thought. Accept it.
But his body acted. In that second of calm, he came to action. He sprinted to Samantha and rammed his shoulder into the man.
Blood. There was blood. Arnie toppled into the brook, covering himself in silt. Red flowed into the water.
The branch went astray and cut into Arnie’s shoulder. The tightness he’d felt in his chest lessened. Arnie felt alive.
The man looked stunned for a second. But just for a second. He grabbed a nearby rock and pushed Samantha to the ground with his other arm. Samantha’s head never before looked so naked. The rock was held back, awaiting the blow, but the blow never came.
Were there always vines there? Sprouting from the ground, grabbing the man’s arm.
Arnie peeked up from the silty brook and saw the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Freya was a child with a small, perfectly proportioned frame. Her skin was lavender. Her emerald hair was constantly held aloft by an invisible wind. Her lips were a woman’s lips, voluptuous and sensual. Her eyes were large and amber. They held cruelty and caprice.
And now those eyes were focused wholly and entirely on Samantha. He saw fascination and lust writ on Freya’s face.
The man was nearly covered in vines, but she didn’t seem to register him anymore. She was fixated on the girl.
“What do we have here?” She walked toward Samantha, vines wrapped around her arms as she struggled to rise. “You know, children are not supposed to wander in these woods.” There was no hostility in Freya’s voice. She now reached for Samantha. Samantha writhed trying to get away, defiance in her eyes.
Arnie could hear the vines squeeze tighter and tighter around the man. He swore he could hear the cracking of bones and a muffled scream. A bright red oozed out of the vines.
Weren’t they friends or lovers? What was happening?
Freya’s hand touched Samantha’s cheek and nature stopped. The wind paused, the birds stopped chirping, and the brook stopped burbling. There was silence. There was a single heartbeat where things were the way they were before. And then nature resumed and a difference emerged.
Samantha was beautiful before. She was slight and wan. Her hands were rough. But she was Samantha. But now.
Her dark hair now flowed in waves. Her skin glowed. Her frail, slight body was now supple and plump. Her hands looked like they never touched a broom or lye. And her eyes. Her eyes were painted with mazes.
Freya withdrew her hand from Samantha. Arnie heard a crack and saw a splatter of blood. The man in the vines was no more. Freya began to stroke Samantha's hair, “You will be my pet, now where is your mother? We’ve something to discuss…”
Arnie was holding himself perfectly still, but slowly his hand slipped. His body splashed into the brook and the scene changed.
Freya’s eyes darted to Arnie, and Arnie saw death. He saw wolves hunting their prey. He saw fire burning forests. He saw rats with bloated bellies and foaming mouths.
Thorny vines erupted under Arnie, wrapping his arms, legs, and throat. He felt them squeeze.
“Who is this?” Freya howled.
“This one is my last living relative.” Samantha replied calmly, as if in a trance. And for a moment Arnie saw fear in Freya’s eyes, a childlike fear.
The vines wilted and Arnie heaved in a breath of air.
Freya made a small bow like a nobleman welcoming a commoner onto their estate. “So you are the wishmaker.”
“Wishmaker?” Arnie’s confusion dripped from his voice.
Freya’s eyes squinted mischievously. “Ah, how quickly they forget. Yes, wishmaker. You are twice blessed. Once for me anointing your sister, and twice for a wish I will grant you.” She smiled knowingly.
A wish? Anointing Samantha?
Freya caressed Samantha one more time and without taking her eyes off the girl said, “You have till dawn tomorrow to decide upon your wish. Choose carefully.” She turned and walked into the forest.
Chapter 5
They ran, as fast as they could. He was dragging Samantha along in the full sense of the word. Even a gentle tug on her arm caused her to follow lightly behind, like pulling on a kite, barely any pressure at all.
Arnie stopped, he thought they were at a safe distance, well, safe as any mortal could be from Freya,
His shoulder was bloodied. His knees and shins were a patchwork of small scrapes. He was panting. "Sam, Sam, what should we do?"
His breath was ragged. He heard it rasp in and out. His small rib cage expanded and contracted. The beat of his heart thrummed in his ears.
Samantha spoke no word. She stood mute. Her eyes, an arabesque of golden lines forming little mazes impossible to navigate.
"Sam, I need you." He grabbed her shoulders, were they always this slight, and shook them. Her head did not bob but moved in the rhythm, with which she was shaken, like a child's toy that would dance on the slightest of manual provocation.
And he dropped to his knees. "Sam, what should I do?" His arms held onto her small wrists. Her active hands, always fidgeting, hung limply at her sides.
He felt his chest heave and tears well up in his eyes. His muscles at the back and spine flexed, ready to rack his body in sobs. His ears rang, and his eyes were going dark.
“No not now…” He looked up at the mazes in Samantha’s eyes. Mazes…
Samantha held a wood knife in one hand and in the other held a wooden maze. She showed it to Arnie. "It's a maze." Her hands resumed the painstaking carving. "You think dad will like it?"
Arnie's eyes darted down. There were multiple ways to enter, each looped back and forth over each other. The goal was the center. The trick of the maze was that there were little holes leading to different sides of the cube where other mazes were. It was a beautifully complex puzzle.
“Yeah, I think Dad would like that.” Arnie smiled.
