A Promise for the Woodsman
Ritual for Friends, Pt. 3
Part 3 is as follows:
Greenish-grey clouds hugged the dark tree line. Wind and crickets hummed through the grass, a peaceful sound on any other night. Henry’s hair fluttered against his forehead as he frowned at Mara.
“He won’t be in a good mood with these clouds.”
“He’ll also be weaker.”
Henry cast a glance at the cottage behind them. An exposed bulb cast flickers of light on the crudely-nailed boards. A dark fissure ran up the back wall, long burns branching out from the center in fragmented tessellations.
Settling open palms into the cool grass, Mara grinned. The forest turned a murky blue as she peered deeper into it. She filled her lungs and beat the heels of her hands into the earth.
“Jotuwocke! Watcher of the Woods!”
The wind grew no stronger, but Mara felt the wriggling of leaves and roots beneath her fingers. Oh, she wanted to laugh. Just a taste of that ancient power made her giddy.
Henry withdrew to the door of the cottage, leaning his back against the patchwork of wood. Out of Mara’s line of sight, he lit a cigarette and finally let his fingers tremble. The only thing that kept him from running was the sight of that frail woman, kneeling to the god he had foolishly introduced her to—the Woodsman. It was a desperate move. But they were both desperate.
“Jotuwocke! Wood Watcher! I offer ancient blood.”
The grass blades between Mara’s fingers turned to vine and thorn and shot up, up, tearing her from the earth. Wood bound her neck and ribs and feet in twisted cuffs. Deep vibrations in every green and brown cell pressed into her own, skin to muscle to bone, until they reached her own voice box.
“Blood? What good is blood to one such as me?”
The cigarette fell from Henry’s mouth as the vine-snared wood trunk erupted from the ground, shackling Mara to itself. He wanted to melt into the dark cottage at his back. But he heard Mara gag against the bark that scraped her throat and pressed against her windpipe.
“I can feel my cousin’s blood smoke. Did she die well?”
Mara coughed and kicked as the trunk pulled her inside. Henry tripped over himself, scrambling towards the living coffin with his lighter extended. That other voice laughed through Mara’s gaping mouth.
“Fire? Don’t be foolish, boy. You are no god-killer.”
“Please, Woodsman. We mean no harm. We—Vessels! We want to be Vessels.”
The Woodsman paused, Mara half-buried in his trunk.
“Does the god-killer wish to tend the forest?”
The Woodsman loosened the ropey wood looped across Mara’s neck. She gasped, twisting against the rest of the trunk.
“Mara, it’s okay. Just tell him.”
Cloying against the thorns that bound her hands, Mara bit her lip to try to bring feeling back to the blue skin. Her eyes searched wildly, finding little comfort in Henry’s terror-stricken face. No, no comfort there, but another expression she recognized all too well.
“You…yes. I…Vessel.”
Mara disappeared beneath the trunk’s bark like a woman drowned. Henry closed his eyes, allowing the Woodsman to bind and bury him in the forest’s heartwood. Vines wrapped his hands and shoots wormed into his ears, playing the Woodsman’s words upon the tiny bones that lay past his ruptured eardrums.
“Jotuwocke takes no Vessels. You will be my Watchers.”
The inside of the living coffin grew soft, with hundreds of leaves sprouting around Henry. He felt his mind carried off by a sudden rush of pure oxygen. He forgot death. He forgot the ancient god.
His father put a firm hand on his shoulder, steadying his body as they watched. A great procession passed of glinting rifles and berets, then a float of dancing women like his mother, then blinding white and blood red cars. All confetti and cheer and light and glee, all but him. He was fear.
Now he stood at their graves. He hadn’t aged a day. The last words Nattmyr ever spoke to him were etched on the headstones, on the grass, on his bloody knuckles. You can’t promise away a war. You silly boy. You can’t promise away a war.
A woman dripping red slumped out of her smoking truck. His heart hammered uselessly in his head as his hands worked on their own—scouring wounds, channeling water, tearing his store room apart to bind her body back together.
Now they sat in dappled morning light. Breakfast. Her scars stood raised and grey against her pale skin. Her legs were thin, and she trembled as she walked. Not bad yet. Yet. You can’t promise away a war. Not even one raging on inside a single body. And not with a promise to a dead god.
“Henry?”
Her voice disoriented him. The memories slipped away, and he opened his eyes to grey morning light. Leaves on twigs on branches danced in the weak rays.
“I think I died.”
Henry’s muscles and bones ached as he rolled to his side. Mara lay on her back, eyes open, hand reaching up towards the branches high above. Her long black hair splayed out across the grass like points of a star.
“Hell must not be so bad, then,” Henry murmured back. Mara turned to look at him with a begrudging smile. Specks of red and yellow and blue broke up the grey static that used to ring her pupils. Her fingers did not tremble as she flexed them in the air above her head.
“You didn’t have to come with me.”
“Should I find my own forest?”
Mara snorted. Henry slowly lifted himself onto his knees. They sat at the edge of the woods before the clearing that held Mara’s old cottage.
“Any idea what our new job entails?”
“No. But I like the perks.”
Henry glanced at Mara’s hands again. Extending his palm, he avoided eye contact.
“May I?”
She placed her hand in his, squeezing hard enough to make him pull away and shake out his pinched fingers. Mara laughed. And kept laughing. A sob broke in, then more. Henry cried too. A year was little time in the span of their unnatural lives, but it was enough for the relief of not losing one another to overwhelm their battered bodies.
They slept in Henry’s car. Then they would drive back to Henry’s house. He knew she couldn’t stand to go back inside the cottage after that night, and somehow a year had passed with it boarded and empty. Henry dreamt of burnt fissures in wriggling wood as he slept.
Mara quietly left the car when she heard Henry’s breaths slow. Lifting a loose plank, she crawled into the cottage through her old bedroom window. Dust-coated debris traced wide circles through her former home, and black wallpaper hung in jagged strips. But the gold-framed mirror still leaned against the living room wall. Mara sat before it, ripped off the white sheet covering its reflective surface, and rapped on the glass.
A man came into focus where her own face should have appeared. His dark brows tilted questioningly. Mara started to reach for his face, then stopped her hand just short of the disappointing texture of glass. She quickly reached into her pocket and unfolded a piece of paper from it. The text was written in reverse, and she pressed the paper hard against the glass.
“I did it. You’ll be free soon. I promise.”
Mara lowered the paper so she could see his reaction. Damien smiled back at her, nodding his approval, measured as always in his expressions. Then the Woodsman spoke through the tendrils he had left in her ears.
“That’s quite a promise, god-killer.”
Thank you for reading Every Nook Uncanny. If you liked what you read, please share and comment. The audio version of this story will be available this Friday. You can follow Mae on Twitter.