Christmas in NeverEarth
©2011
by Sylvan Scott
Smashwords Edition
Heavy snow melted into growing pools in Anthony’s wake. Their path led from where he stood at the window, across his spartan living room, through the door, down the hall, past the resident assistant’s lobby desk, and out into the blizzard where his taxi was pulling away for safer harbors. He’d made it fourteen blocks before the airport was declared closed. In the hour it took for the driver to get him back to Anderson Hall word was that it would be at least a day, maybe two, before air travel resumed. Monstrous snowflakes fell ponderously behind his reflection in his dorm room window. The clichéd line from too many holiday specials floated through his mind.
“Christmas is cancelled.”
He sighed. He should phone them; tell them he wasn’t coming but he couldn’t. All he could do was stare out the window, lost in his thoughts.
At first, the knocking went unnoticed. Only the third, most frantic, rapping caught his attention. But it wasn’t its increasing rapidity that drew his notice as much as its source. The knocking came from neither the hall door nor the entrance to his tiny, darkened bedroom. Rather, it echoed from the closed, closet door next to his stacked, damp luggage. He scowled. Not in the mood for visitors or pranks, he crossed the room and jerked the door open. Ready to lay into whoever had broken into his room and hidden in his closet, he stopped, mouth agape.
Cold, snowy air swirled into his room from a dark forest that should not—could not—exist. Icicles hung from evergreen branches aside willowy birch trees. They stood like white sentinels in deep drifts of snow. Before them, hand raised in a knocking position, stood the most impossible element of the tableau: a satyr.
As if stepped from the pages of a book on Greek myth, he was a goat from the waist down standing on digitigrade legs ending in cloven hooves. His upper body appeared human, lean, and sported a curling, pointed beard on his chin. Two large horns, like those of a ram, curved from his forehead back over his pointed, animal ears. He wore a dark brown tunic, belted at the waist above a woolen kilt, and had a snow-covered, green cloak across his shoulders. About a foot shorter than Anthony, he smiled as he looked up, eyes sparkling.
“Tony! By all that’s holy: I had started to give up hope! Do you know how many doors I had to knock on before I found you?”
Anthony stared, mouth trying to find words. “What?” His mind tried to processes what he was seeing. He blinked, stammered again, and tried once more. “Who—?”
“Tony—gods, please don’t have completely forgotten. It’s me: Wiste Callerbach!” His voice lowered. “Please tell me you remember.”
Anthony slowly shook his head. He started to answer despite the impossible nature of the scene before him. He began to say “No” but as he tried, he found that, strangely, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was a pressure, suddenly there; a pressure that swelled in his mind pressing inwards from his temples. He stepped back and stood in the center of the room. His attention was focused; the cold wind wafted through the closet door making him shiver. He was perfectly awake and hadn’t been drinking or smoking pot; he’d not had the time since he got back to the dorm.
This was real.
As he stared, patches of emptiness in his mind—like swaths of darkness on the surface of his memory—began to crack and fracture. Beyond them there was a sense of familiarity. His mouth moved from hanging open to ponder the name “Wiste” upon his lips.
He was amazed even as he said it. “I … I think we’ve met.”
“I should say so,” Wiste said. He stepped over the threshold from the nighttime forest into the dorm room. He shook the snow from his shoulders and smiled a bit ruefully. “I should have expected this, though. Willful ignorance on my part, I regret to say. I’m sorry, Tony; memories can be tricky things. I just thought our time together would have helped.”
“Our time?”
At the satyr’s forlorn look Anthony felt a pang of regret. He should remember this strange, horned man; he knew it. He knew he should have years of memories about him.
“We knew each other ... when I was a kid?” The cracks in his mind widened. A singular fact filtered through. “You’re from … from another world.”
“Yes; yes, that’s right. You remember?” Wiste asked. Hope breathed back into his voice. “It’s been so long. You remember what you called it: my home?”
More blocks between he and his memories melted away in the wake of the satyr’s insistence. An image broke through: the satyr’s face beneath a sunny sky hiking across a rolling plain. Anthony blinked, recalling. More memories followed and each was more complete than the last. In one, the satyr—Wiste—led the way up a narrow, winding mountain path towards a black castle. In another the two of them explored a cave by torch-light to escape the lair of a titanic dragon. In another...
Anthony’s breathed short and shallow in the wake of returning memory. He tried to swallow his nerves. The name; the name he gave Wiste’s world...
And, abruptly, there it was.
“NeverEarth...”
His whisper trailed off but in its wake came more memories. He staggered from the weight of them.