“What do you have planned?”
Arnie responded with a wry smile.
There was always a competition to see which one would create the more miraculous birthday present. As it so happened, their dad always won. But not this time. Because it was his birthday.
In previous years, Arnie gave his dad a wooden box with no lock or key. He opened that in two days. Once, Arnie worked for a merchant for a full day to get the answer to a problem called a cubic that stumped his dad for almost a week. This year, Arnie was going to take a different approach.
Arnie wanted to make something new, never done before. A new cipher, a pattern that could only be decrypted when viewed in reflection, and Arnie knew the perfect machine to do it.
The sun set, and his father had just come home from his workshop. He sat at the table, engulfing hard bread, and reading the latest correspondence from another inventor kingdoms away. Samantha gave him a wink, and Arnie crept off to the workshop.
The pulleys, levers, and fulcrums that looked so practical in daylight, looked spectral at night. The taut ropes and carved gears cast gothic shadows in the flickering candlelight. And the whole area had a smell, a smell just like his dad, of leather, worn wood, used flint, and frayed rope.
Arnie set his candle down by the ledger machine. His curiosity exploded the moment he saw it. His eyes grokked the various ropes and levers for opening the great contraption, clamping it shut and printing on a page.
He saw the small bag where the numbers were squiggles in reverse. The bag of reversed letters were nowhere to be found. He assumed his father hid them somewhere else, private, secret. Why didn't his father tell the Duke about this project? To spread books, knowledge, to as many as possible, what could be better for the kingdom?
He grabbed at the small bag at his side. He'd spent the last few weeks carving letters into little bricks of the same size. But what Arnie carved were real letters, not the squiggles in reverse. He took some of the goop that his father called ink and smeared it on the letter p. He dabbed the p against the ground to see what shape it would make. It resembled the letter q, strangely enough. His mind raced, there must be a whole set of letters or shapes that look the same when viewed through a mirror.
Arnie had the perfect number of letters in his little bag. And he began to spell them out. “I”, “M”, “P”, “O”. Would his father be able to decipher the message?
Suddenly, doors opened to the workshop.
“Here we are.” He heard a voice, a sibilant whisper.
Another one, deeper, responded, "Aye.”
Who would be here? What are they doing at night?
"Wait a second," the sibilant man said, "Someone's here."
They all looked to the candlelight in the back.
These men were not supposed to be here. Were they robbers? They shouldn't be prowling the castle at night, especially not in his father's workshop.
Arnie was stunned. He didn’t know what to do.
The two men began to walk up either side of the room. The lighter one going up the row of machines to the left, the heavy one down the right. And he was trapped, it was impossible to escape now.
"No." Arnie whispered to himself. He grabbed his bag of letters, knocking the candle over, and began to crawl underneath the set of machines in the middle.
Both men heard him at the same time. And in turn, they began to reach into the machines to grab Arnie. The big man stayed on the outside of the machines, jutting his arms in once or twice, almost managing to grab Arnie by his shirt.
The sibilant man ducked under the machines and began to chase Arnie from behind. He was a small man, spry and slender. He snaked through the machines, quickly catching up to Arnie.
But Arne knew these machines and knew his father. He grabbed levers at random and the machines began to move. Some came to life, but most shuddered and collapsed behind him, trapping the sibilant man underneath. "Get him," he hissed.
The large man charged forward, pushing away the final contraption. Its wood splintered as it hit the ground. Arnie was almost to the door. The large man barreled ahead.
Arnie bit his lip, untied the string that held his bag of letters, and they fell to the floor. The large man rushed forward. He heard his feet scrape against the letters. His heel flew out from under him, and with a crash and groan, "Ooh," the large man fell upon his back,
Arnie slammed the door shut behind him and ran. He ran down the hallway and up the stairs. Across the balcony was a walkway, he could use it to warn the Duke. As he ascended the stairs and got to the balcony, though, he smelled it. Smoke. Arnie looked out on the scene of his father's workshop. It was a bonfire.
“The candle…”
The great machines, his father’s livelihood, tools for irrigation, cooking, birthing, and the ledger all burst into flames. Ropes, blackening, pulleys snapping, arches collapsing. The workshop like the caldera of a volcano crumbled inward on itself. And the fire. Smoke bellowed up in great gusts. Black hissing soot spiraling with the wind. The great fire belched and bellowed. Tears filled Arnie's eyes, and he blinked the smoke away.
“Arnie! Arnie!”
His father was down below. He didn't know where Arnie was so he came out to look for him. Arnie called out, “Dad, dad!” But he didn't hear him. His dad wandered deeper into the fire, calling out his name. Arnie waved his hands and still his dad didn't see him. He had to do something.
Well, if his father didn't see him, he would make him. He got to the corner of the balcony and climbed up onto the banister, holding onto one of the columns, “Dad!” He screamed with all of his might. His chest hurt, his throat was on fire, his eyes burned. His dad reached the middle of the conflagration. And the ledger machine, the one nearest to the fire, but last to burn, finally collapsed. The wooden frame tumbled atop his father.
His dad was calling for help. He was screaming. Arnie smelled burning chemicals and flesh. The roar of the fire was dwarfed by a high-pitched ring. Arnie heaved air in and out, as the smoke filled his lungs. Arnie could save his dad, it was still possible.
The smoke rose like a serpent, spiraling and hissing; the great whine and his ears grew louder, deafening out the roar; his eyes grew darker until he could only see a pin prick of light, the fire, the workshop, his father, so far away. He felt dizzy. Had he always been so high up? Arnie clenched his eyes closed. “Impossible…” A wave of vertigo washed over him and everything went black.
Arnie felt Samantha's hand resting on his shoulder. He was back to the present. He looked up at her, at her eyes still as cryptic as before, her face placid. But maybe there was some part of her, still deep inside.
He got up from the ground. He dusted off his shirt and pants. And with a determined look said, “Come on, Sam, we're getting out of here.”
The way back was surprisingly easy. It was as if the forest opened the way for them, but Arnie had to pull Samantha along. She seemed to be more in a daze than fully awake.
Arnie kept moving forward. He focused on the surrounding vegetation. The verdant greens receding into browns and grays. The pain in his shoulder kept him lucid. A thin crust of blood already dried on his ragged shirt
He almost froze in the forest. But then something happened. He was able to move, to act, to save Samantha. Would he have done nothing without it? Just accepted his fate?
Arnie emerged blinking from the woods, the emerald greens and dappled canopy replaced by a bright pale nimbus sky and brown packed earth.
He pulled Samantha out, hoping in some way that removing her from Freya's Woods would remove her from Freya's spell. But she followed unperturbed. Silent and unblinking.
Arnie had barely any time to process the events. Barely any time to understand what happened.
They entered the woods, and instead of leaving dead, they left at least partially alive. He'd never heard of this happening before. And while Samantha still seemed hypnotized, she was unhurt.
As Arnie looked her up and down, he noticed a striking similarity to the man in the woods. She looked fuller, more alive, more here and now. Her slight muscles were relaxed. Her movements were graceful. More animal than man. And her eyes, indeed, resembled the maze that she carved so many years ago, before their father passed away, and before they were kicked out of the castle.
Arnie heard the clopping of a horse.
“My idiot son…” Arnie thought he heard. And, round the bend, appeared Duke Fairchild.
Duke Fairchild had never been a handsome man. His long black hair, combed, oiled, and perfumed, was thin and receding high upon his already too profound forehead. Beady dark eyes poked out of his swollen face. Though he was just riding a horse, sweat dappled his brow, his cheeks, and his chin, and his other chin, and his last chin too. He sat upon a great horse, perhaps one of the finest steeds in the kingdom. But the horse did not think it's position so fine. Though they were just walking, the horse seemed belabored by the weight of its master.
Arnie felt his heart try to pump the last bits of adrenaline left in the system into his blood. Exhaustion seized him. His fate was sealed. He may escape a god, but not from the Duke. The younger Fairchild certainly told his father of their brazen refusals, the sister’s of love and the brother’s of torment. The Duke was surely here to reprimand them, if not worse.
What came next astonished Arnie. Duke Fairchild ran his tongue over his lips, dampening his thin mustache. "Oh, Arnie. My boy. I was looking for you. I was worried sick."
Arnie stood bewildered. The Duke never spoke to him in such kind tones. In fact, the Duke had likely not talked to his own mother in such. What's happening? Had Freya’s magic cast some spell?
He glanced from the duke back to Samantha and noticed the duke's eyes weren't looking at him. Instead, they were fixed on Samantha. "Let me see you, boy."
The duke did not get off his horse, but did instruct his beast to walk over. Arnie looked towards his shoulder, and pain seared through him like a knife. The injury Byron inflicted was still there.
His body began to hurt all over. His hand, his shoulder, his legs covered with scrapes and bruises. He became woozy all of a sudden. The duke gave a shrill whistle. And Edgar, the castle's elderly custodian, came around the bend.
The man was nearly 60 years old and looked like not a man could live till 61. He had graying hair and bore Fairchild's livery. He was the last of the servants in the castle. A man who had seen four generations of Fairchilds, each one falling into further and further degradation.
“Sire.”
“Edgar, make room for the children on your horse. We're taking them back to the castle.” The Duke gave a savage look to Edgar.
Edgar's eyes widened. He threw himself off the horse, helping both Arnie and Samantha onto the saddle.
Arnie thought about running back into Freya's Woods, but trembled at the thought. He couldn't fathom what other curses the child god would bring to bear against them upon further trespassing. And so he let himself be picked up and placed upon the horse.
The Duke asked them questions as they rode along. What happened, who was there, how had they escaped? Arnie wondered whether it was better to lie or not. The duke had no way of knowing, did he?
Arnie feigned a poor memory. He said he didn't know. It all happened so fast. They were in the woods, and suddenly, Samantha transformed. Her eyes were so obviously inhuman, Arnie knew he could not hide them.
As they neared the castle entrance, the Duke asked Arnie a strange question, "Aren't you the last living relative of Samantha?”
"Yes." Arnie replied thinking of what Samantha said to Freya, he’s all the family I have…
The party approached the castle unmolested by villagers. The keeps was always empty and showed the wear and tear of years of disrepair. Edgar escorted them to a waiting room where Arnie and Samantha rested while the Duke retrieved a book.