Wiste practically yelped in glee. “You asked if Kellen was like a mix between Neverland and Middle Earth,” the satyr said. “Of course, I had no idea what you were talking about. You had to tell me. But even afterwards, you always referred to it as ‘NeverEarth’. Even good King Alimonde called it that once in a while.”
It was true; he remembered it. In the wake of his returning memory, all his troubles with the taxi to the airport, his abortive trip home, the blizzard outside: they all evaporated.
“My God, Wiste,” he said at last, “how could I—?” More memories rolled in like the tide. His mind flitted from one to the next. His voice had dropped and become quieter. “After all we did... My memory: it just—”
“Faded?” The satyr shrugged, more melting snow falling from his cloak. “It happens to all people from your world, really. They say it becomes permanent sometime between their twelfth and fourteenth years.” He shook his head and smiled thinly. “I guess I just thought you’d be different where I was concerned, y’know? Foolish old faun.”
Anthony blinked. “All people from my world?”
Wiste nodded. “You met several of them over the years; made friendships in NeverEarth that you couldn’t recall once you got home. As near as I can tell most mortals in your world have slipped between the barriers of here and there at one point or another. Your world has some pretty confounding laws. You mortals: your minds can’t seem to access those memories you’ve gained while you’re away. In short, after returning for a few days, you forget the other world until you encounter a piece of it again. When you were young, at each visit, all it took was a glance and you remembered it all; it was like you’d never left.”
Anthony walked to his desk, pulled out its chair, and sat down. The memories were back: dusty and disused, but there they were. He remembered them: the pirates of Therasy Bay, the Sorcerer of Burning Rock, his quest into Echo Wood, the threat of the Umbral Knight: nearly a dozen adventures over what seemed like dozens of years from age eight to … to... He wasn’t exactly certain.
“I’d hoped to invite you to Midwinter’s Night,” Wiste said. “But, uh, it looks like I’d underestimated just how much time had passed in your land. Thirty-to-one?”
“Three to one,” Anthony muttered, absently doing the math. He looked up. “Wait, it’s been—”
“Twenty three years.” The satyr shrugged. “For me. Not that long, really, I guess. Satyrs live a long while.”
Anthony was nineteen; nineteen and with more weight on his shoulders than he’d ever had during his adventures in NeverEarth. His sophomore year’s fall semester had just ended. A stressful holiday with the family back home had just been avoided thanks to bad weather. Now: Wiste.
“Midwinter’s Night?” he asked.
Wiste nodded. “I, well, I was a bit lonely, really; thought it would be nice to see an old friend.”
Anthony attempted a smile. “You mean you got drunk again and made your way through the World Labyrinth to find me.”
The satyr smiled with embarrassment. “See? You do remember.”
Anthony offered Wiste a seat on the ratty couch by the window and after a few false starts, the two slipped into a long-overdue reminiscence. They spoke about their adventures; of how they’d first met by the base of Thunderwater Falls in Epsilon Wood. They reminisced about how the tyrannical Dragon King had decreed any child of Earth be executed lest an ancient prophesy foretelling his downfall at human hands come true. Wiste had hidden young Anthony beneath the falls for days. Eventually Anthony had helped the satyr overcome his fears and help him mount an expedition back through the Labyrinth to get home. On the way, they dodged the Dragon King’s minions, had adventures, and forged their friendship. Anthony had gone home and the Dragon King been turned to stone when the tyrant broke an oath given to Anthony of his own free will. The spell that had been intended for the mortal boy, to petrify any betrayer of the throne, turned on its creator when the dragon tried to use the kidnapped Wiste to coerce Anthony to join his dark court. As Anthony had learned, the magic of NeverEarth enforced magical bargains.
Outside, the campus clock chimed midnight. He looked up at the still-falling snow.
“Mid-winter, eh? As it is, I’m going nowhere.” He gestured at the mounting snowfall. “I had plans to go home for Christmas but with this weather...” He trailed off, a shadow of his mood coming home to roost.
Wiste nodded, brow furrowed in thought. A moment later, a long, sly grin spread across his face.
“You have until tomorrow morning, right? To get home and see your parents, I mean.”
“More or less, but with all the planes grounded—”
“I don’t know about planes,” Wiste interrupted, “but I do know the Labyrinth.” He nodded towards the now-shut closet door. “With the right guide, I’m betting you could get there through NeverEarth.”
Anthony blinked. “Is that … possible?” Realization dawned. It was possible; he knew it was. “I could use NeverEarth as a short-cut...”
“I don’t see why not,” Wiste said. “We followed your heartstrings the first time we met and got you home before anyone noticed you were gone. Why not follow them, now, through the Labyrinth to your parents’ house? Do they still live in the same place?”
Anthony nodded.