Arnie looked over the room. It was the office, the office his father would often sit at to help the duke with whatever petty writings he needed. But his father's books were no longer here. Instead, there was a great table with an even greater chair, voluminous enough to rest even so great a frame as the duke.
The duke returned with his book.
"Arnie, I think that you and your sister have been blessed," the duke went on, waving his hands as if speaking to children, "by Freya."
He opened the book and showed its beautifully illustrated pages to Arnie. There was a rough sketch of Freya, her greens and lavender, her childlike form. Arnie had known the description since he was a child, but only now fully believed it. Next to Freya was a man, with arms akimbo, golden chest bare, and eyes, eyes that had little mazes inside.
“And Samantha was anointed.” The duke snapped the book shut. "Now, I know you don't know what that means, but here, let me explain it to you."
The duke poked the table in front of him. "Freya has chosen Samantha to live with her forever in eternal bliss and youth inside Freya's woods."
Arnie’s eyes were distracted by the duke constantly poking the table. He heard, the snapping and breaking of bones and the tightening of vines. He doubted eternity.
“And Freya has made you the Wishmaker.” He pointed at Arnie. Arnie remembered Freya using the word. "That means you get to make a wish on behalf of the village, something to help its people." The duke cupped both of his hands, gesturing towards himself.
Arnie stared at the duke. He didn't know what to say. The duke was obviously lying, but Arnie was stuck. He was in the duke's castle, under the duke's power. They were but children. It was impossible to fight and impossible to run.
After five seconds of silence, the Duke looked displeased. "Edgar, Edgar. Go fetch some sweetmeats. The child is clearly daft with hunger.
Arnie sat there, still staring at the Duke. In the distance, he felt the roar of fire, the heat and the whine. He was too tired. He was too young.
Edgar brought in two combs of honey. Sticky and sweet. The Duke nearly grabbed one off the plate, before he thought better of it and offered the plate to Arnie and Samantha. Samantha simply stared unblinking, and Arnie took one of the combs.
The Duke peeled the plate away a bit too swiftly and grabbed the second comb and sunk his teeth into it. The Duke smacked and honey dribbled down his chin. "So what do you think, Arnie? We should come up with a wish for the whole village, of course. But as the Duke, I know these villagers best. So how about this." He pointed at Arnie with the remnants of the honeycomb, more than three-fourths devoured. "I'll come up with some proposals. I'll give you a minute to eat and when I come back we can decide which one we'd like to move forward with."
He threw the rest of the honeycomb into his open mouth. And his tongue snaked across his lips, searching for remnants of honey. The Duke heaved himself up from his mighty chair and nearly skipped out of the room.
Arnie nibbled on the honeycomb, sugar instantly rushing into his veins. Think. He had to think. What was happening? What did the Duke know that he did not? What should he even do?
He looked up and saw the younger Fairchild. “Jon?” Arnie asked.
Fairchild looked aghast, “What did you do to her!” Beside him stood his two followers, openly gaping at Samantha.
Arnie grabbed Samantha’s hand and called out, “Run!”
There was a small window overlooking a garden outside. He jumped through it, dragging Samantha with him, the boys hot on his tail. He tried one door of the garden, and it was locked. He tried the other door, open. He ran through, down hallways, turning corner after corner.
The boys were catching up. Arnie wasn't fast, and Samantha didn’t help. He tried opening hallway doors, locked, locked, locked, until he found an opening. Not a door, just a dark passageway that led down. Arnie never saw this before, a secret passage left open. The boys were almost on him, so he scampered down.
The boys tried to as well. But Fairchild called out, “No, father said we can’t go down there.”
It was pitch dark. But Arnie knew what waited for him if he didn't run. And so he ran and ran. And eventually, the murmurs of the boys and Fairchild dissipated.
Arnie had no idea where he was. It was mostly dark, with a couple of holes in the wall near the ceiling letting in faint amounts of light. They were underground. He didn't even know this castle had an underground.
As he turned the next corner, he found a room that was illuminated by a slightly dull lamp. It seemed recently used. Arnie looked about, and indeed, there was a door that led to steps upstairs. He pulled at it, but it was locked. And so he examined the room, perhaps he'd find a key.
On the far wall was a massive and worn tapestry. On the top right, it depicted a small girl on the verge of becoming a woman. She seemed to be singing something as all around her birds and animals danced. Her eyes were mazes. Arnie looked to the left, expecting to see Freya, but instead saw a tall and fearsome-looking god. Eyes of onyx and flanks of gray and white. He seemed to have been carved from a mountain. Above this god was written the name “Orion”.
Below the two was a second scene, this time the god Orion was not so tall or powerful. Instead, he was small. His grays and onyx were replaced by mortal hues. His face was shocked and bewildered. And to his right was a figure Arnie well knew, that of Freya, her eyes victorious and a winning smile on her mouth.
“Orion? Freya? What does this mean?” He looked down. There was a book recently opened. Perhaps the Duke was down here. Arnie flipped through the pages.
The book had dates, long long ago dates. Next to each date was a name, for example, Timothy. And next to each name was a set of years. Arnie would have guessed they would have been the years of their life, but they seemed far too long. Timothy was nearly 150 years old before he passed. And then finally, next to each name was a small passage. The one next to Timothy said, “The price of barley has been on the rise. Local merchants demand more and more. Wish should be: fertile barley fields for 10 generations.” There was a little checkmark next to his name.