“And with your family still close to your heart, the way should be easy!”
Anthony blushed slightly but let Wiste continue.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Wiste leaped to his hooves. He strode to the closet door and rapped on it three times before turning the knob the wrong way. It opened onto the wintry wood.
Anthony balked.
“Wiste, I don’t know; there are things—”
“Pish and fiddle,” the satyr exclaimed. “Getting cold feet? We’ve yet to step into the snow! What happened to the boy who faced down the Umbral Knight single-handed?”
Anthony considered all the reasons he shouldn’t; one—the most difficult—stood out as the most insurmountable. He steeled himself, stood, and walked over to Wiste. He put a hand on the satyr’s shoulder and answered.
“He got a few years older and found out he was gay.”
It was the first time he’d said it to family. Even after all the years apart, Wiste was the closest thing to a brother he had. Looking at Wiste’s innocent face, he realized the satyr probably had no idea what the colloquialism meant. He was about to clarify what “gay” meant when Wiste raised a hand.
“My dear boy: I am a satyr. You think this matters to me?” He clearly had gotten the meaning. “All that really matters is the pleasure we share and love that we feel.”
Anthony shook his head.
“It’s not about you, Wiste; it’s my parents.”
“They do not approve?”
“They don’t know.”
Wiste paused in thought. “You were going to tell them during your visit but the storm’s given you a reprieve.”
Anthony nodded as Wiste blew a long breath through his nostrils.
“Wish I knew whether it was a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Well,” he said after a moment, “I can see how my offer has complicated things but, really, isn’t it best to face this fear of yours head-on?”
“This isn’t a childhood story, Wiste; the answers aren’t always so simple.”
He looked confused. “Why not?”
The question, as direct and clear as Wiste always was, annoyed him with its simplicity. He’d been ready to face his parents before, so why not now? He closed his eyes. Where was the boy who’d bested the Umbral Knight?
He knew the answer as he said it.
He smiled, remembering how it felt to wield a sword against the enemies of goodness and light.
“Y’know something? The Champion Knight of NeverEarth hasn’t gone anywhere,” he said. “I think he was just on an extended vacation.”
The snow was deep and crunched heavily as he slogged through it up to his knees. Anthony wore his hardiest winter clothes and carried a kerosene lantern from his last camping trip. Wiste led the way, a cluster of firefly lights dancing around the tip of his old, gnarled walking stick. They’d packed three days of food, mostly raided from Anthony’s mini-fridge, and planned their path on a hastily-drawn map. Wiste, as always, was his guide.
“Not what I’d expected for a Midwinter’s Night celebration,” Wiste said. “Usually I spend it with a few neighbors, sharing what ales we’ve put down for the coming year; sharing a few feasts.”
“A few feasts?”
“Well, the tradition that Midwinter’s Night last only a single day is really more a guideline than a rule. I’ve been to celebrations that last all week!”
Anthony smiled. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
The night air was peppered with periodic swirls of snow. As the full moon shone through the clouds, a long, mournful howl rose in the distance. It was a rapidly mimicked and echoed, emanating from all around them in the shadows beyond the trees.
The World Labyrinth was less of a physical maze and more of a series of magical paths crisscrossing the world of Kellen. They snaked in and out and all around like secret passages. Whole villages were nestled within and entire countries able to be reached as one walked the paths. When traveling them, you always looked for signs of where to step next; of which path to follow. It was easy to get lost while navigating the World Labyrinth. Anthony had gone astray more times than he cared to remember. He didn’t know exactly where they were at the moment but by his reckoning their path should be taking them through the outskirts of Mournholme in the duchy of Malgrave.
The last of the howls died away.
“Wiste; what was that?”
Both had stopped in their tracks.
“If I said ‘wolves’ would you believe me?” Wiste asked.
Anthony raised his lantern and shone its light between the trees. “Wolves?”
The howls arose again. They were closer.
“Well, that’s half-right.” The howls faded again. What Wiste was saying without saying it settled in.
“Werewolves?”
The satyr swallowed and nodded. “I’ve heard stories; that the children of Duchess Malgrave had been so afflicted but—”
An eruption of claws, fangs, fury, and fur exploded from the shadows around them. Anthony nearly fell over in shock and fear while Wiste brandished his staff.
“Halt and be … identified.”
The booming voice was feral and dropped into a snarl at the end. Five large beasts, half wolf and half man, surrounded them. They were taller than Anthony and covered in grey, shaggy fur. Their eyes glinted in the feeble moonlight. The one who’d spoken, apparently their leader, stepped forward. His yellow eyes flitted from Wiste to Anthony and back to Wiste again.
“I … I’m—”
“No; it cannot be,” the wolf snarled. He’d interrupted Wiste’s attempt at diplomacy and focused on Anthony. The beast bent forward and craned his head back, sniffing the cold air. Anthony swallowed hard. “But it is,” the wolf growled. “It—he—is a … mortal.”
The others murmured looking from each other to their leader.
Anthony cleared his throat. “Well, yes; I am,” he said. “I was—am—the NeverEarth Champion Knight, sworn to the service of good King Alimonde.” His voice grew more confident as he remembered similar encounters from his youth. “I am on a mission for his Majesty,” he lied, “so you’d best clear the path unless you want the king to hear about this!”
The werewolves exchanged glances before their leader answered.
“Good King Alimonde, eh?” the wolf asked. “Tell me, then, which King Alimonde would that be? King Alimonde the wolf-slayer? King Alimonde the long-winded talker? King Alimonde the deceased?” The wolf’s snarl fell into an unpleasant chuckle. “Or would that be all three?” he asked.
Anthony gulped and looked to Wiste who nodded, slowly.
“I’d not yet told you,” he whispered. “Alimonde passed five winters ago; his daughter now sits on the Alabaster Throne.”
“Indeed,” the wolf said. He took a step closer, sniffing the air once more. “It seems your king is dead, ‘champion’.” He looked at his fellows and boomed, “Long live the Warriors of the Forest!” With that, he threw back his head and howled, quickly followed by the rest.
Anthony knew he had to do something. Lowering his head, he dove forward, ramming the lead werewolf in the chest with his head and tackled him to the ground.
The others dove at the two travelers: all teeth and snarls.
Anthony sprang back and swung his heavy backpack to keep them at bay. He hit one in the nose but got a shallow rake of claws in return. Wiste did better, swinging his staff to keep them at bay. But they were quickly overwhelmed. The blows and raking claws stabbed with more agony than Anthony had ever suffered. He fought back with everything he had; it was useless. He was driven to the ground, staining the white snow with red.
Wolven snarls laughed at him as he floundered and Wiste tried to fight his way to his side and help.
A winnowing call split the air. Far off, it sounded entreating yet full of authority.
The wolves stopped their assault immediately.
“Mother,” their leader snarled.
“The duchess,” echoed another.
In moments their assault was forgotten and, as a pack, they loped off through the trees to the north.
Only one hung back, long enough to glare at their intended prey, and snarl, “Come back this way again, outsider, and you’ll fare far, far worse.” With that, he kicked at Anthony’s prone form, turned, and followed the others.
Anthony groaned. His wounds burned while the cold bit into his exposed flesh. He could barely see and his consciousness flickered in and out. He struggled to stand but fell into the snow. Strong hands supported him and rolled him gently onto his back. Wiste knelt in the snow next to Anthony.
“You’ll be fine, Tony; I swear. Just … rest. I’ll go find help.”
Anthony wasn’t strong enough to argue but tried anyway. He didn’t want to be left alone on the cold ground in a dark forest. It was like something out of a faerie tale: one of the nastier variety. “Please, Wiste—”
“I … I’ll be right back; I promise!”
Then, in a flash, the satyr was gone.
Anthony groaned and slumped heavily into the snow.
He didn’t know how long he passed in and out of consciousness but, eventually, his mind slipped from its painful state into a shallow, fitful sleep.
Sunlight woke him.
His wounds burned in contrast to his cold body. Blearily, he found that they’d been wrapped by strips of green woolen cloth. He blinked painfully, and looked around.
“Wiste?”
There was no response.
With difficulty, he managed to roll to one side and onto his hands and knees.
“Wiste?” His second call was more of a shout but got the same result.
Wobbly, he looked around.
The snow was stained with frozen blood. All around him were signs of the fight.
By day, the snow made the forest blindingly bright. By their tracks, he could see where the werewolves had come upon them and where he and Wiste had fought back. Off to the west he saw the satyr’s hoof-prints. They led off through the snow in a relatively straight line between the trees.
Wiste had gone to find help, but not returned.
He moaned and took several deep breaths before attempting to stand.
Shaky and feeling nervous, he tried to plan his next move. He knew he wasn’t safe here; he was injured and weak. He needed help. But he couldn’t just wait.
Steeling himself against the pain, he took a step in the direction Wiste’s tracks went. When he didn’t fall over, he took another. Bolstered by his success, he began to follow. Occasionally he had to stop to catch his breath or focus past the pain, but he persisted.
The winter forest was beautiful despite its dangers. By day, bright red cardinals flitted between the ice-laden branches. A few squirrels chattered at him, noisily, as he made his way along a frozen brook. But the air pierced his warm clothing and made him slower as he followed Wiste’s path. Every now and then, he called out his friend’s name to no avail.