Underneath Timothy, there was the name Francis. Francis had a very short life, it seemed. And the passage next to his name was strange: “He asked to sleep with the goddess! We could not control him.” There were crossed-out scribblings next to it, and a large X.
Arnie returned to the beginning of the book. As he flipped the pages back and back, the details became sparser and sparser until he found the first page. It read:
Rules:
Gods cannot lie.
Once a covenant between man and god is set, neither can break without forfeiture of life.
Gods cannot harm the anointed nor the wish-maker.
The wish-maker's wishes can be refused, if too extreme or distasteful. If refused, the god can no longer claim the anointed.
The last rule stood out to him in particular. Perhaps he could save Samantha.
He turned the page, and the book resumed its normal list of names, but this time with many question marks and dates left unfilled.
Arnie noticed the first item on the second page was a bit more detailed. The name read Freya. The date was some time ago, and there was no ending date. The passage read: “There's some speculation here, but to our best knowledge, Freya's wish was to obtain Orion's godhood. Couldn't he refuse? Perhaps he was tricked. The covenant rule must have been invoked.” Covenant was underlined multiple times. There were scribblings in the margin on the side: “See items 3, 7, 24, 55, 56, 57, and 89. All examples of failures to trick Freya out of her power.”
What was he reading? Were these wish-makers and anointed? Was Freya, at one point, a wish-maker herself or perhaps an anointed? How did she steal Orion's power? Was Orion a previous god?
Arnie flipped to the last pages to see where it ended. The penultimate page was full of entries, but the last name on the page was Byron. Arnie's hand trembled. He turned to the last page, and there was only one word freshly inked: Samantha.
“Jon, you better not be down here.”
Arnie heard the Duke's voice. He was plodding down the staircase at the end of the hall, one foot at a time. He heard the door unlock and open. A torch crept around the edge, and so too did the beady eyes of the Duke.
"Oh, Arnie." The Duke looked surprised and nervous. Arnie knew at a glance that he was not supposed to have found this room.
In all the years living in the castle, he never found the hidden corridor. The Duke probably left it open when he went to fetch the other book.
"I'm so sorry, Arnie. Did Jon chase you down here? I keep telling the boy to stop being so rough. It's all just play and fun, right, Arnie?" He gave a weak smile.
Arnie tugged on Samantha's arm. He followed the Duke up the stairs. The Duke continued to prattle on, and Arnie barely heard. The roar of the fire was near.
The Duke sat him down. The honeycombs were replaced with a platter of meats and cheese. Arnie's stomach groaned, and his mouth began to salivate. "So, Arnie," the Duke's voice cooed, like he was trying to calm an infant, "I’ve decided on what wish we should ask Freya for."
Arnie picked up a tiny fork from the tray of meats and cheese before him and leaned forward to stick some of the meats. His head was ringing. His heart was pounding. What could he do? Maybe he should just rest. He could wait for tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, and then make a decision.
His eyes rested on the tines of the short instrument. He rubbed his thumb gently against them, feeling their sharp tips. He held it low, so the Duke could not see. Then slowly, almost involuntarily, he took the small tines and pushed them into the skin of his thumb. He kept pushing down. The roar slowly subsided, the whine did too. His attention focused squarely to his thumb, now bloody, punctured by the Duke's tiny fork.
The Duke cleared his throat, "Arnie, perhaps... Perhaps we should discuss the wish now."
Arnie looked up, alert. His heart was still beating a frantic pace. But his thoughts were with him. He scanned the Duke's face. Beads of sweat ran down from his temples to his second and third chin. "Duke, is there any way to save Sam?"
Arnie knew the answer, but he needed to know. He needed to know what the Duke would say. He needed to know if this man had malice in his heart.
The Duke looked at once, surprised and relieved. At least Arnie was talking now. "Oh, Arnie, no. There's no need to, even if there were. Samantha, uh, Sam will be taken care of forever in comfort for the rest of her days."
The Duke pulled out a small box and opened it for Arnie. It was an elegant box, made from a fine wood. "This is what they call silk. It's light and soft, and most of all," Arnie saw the Duke's mouth was watering, "Most of all, it's valuable. One of the most valuable fabrics in the world.
"Arnie, you will ask Freya to make our land fertile with these silks, and our kingdom will be the richest in the world. Here touch it.” He offered it to Arnie.
Arnie felt defiant, imagining what his sister would say to the man. He felt Samantha's heart rise within him. "Can we eat it?"
"You don't eat it, you wear it, Arnie. It's fashionable, it's light."
"Would we wear it?"
"Well, no. It doesn't get hot enough here. We would sell it to the south."
"You mean you would sell to the south?"
"Well, yes, Arnie." The duke's temper was rising. "I'm the one most acquainted with merchants that pass through our towns."
"So we wouldn’t get rich. You would." As his temper rose, he saw Samantha beside him, fire in her eyes, as she once was. She stood above the duke, her hands clenched.
The duke's beady eyes, once noble, flashed in anger. He stood. The duke was a large man, large in both width, but height as well. He towered over Arnie. "Child, this is the wish." He lunged forward and tried to grab Samantha's arm.