He staggered through the woods as the sun rose and continued west.
A faint, almost musical, sound caught his attention. For a moment he wondered if it was birds but it sounded more … structured; more lyrical. The sound penetrated past his wounds and buoyed his spirits. It was coming from ahead, so he redoubled his efforts to push on.
He came upon a small glade in which the brook he’d been following originated. There, along its far side, was a pond, about half frozen over. A mound of boulders stood sentinel on its western edge at the base of a small cliff. Mostly ice, a waterfall had been captured by the depths of winter. A shallow stream flowed down the frozen falls.
He knelt at the edge of the pond where a small amount of water was still liquid. He put his hands into the biting cold and lifted them up to sip.
As the water touched his tongue his pain began to fade and the faint music, stopped. The effect was sharp and sudden as if being swept aside by a broom. He looked up in surprise and glanced around.
“Who drinks from my pool?” came a sweet voice.
Anthony lurched to his feet.
He’d not heard her approach but there, standing knee-deep in the small patch of open water, stood a pale, naked woman. Her white hair was wet and long as if she’d arisen from the frigid water. Her eyes were light blue and she didn’t seem to mind the cold.
Anthony steadied himself. “I’m just a traveler,” he said. “I was attacked. My friend: he went for help but never returned. I followed his tracks here.”
“Did you, indeed?” the woman said. Her face took on an almost motherly, concerned expression. “Well, you may drink deep of my pool, young mortal. Let it’s waters draw the pain from your flesh and bones.”
Anthony stayed wary but forced a smile. There was something about this place that was wrong; dangerous.
“You’re a forest spirit?”
She nodded. “I am naiad Meripone. You kneel at the edge of my home. You are welcome here, mortal.”
Anthony wanted to drink again. Already, the pain that had been soothed was returning. He examined his wounds. One of them had reopened during his trek; fresh, frozen blood stained one of his sleeves. It had stopped on its own but the wound was still there. All of his wounds were still there.
“The pond: it will heal me?”
“I offer you freedom from pain; from misery. Please: drink deep and know peace.”
He scowled. He was about to ask more questions when he saw it. At the glade’s edge, leaning against an old tree, was Wiste’s staff. He frowned.
“Where’s Wiste?”
The naiad cocked her head. “I know not this name, mortal man. Surely it can wait; you are in pain.”
He brushed her off. “I’m in pain but I’ll deal with it. Where’s Wiste?”
For only a flash, a look of anger marred her features. But it was quickly washed away as the water spirit summoned a smile. “Ah, you must mean the satyr, do you not? He came this way not ten hours ago.” She pursed her lips, coldly. “He, too, was in pain.”
“Where is he?”
The water nymph smiled prettily and turned to the south. She raised her hands to her mouth and sang. It was the same sound that had led Anthony here in the first place. Sweet and compelling, it promised healing and peace and rest for any who would listen. It took all his strength to not stumble forward into the freezing water to get closer to the source of that beautiful sound.
Motion behind a mound of boulders caught his eye.
Stumbling forward near the waterfall’s base came the shaking and frost-caked form of his friend.
“Wiste!”
He stumbled towards the open water and stopped. He glanced down at the water and licked his lips. The satyr lowered himself to the icy edge and reached down to scoop handfuls into his mouth.
“He was in such pain,” the naiad said. “You should have heard him: blaming himself, castigating himself for putting his oldest friend in danger. I couldn’t let him go un-tended.”
“What did you do to him?”
Watching his friend’s behavior, Anthony knew the answer. It was the water. It assuaged pain. It was a powerful and enticing panacea. He was sure that if he were to drink more he’d not feel his wounds for some time. But then what?
“Let him go,” Anthony commanded. He drew himself up in the most commanding stance he could manage. “Let him go and we’ll leave. If you don’t—”
He let his threat be implied rather than stated. For one, it belied his lack of ability to do much of anything given his injuries. Second, it gave him a slight surge of confidence to take such a stance.
“But my dear boy, he is free to leave,” the naiad said. “No one who ever comes here is held. All are free to come and go as they please.”
She stepped forward, the white rocks beneath her feet gleaming beneath the crystal clear water.
But they weren’t rocks.
Horrified, Anthony saw they were bones.
He took a step back.
“They were all in such pain,” she said. She indicated the bones with a sweep of her pale hand. “But now, they are at peace. Wouldn’t you like to be free of your pain?”
Anthony glanced at Wiste as the satyr sat back on the snowy ice after drinking handfuls of the magical water. The satyr looked both frightened and ashamed. Anthony looked back to Meripone and said, “Yes. I would.”