Arnie pulled her back. She stood behind him. "No, stay away from us… I'll wish-” Arnie's eyes flashed, looking to and fro. He was thinking. He was trapped. No. Nothing is impossible. His eyes fixed on the duke. Like an archer sighting a hare. "I will wish ruin upon you. Ruin upon you, your family, your castle, your name. I will ruin you."
The duke took a step back, his large frame almost off balance.
Arnie could run. This was his opportunity. No, he thought. I can get more. He took a step forward.
The duke rebalanced himself. "And so the boy that killed his mother by birth, and his father by fire, now seeks to kill his sovereign by God."
The duke grabbed Samantha’s arm and wrenched it from Arnie. Arnie almost stumbled and fell to the ground. The duke backhanded the boy.
Arnie sprawled across the window, his heart thudding. The roar of the fire crept back up. Should he run now? No, the Duke had Samantha.
The duke walked towards Arnie, and grabbed his throat and lifted him. "Boy, you will wish whatever I tell you to wish."
Fire roared, his ears rang, his throat filled with smoke.
Whack. A wooden sword pelted the hand that held Samantha and the duke jumped back, dropping Arnie to the ground, who lay there coughing.
It was Jon. He had been listening. "Get your hands off her." Jon looked scared. He looked terrified, in fact. He held a wooden training sword, not lethal, but plenty violent. And he pushed Samantha behind him.
He looked at her, forlorn, trying to find strength where there once was, and he turned back towards his father, keeping him at bay with the sword.
"Arnie, can you save her?"
Arnie heaved in air and coughed, "Yes."
“Get out of here. I'll make sure he doesn't find you."
He looked up and saw Jon the way he always could have been, determined, and defiant. If only he were always so, then Samantha would've said yes, and this whole thing would never have happened.
"Arnie." Arnie held Samantha's hand, ready to run. "I was the one that told my father about the machine, the ledger your dad was making. And he sent those two goons to destroy your father's work… Arnie… I could have stopped them…"
Arnie and Samantha ran.
They lay in a ditch just on the outskirts of town. They were dirty and cold, but safe.
Arnie thought the Duke would muster the village, ransack the place looking for them. But he guessed Jon finally stood up and threatened to denounce his own father.
Arnie slept fitfully that night. They dealt with the Duke, but how would they deal with Freya?
Chapter 6
Samantha and Arnie stood in the center of the town. It was quiet on days when the farmers didn’t bring their food to market.
Samantha looked beautiful. She stood too perfectly still. Her large eyes now bore inscrutable patterns. Next to Samantha stood Arnie. He looked prepared.
They knew Freya was coming.
They first knew from the messengers sent in from the fields, greeted first with laughter, then with disbelief, and finally with terror.
Then Arnie noticed a rupture in the clouds a distance away. That was Freya, her saunter from the woods spotlighted by the sun. He was more sure of that than anything else.
A crowd of villagers came into view in the distance with a figure at their head, Freya. She approached languorously. Where she walked, sprouted flowers and vibrant grasses. To her left walked a giant bear that made the pelts Arnie had seen look like cubs. To her right walked a giant bird Arnie had never seen before. The bird’s legs were slender, fluid, and nearly as tall as Arnie was.
Freya indulged herself in the attention of the villagers. Maiden's garlands suddenly blossomed, and great sacks of grain carried on the backs of farmers started to sprout. The frigid winters of Freya were quickly forgotten. The village was awed by power and grace.
When Freya came into view, her eyes immediately locked upon Samantha's. Arnie saw obsession in those eyes and read “my pet” on her lips.
The villages began to yammer. Freya did not announce why she came, instead she simply approached. About five paces from Samantha's trembling frame, Freya stopped. The village’s chatter erupted. “Didn't Samantha look different?” “Yes, she did.” “Is Arnie bleeding?” And then, with a sudden violent glance to her left, the bear let loose a roar that would cower kings.
The crowd was silent.
Until that instant, Freya’s gaze hadn’t left Samantha. Almost imperceptibly, her eyes shifted to Arnie. He saw condescension and disgust.
Freya began to speak. She moved her mouth, just like a human, and words came that any man could understand, but it sounded as if nature itself was speaking on her behalf, crickets chirping consonance, wind singing sibilance.
“Wishmaker,” Unction oozed off her words, “What may I bestow upon you? I shall both grant you a wish and anoint your sister to live out her time in my blissful company under my protection.”
In her voice, Arnie could only hear the cracking of bones and splatter of blood from her last anointed. His heart pounded, and he felt the subtle twist of knots in his chest. She knew he had seen her capricious murder, so why? Why did she try to persuade him here? He glanced at Samantha, still hypnotically looking at Freya.
“So, child, for what do you wish? Your fields will be forever bountiful? Wolves to hunt for you and guard you and your progeny? Hands that could raise the rarest, the most potent medicinal herbs with ease. These are but some of the many favors that I may bestow upon you. Choose carefully, as I will bestow only one.” She spoke such that the villagers surrounding Arnie and Samantha could hear.