The naiad smiled.
“Anyone would,” he continued. “But they’d be wrong.” He turned to his friend. “Wiste! Come here.” He winced as his gesture created a sharp pain in his side. “Please,” he said.
The satyr looked up, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. “But, Tony; the water—”
“Wiste,” Anthony repeated, “come … here.”
His friend looked torn. He glanced from the water at his hooves to the frozen naiad to Anthony on the far bank. He licked his lips, nervously, and took a step. “Tony; I nearly got you killed. After all these years, I—”
“But I’m not dead,” he replied. “Wiste, I’m hurt but I’m going to be okay. You have to believe that.”
“You should not stir his pain,” Meripone said coldly. There was a threat in her voice that Anthony did not miss. “He is peaceful. Would you take that from him?”
Anthony ignored her. “Wiste, we’ll get out of here. We’ll find real help. But you need to keep moving.”
“I’m so sorry, Tony,” Wiste said. “I … I just wanted a nice Midwinter’s Night with someone; with a friend I’d not seen in far too long. But it’s all become so … confused.”
The naiad moved towards Wiste but stopped at the water’s edge. Realization dawned.
“Wiste; keep back from her. She’s the spirit of these waters; she can’t leave them!” He hoped he was right. “She can’t get to you if you don’t let her.”
“You are wrong, mortal,” Meripone said.
With that, she raised her hand and made a sharp, pulling gesture. Wiste choked and put his hands to his throat. All that emerged were gurgling noises. He gasped for breath as water poured from his mouth. He gagged and stumbled, trying to breathe.
On instinct Anthony lunged to his friend’s defense. He stopped at the water’s edge as she turned her pale eyes to him in warning.
Wiste’s staggered back as the last of the water he’d drunk left him. As it had once taken his pain, its departure returned it, with interest. Breath rushed in and Wiste collapsed, panting.
“Now,” the naiad said, “dear Mister Wiste, how much would you like a drink?”
Wiste’s hands shook where they plunged into a thin layer of snow. The beautiful maiden beckoned with one hand while the other indicated the pool of pain-deadening water. He looked from her to Anthony.
Unable to think of anything more he could say, Anthony just looked back. Even though he’d only had a sip, the return of his own pain made giving in a very real temptation.
Slowly, Wiste stood. As if moving a great weight, he turned to the tree at the pond’s edge.
“You turn your back on my gifts?” Meripone demanded.
He reached out and took his staff. “My pain is great,” he said. “But I shall face it without your help.”
The naiad screamed in fury. Anthony and Wiste fell back and retreated as best they could. With a resounding crack, shelves of ice fell from the waterfall and crashed into the rocks, below. As quickly as they could, they left the glade. Meripone’s rage continued unabated as the two made their way away from the enchanted pool.
“I thought it was you who was supposed to save me.”
An hour further down the magical paths of the World Labyrinth and it was Anthony’s first statement to Wiste since they’d been reunited. Wiste turned, a sheepish look on his face.
“You saved my life more than a handful of times when you were younger.”
“And you saved mine at least as often.”
The satyr smiled weakly. “The thing of it is, I should have known this would happen; I should never have left you or gone off on my own.”
Anthony cocked his head. “How so?”
Wiste gestured for his friend to sit on a flat tree stump. He examined Anthony’s wounds and replaced a few bandages. Both men were traveling slowly and Wiste twitched, slightly, now and again as if remembering some tortured pain. He muttered under his breath about what herbs he would need to help Anthony more fully.
“You’re on a quest, Tony; you remember the rules.”
Anthony blinked. “I’m not on a quest. Neither are you. You came to visit me for the holidays and I’m just trying to go home.”
Wiste arched a brow. “And how is your journey any different from the one you followed during your first visit?” He smiled and patted Anthony’s shoulder. “The rules of balance dictate that any quest shall visit challenges along its course; encounters that will reveal the inner you and more truths about your place in the world.”
Anthony shook his head. “If so, this is an awfully lame quest,” he said. “A trip to the ‘rent’s place for Christmas? How’s that stack up with defeating the Umbral Knight?”
“Ah, your last adventure,” Wiste said. A tone of regret slipped into his voice. “If I’d known it was going to be the last time I’d see you, I’d have made it last longer.” He looked his friend in the eye. “The rules are not mine to make. NeverEarth is full of laws both mundane and magical. I should have realized it when we first encountered the wolves. But when I saw you come up to the pond and realized I needed your help, I saw the pattern.”
The tradition of travel, of going on a quest, was common in NeverEarth. Anthony had heard about the precepts of finding one’s self and facing impossible odds each time he’d come here. It was possible there was some sort of cosmic law at work or a powerful, arcane spell that ensured those taking long travels had certain life-changing encounters along the way, but he suspected it was more mundane than that. In many ways, it was like the aboriginal idea of the “walkabout”. He suspected there was more self-fulfilling prophesy to the tradition of quests than anything actually magical in this mystic world.
Still, he’d spent enough time here that he couldn’t deny it was possible.
They resumed tracing their route along the trails of the Laybrinth, stopping or diverting from their path only for rest or when Wiste spied one of the plants he needed for his healing magics. By sundown, although tired, he’d gathered what he needed. Melting snow in a small cup, he mixed the herbs and chanted over the concoction. Anthony drank it and started feeling better almost immediately. Unlike the naiad’s waters, though, his wounds actually began to heal. As they rested beneath an arbor of heavy evergreen branches for the night, his outlook improved. He’d spent a day and a half, here; back home that meant it was about Noon, Christmas Day. He was going to be late. Still, he felt strangely happy.
By dawn his aches and pains were only on the inside. The two set off, once more.
By Noon, they started seeing signs of civilization. Here and there amongst the trees they would see cottages and houses. They found a proper road and followed the Labyrinth path along its course. But house after house that they passed was empty. Doors stood open and, on several, hung signs with crudely painted lettering stating “FORECLOSED” or “NO TRESPASS”.
At a forest crossroads, a small sign on a tall post told them where they were: Veriden Towne.
“Veriden?” Anthony looked around in disbelief. “God, it’s so … different.”
“And where is everybody?” Wiste added.
Veriden was the first town he’d come to after meeting Wiste all those years ago. It had always served as his final landmark on the way to his childhood home. The only time he’d not come this way was during the adventure of the Andalrassian Jewels, which had taken place in a distant part of NeverEarth that he’d stumbled into while on vacation with his parents in Spain.
A sharp boom followed by a heavy crack interrupted their reverie. They turned as it was followed by a sound like that of a falling tree. Tremors shook the ground and leafless branches swayed overhead. Torrents of snow fell from the canopy as a lumbering shape rose up in the distance. Their eyes widened.
A giant stumbled into view.
Entirely non-human, it resembled a fox walking upright on half-human legs. His whole body was covered in a russet-red fur and it’s narrow, pointed muzzle was full of sharp teeth. It loomed overhead, heavy and fat for the winter, wearing only a loincloth made from the hides of at least three deer. As they backed away, its longer stride carried it closer until it came to stop only fifty feet away. It bent down and wrested a small tree out of the frozen ground, hefting it like a club.
“Who travels these roads without paying the tax?” the giant fox growled.
Anthony frowned. Wiste shot him a look as if to remind him they were still on a quest. Anthony was starting to feel annoyed. “And who are you to collect taxes on a free road?” he shouted.
Probably encouraged by Anthony’s example, Wiste added, “All ways in this wood are to be open and free, by royal order of the king!”
The fox chuckled, his huge belly shaking. “Haven’t you heard? Alimonde is dead. Long live the fox king!” He casually swung the tree over one shoulder, looking down at them from his eighty foot height. “And if you want to pass through these woods, you’ll have to pay the tax.”
“You are no king,” Wiste said. “These roads are free by order of the throne, no matter who sits on it!”
The giant scoffed. “Think you that I care one whit about what some tiny, far-off royal thinks or says?” He flexed his titanic muscles while shifting the tree from one shoulder to the other. He narrowed his eyes. “And you’re acting awfully uppity for such a little thing.”
Wiste blushed and seemed about to say something when Anthony stepped forward.
“What’s the tax?” he called out.
The giant looked confused for a moment. “What?”
“The tax,” Anthony repeated. “You say you’re collecting a tax but you don’t say what it is.”
The fat fox’s face broke into a wide, crafty grin. “Gold,” he rumbled. “Half the gold you have on your person!” He paused and shot a glance at Wiste. “Twice that amount for him.”
“That’s absurd!” Wiste cried. “This is extortion—”
“Wiste,” Anthony hissed.
The satyr looked at the human, frowning. “Anthony,” he whispered, “we can’t. This beast—”
“Sir tax collector,” Anthony resumed, “you drive a hard bargain, but I concede. If you will swear by all your strength and power that we may pass for half my gold and twice that amount from my friend, we shall agree.”
The giant laughed. “Done!”
Anthony smiled and began to walk forward “That said, sir fox, we shall take our leave and pass.” He rubbed his hands together for warmth in the snowy wood and started to walk on. “Thank you.”
The fox looked confused for a moment. Then, with a thunderous boom he swung the tree-club into the ground blocking Anthony’s path.