Arnie’s heart pounded. Freya killed a man, her pet, an anointed she spent years with. Yet she had not killed Arnie, who brought disgust to her eyes. No, she could not kill him. Those were the rules. She was not bestowing a wish upon him, she was trading a wish. In exchange for a single wish, she could anoint a human. She could claim a pet.
But only if she granted the wish. Arnie had to be careful.
“A contest,” his voice rang out, though the silence did not seem as palpable as when Freya was speaking. It was almost louder than his own voice. He was shaking. He was scared. But he had a plan.
“I wish for a contest. If I lose, you take Sam, and if I win… if I win, I claim your power as my own.”
There was one beat of silence. Arnie imagined his sister’s bones cracking. But then Freya gave a mirthful laugh and Arnie sighed.
“You, steal my power?” She eyed him up and down,” And become the new god of the land.”
She let forth a gale of mirthful laughter, and the villagers released from their stupor began to laugh with her. “Why would I agree to such a farce? And you, you think that you can beat me? Child, there is no contest where you could come close. I can run faster than the winds. I can lift mountains. I can sing with such beauty that tears would wet the cheeks of each man, woman and child…”
Arnie’s heartbeat thrummed, his chest knotted more. What was he doing? He remembered the tapestry, the girl singing to the creatures of the forest. “Fine,” Arnie blurted out, interrupting Freya and causing nearby flowers to droop and thorn. “Let us sing. Each for ten minutes without interruption, magical or otherwise. And have the villagers vote on which of us sang the sweetest.”
The villagers were hushed. The grass around Freya changed colors from green to red and now a queasy yellow. “Well, boy, if you want to sing, why didn’t you ask? I can give a voice that would calm the fiercest combatants and woo the most frigid maidens.”
“One more thing,” Arnie felt the earth between his toes, he had to do this, “If I lose…”
Freya interrupted back, “When you lose the contest. You will lose no matter the contest.” She saw a determination in Arnie, and defiance. This was his wish, and while there was only the slightest sliver of risk, Freya was too wise, she sighed, “I see you cannot be dissuaded. I have decided I do not want to anoint the sister of one that would make such a foolish request.”
The yellow grass wilted and Arnie could see Freya pulling against the strings of desire. She’d leave Arnie and Samantha alone. He’d saved them. All would go back to the way it was. But why did his heart still pound, why did he feel this way.
Arnie looked at the surrounding villagers. They looked confused. They whispered contemptuously to each other. “He wasted his wish”. They would never understand what Arnie was trying to do. His eyes turned to Samantha. She turned to him with a smile. They could go back to normal. Back to his life. Now, as long as he didn’t do anything more, Freya would leave them alone.
He spied Jon in the crowd. He stood tall and proud. He was smiling at Arnie. Arnie had gotten all he wanted. So why wasn't he happy? Why did he continue to want more?
Freya brushed Samantha’s cheek.
“If I lose, you can kill me.” Arnie whispered so that only Freya could hear. She looked at him confused and scoffed. She turned from Samantha and Arnie and began to walk away.
He sucked snot into his mouth and spat as hard as he could. The spit barely hit Freya’s calf. But she noticed. The villagers stared in stunned silence. The bear gave a low growl that shook the earth.
Freya turned back. The grass on which she walked became thorns. She turned around, her eyes were death. She was not tall, but as she stood in front of Arnie, she looked as great as a mountain. She bent down, so her face was but an inch from Arnie’s. She smelled so sweet, like a sickly poison.
“If I lose the contest, you may kill me” Arnie whispered.
Freya’s eyes screamed in disgust. She gave a vicious smile and announced, “I'm feeling generous.” Flowers and poppies bloomed all under the villagers. Strawberries and watermelons popped up beneath their feet.
She looked back at Arnie, “I'm allowed to do whatever I want before the contest, right.” She smiled cleverly.
“Aye, but during the contest, no interruptions. We give each other the honor of silence. That is our covenant.”
Freya scoffed, “Let's get this over with.”
Chapter 7
Freya gestured at the hundred or so villagers surrounding them, “Are those already gathered sufficient for your contest,” Freya said mockingly. Arnie nodded.
“Let me make one simple preparation before we begin.” She thrust her hand up and from the center of town, the trunk of a great tree erupted. It grew taller and taller and taller until it towered two stories above the villagers. Sturdy wooden steps created an easy assent to the top. Arnie saw Freya lined the handrails with thorn-barbed vines. A nice touch.
“And so we begin.” She passed her hand in front of her mouth. A series of roots sprouted and sealed her lips. Arnie could feel the budding of small plants upon his mouth. And sure enough, soon his mouth was sealed shut. Arnie could not speak nor influence Freya’s performance.
Freya summited the steps and she clapped her hands. The roots that covered her mouth disappeared. Her ten minutes began. Then, with an inhalation like a cool breeze, she began to sing.
The beat and the melody were natural. They were regular but irregular. Like the parabolic canopy of trees, rather than the straight and orthogonal of the human world.
Her song began. Around her, flowers blossomed and grew. The notes brought forth rapturous joy. Babies laughed and smiled. The elderly wracked with rheumatoid began to dance. The song’s tenor changed. The flowers began to brighten. The sun shone hot and bright. Young men tugged at their trousers, making room for sudden enlargements. Women clutched their breasts. The song changed again. Heads of corn sprouted around the villagers. Fruit began to ripen and rot. Elders were lured into catnaps. An almost drunken sensation overcame the villagers. Then the song changed. A single eerie high-pitched note began the final movement. Plants withered. Smiling babies and newlyweds burst into tears. And finally, when Freya finished, there was a chilly silence.