“You,” he rumbled, “will not pass; you will pay me, or—”
“I already have,” Anthony said. He sounded calm and cool as he stared up from his ankle-height position by the giant’s paws. “You agreed to take in payment half the gold I have and twice that of my friend. Since I have no gold and twice nothing is still nothing, I’m afraid you made a bad bargain.”
The giant’s brow furrowed as he considered.
“What?”
Anthony sighed. This sort of trickery was rudimentary at best but, still, that’s what he was dealing with, here: a rudimentary threat by a rudimentary mind.
“You agreed—swore, even, by all your strength and might—to let us pass in return for the gold I offered. I’d have asked you to swear on your honor but, frankly, I wasn’t sure you had any.”
The insult seemed to go beneath the giant’s notice. The outright refusal to pay even a single coin, however, made him snarl. He lifted his club once more.
“You will give me what you have,” he growled. “You will give me all you own and, if I’m feeling generous, maybe I won’t eat you as well!”
The giant loomed over the two like a fur-covered, blubbery cliff.
Anthony stood back and crossed his arms. “No,” he said, “I do not agree to your terms. Our deal is struck. Do you now try to get around it?”
The giant fox narrowed his eyes. “I do.”
No sooner than the words escaped the titanic creature’s lips than a strange expression came over his face. He stumbled back and looked momentarily dizzy. Then, before their eyes, the giant began to dwindle. Only a little bit at first, the massive fox suddenly began to shrink, getting smaller and smaller. He staggered to one side, disoriented, and dropped the tree as it became too big to hold. Anthony and Wiste watched as the formerly gigantic tax collector shrank past their own height down to the considerably smaller size of an actual fox standing on its hind legs. The former giant fell back into a snow bank with a yelp.
Anthony smiled and began to walk forward past the diminished threat.
Wiste, after kicking some snow on the tax collector, followed.
“What … what have you done?” yelped the fox. He fumbled about in the snow, trying to stand.
“Me? I did nothing,” Anthony said. “The rules of the throne say this is a free road and the laws of the land enforce oaths freely given. Do you know nothing?”
“But my size; my strength...”
“Were forfeit as soon as you reneged on your agreement,” Anthony said. “I doubt it will last forever but by the time the enchantment of the land falls from your form, the queen will have sent her guard into these woods to secure the paths.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who knows? Maybe, by that time, you’ll have learned that all your power and authority mean nothing if you don’t respect those who are smart enough to actually earn their gold.”
With that, he and Wiste walked past the two-foot high giant and, passing between the snowy trees, resumed the final leg of their trek.
The doorway to Anthony’s childhood closet stood weathered and wreathed in forest snow. Squeezed between two towering, twisting trees, it looked smaller than he remembered. Carvings he’d made in it with a pen-knife were still visible even after all the intervening years.
“I remember your second adventure,” Wiste said. “You thought it was monsters knocking on the door when I came to tell you the Amber Witch had kidnapped the king.”
Anthony smiled, nodding. “I remember,” he said.
The snow drifted around them within the silence of the deep wood.
“I suppose this is it,” Anthony said.
“I suppose it is,” Wiste agreed. “I don’t suppose,” he asked, “that your parents would want a satyr visiting for Christmas dinner?”
Anthony laughed. “Trust me: the last thing you need is for them to start asking you questions after their son tells them he’s gay. I think that would make this Christmas even more awkward than it’s already going to be.”
Wiste shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said. “You could always talk to them on a day that isn’t so special.”
“I could,” he agreed. “And I probably should. It would be better that way, honestly. But, really, after all this, I’d best go through with it, now, while its all fresh in my mind.” He leaned down and hugged Wiste, tightly. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you again.”
Wiste embraced Anthony and buried his face in the young man’s winter coat.
“Promise?”
Anthony pulled back and crossed his heart. “By all the magic in NeverEarth, I swear,” he said. “Just don’t let it be so long next time, Ok?”
The satyr nodded. “Next time, I’ll plan it a bit better,” he said.
They embraced once more.
Anthony turned away and gave the handle of door a twist in the wrong direction and knocked four times. It opened up to reveal his childhood bedroom. Before he could re-think his decision, he stepped through.
As the door closed behind him, smells of cinnamon and apples filled his nostrils. He heard favorite Christmas carols playing somewhere in the house and, downstairs, the sounds of his mother and father preparing Christmas dinner. He’d have to come up with an explanation for how he’d managed to get here and why he’d not called but he suspected they’d just be too glad to see him to question it too much.
He was home.
Casually, he slung his pack onto his bed and, without a second thought, went downstairs to greet his family.