The song took but ten minutes, but the village felt like an entire year elapsed.
Roots again resealed Freya’s mouth, and she dismounted.
Freya was right. There was no man or mortal that could sing a sweeter song. So she would assume, this was no competition, but a sweet slaughter.
Arnie’s heart thumped. This was more than he expected. The emotions of the villagers were too high. He had to wait. Minutes passed. Slowly, the villagers regained their composure. They solemnly talked. When they looked in his direction, he saw pity in their eyes. Women of the village came to Samantha and wished her well. None came to Arnie, save one.
Jon had fire in his eyes. His hand gripped a real sword, the mark of a grown man. He strode towards Arnie, drawing the sword. But nearly 10 feet away from him, vines rose and prevented him from striking. "Arnie, you bastard. You said you would save her. You could have saved her!" He struggled against the vines. "You murderer! You've killed all your family!"
He may be right. But for the second time in his life, Arnie felt alive.
As the minutes passed, Freya was exalting in the love of the villagers and basking in her premature victory.
As the emotions of the villagers began to wane, irritation swept over the crowd. Arnie’s heart still thrummed. Villagers were talking amongst each other, grumbling. He could no longer wait, now was the time. Arnie inhaled. He felt like he never did before. The world finally felt real to him. He reached down and touched the earth. There was nothing between him and his destiny but himself.
He ventured into the crowd of villagers. It was time. He clapped his hands and the vines receded. The crowd was focused on him, and he inhaled and began, “I cannot sing…”
He suddenly realized just how small he was. Around him towered the other villagers, one hundred of them. He heard them shouting from the edge of the crowd. “I can't hear him.” “What is he saying?” “Is he singing?” “I don't hear the song.”
Arnie yelled as loud as he could, “I cannot sing!” From further back in the crowd, he heard one of the villagers shout, “Louder boy, we can't hear you!”
His eyes glanced towards Freya. She was ignoring him completely, making a small flower blossom and wilt again and again, each time with different colored petals falling to the ground.
Arnie felt nausea wash over him. He was dead. Samantha was lost. His heart pounded. He heard the roar of the fire in the distance. No, he had to do this. It was still possible.
He knew what he must do. He shoved and pushed his way to the podium. He must climb. He grabbed the handrail and instantly tore his hand back. He had forgotten the thorns. He clutched his hand to his chest and stumbled up the stairs.
Huffing and puffing and staring at each step in front of him. He didn't know how much time he had left. Seven minutes? Five minutes? Finally, he was at the top.
He looked down upon all the villagers and suddenly felt the world spin before him. He was so high up. Freya hadn’t looked this high up. The villagers looked like little toys beneath him. A single misstep and he would fall. His ears began to ring, and he smelled soot. He was going to die, and Samantha would be taken forever.
His eyes began to black out, and he pulled himself away from the ledge. His heart thumped. THINK. He looked down at his hand torn and cut by the briars. And suddenly he remembered his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand. He remembered the tines of the fork. He remembered the clarifying pain. He smiled inwardly, thanking the Fairchilds.
He stood. He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and slammed it into the briars, nettles, and thorns that made up the railings. Blood flowed down and began to drip, drip, drip onto the crowd below. The fear and anxiety suddenly began to wash away. Instead, they were replaced with clarity and pain.
He began to crudely sing with no beat and no melody. “I cannot sing, and this is not a singing contest.” Arnie shot a glance to Freya, who fortunately wasn't listening. “This is a voting contest.”
“The question is who should you vote for?” Arnie buried his arm deeper into the thorns and clenched his fist around a particularly large nettle. He felt the spines pierce his palm. The smell of soot receded to wood and leather. “You can vote for Freya and things will be the same. Nothing will change. The summers might be long, or maybe short. The winters could ravage us. She can torment you, pox you, bless you, or anoint you. Anything she wants
“Or, you can vote for me.”
There was silence. Arnie’s voice felt large and powerful. He saw Freya, she looked up. She was frantically racing towards his stage, but rules were rules, there was to be no interruption. “But we can change that. If you vote for me, I’ll bring 100 years of summer followed by a regular season with short winters. I won’t torment you. I’ll be fair. I’ll even try to help you
“I know this sounds impossible. But if we don’t act, nothing will change…”
Arnie began to fill that familiar feeling of tottering on the brink. Blackness covered his eyes. No, this was different. He felt cold.
He heard murmuring from the crowd, and then a slow chant. The chant was not his name, and nor was it Freya’s, but instead, the chant was, “Orion! Orion!” He stumbled forward, his tattered arm sliding off the thorns. He began to fall.
Roots began to entwine his mouth. He did what he could. It was up to the villagers now. He felt an exultant lightness and then felt an eruption of pain from his back and ribs as his body met the reality of hard ground. This was real. He chose his path and his courage. He had lived. And tried to make the impossible, possible.
He cracked his eyes open and saw Samantha's beautiful and inscrutable eyes looking down at him for the last time in his mortal life.