#folks need to know that first drafts of this had more Sasha and aceTim

[bibliocratic]

a tale as old prompt: stories / wish pairing: aceMartin / aceJon (with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it aroSasha)

A long time ago, stories made tell of a beast, living solitary and woodland-bound at the heart of the great forest. In the days before in the first age of the king, strange Powers beset the land and its people with all manner of terrors unnameable with the human tongue, and those afflicted were both revered and shunned in kind. This beast bore the aspect of a man, agreeable in face if not in manner, and was possessed of dark powers of knowing gifted to him by an unkindly denizen of the planes unseen. Rumour would have you believe that the beast had been a warlock, cursed through the rot of his allegiances, or a monk from some lowly church whose worshipful songs had summoned others listening from the clutch of the deep, or even a scribe in name and nature, a misbegotten soul who had read the wrong scrolls by the wrong candlelight. The truth of who he was before is little of our concern.

It was said, that those who ventured into the most unhallowed, shadow-snarled parts of the forest to retrieve him were never to be seen again, but tongues are free and mouths are wagging, and it is as likely that most feared the power of the beast too much to ever enter his domain.

There was, at that time, another young man, bestowed the name of Martin. The world in its wisdom had gifted Martin a kind heart easily bruised like the skin of apples, and strong shoulders as the oxen have with which to bear the weight of his small and heavy world. He lived for twenty-four summers with his mother, in a thatch-roofed farm on the edge of the great forest, and his days were the to-ing and fro-ing of a labouring life.

His mother had taken to her sickbed years afore, and while doctors and soothsayers and cunning men had hawked glistening potions and sweet-smelling pastes that they swore could cure all manner of ills, she had only worsened as time wore steadily on. Winter was approaching, the winding drop and stripping of leaves promising a long season of hard earth compacted with snow, and Martin worried his mother would not survive until spring.

He had heard, of course, about the beast of the Black Woods. The reputation laid before him, spoken of gravely with clucking tongues and shaking heads, of a silver-tongued sorcerer in league with spirits of the air and deep, who could summon forth the answer to any question in return for payment. The reckoning varied on the teller, and fanciful notions of first-borns and blood-tithes and betrothals abounded.

But the trees outside the forest had shed their clothes to bareness, and the welcoming touch of speckling frost had begun to settle upon the ground, and Martin’s mother grew weaker, developing a cough that rattled in her rickety lungs. And so, Martin of the Black Woods packed a small knapsack and ventured upon the winding pathways of the forest to seek out the beast who lived there.

The forest was not forbidding to his mind, though the knotted roots sewed themselves thick and wily through the undergrowth, disrupting the pathway. The branched canopy of trees which had sprouted from saplings in eras long lost from memory stretched tall and wide, forcing the sunlight to submit to gloom. There was the tremulous warble of birds as he walked, the shush of far-off water, and Martin chose to think upon these, rather than his fear of the task at hand.

He walked for hours, although he had no comforting vision of the sun to mark his time. Resting for a moment, he set himself at the base of a sturdy oak to gather himself, taking a sip from his waterskin. He closed his eyes but for a moment, lulled by the birdsong and the faint tune of the water, and when he opened them, the beast was there.

Eyes thronged unnaturally about his head as one would wear a coronet of fireflies. The beast was simple in garb, kept neatly, and all about his skin sprouted more pupils that mixed and intermingled as oil and water.

“You are far from the path, pilgrim,” the beast said.

Martin said nothing, his throat too bound in terror at the beast’s appearance, and the beast made a noise of annoyance, and his coronet of eyes spluttered out like water thrown on a campfire.

“I have no time for the lost of this world,” he said.

Martin was sore afraid, but he forced himself to stand, to look into the eyes of the beast for fear of offending so mighty a sorcerer, focusing on the pupils on his face that gleamed out like polished glass.

“If you please, Lord. I have come in search of you.”

“What do you seek that would have you search out my haunts and hollows?” the beast replied. “I have long grown bored of those who track me down to demand riches or wealth in abundance, those who desire power and might and lack the will or judgement to bring such things about by their own hand.”

“If you please, Lord,” Martin said. “A sickness has long ailed my mother, and I wish to see her cured.”

The beast considered this, and the awful visage of his form folded back into him begrudgingly, for the young man’s request had a tenor of honesty.

“There is no discount for your honour, however touching I’m sure it is,” the beast responded dismissively. “You know the price I ask.”

Martin considered the many stories told of what payment would be demanded of him, and fearing to cause the beast to anger by confessing his ignorance, replied instead:

“I would have you name it, Lord.”

The beast huffed, and rolled his eyes and said:

“Do not call me Lord. I possess no titles and desire none.”

Martin asked haltingly what name he would prefer.

“Watcher is my name and occupation. I am a devourer, my hungers bountiful and unceasing. My price, Martin of the Black Woods, is to taste a story told true from your lips. Should it satisfy, I will grant you what you ask.”

“What story should I speak of?” Martin asked. And then the beast turned every eye upon his trembling form, and bid him, in a voice sturdy as moonrise, insistent as drowning, crackling like leaf-fall, to tell of his first heartbreak.

And so Martin did as he was bidden, helpless as his tale spilt like water from his mouth, a breathless recount of first love and rejection, sacrificed to the eyes that feasted upon all the shadows his memory cast upon his soul. When he was finished, for the tale was woefully short in its particulars by merit of its simplicity, Martin attempted to bring himself up to full height and wipe away the tears that had begun to drip down the round of his cheeks, awaiting the judgement of the beast who stood expressionless before him.

Finally, the beast spoke, his words suddenly rusted with tiredness: “There is a flower. White as dawn-touched feathers. The roots are fragile and take poorly to most earth, yet it grows in a clearing in these woods not far from here. Pick a handful and return to your homestead. The roots you must boil. When the water cools, she should drink this for three nights, though the flavour is bitter. Her food, you should season with the crushed petals as you would salt. Then her sickness will be cured.”

The beast pointed a long finger to guide his direction and bade him safe passage, and then he was gone, and Martin was left with the stain of tears fresh on his face, his mind warring between fear and wonderment.

He did as the beast had told. And the cough that had taken up lodging in his mother’s lungs diminished apace until she breathed clean and clear for the first time in years.

For those three nights, and for many nights after, Martin dreamt of the beast. His striking eyes waxing and waning in the skin of his face. His restless gait and glowering manner. His demeanour proclaiming a strange kind of lonely, and within Martin blossomed a kinship for this soul, whose life was bordered by the edges of the forest, who had taken Martin’s story from his back as though a yoke for a little while.

It was not long before Martin returned to the great forest. Settling himself down at the foot of that elder oak, bowed regally by the press of the wind, and waiting.

The beast did not look pleased to see him return.

“These are for my thanks,” Martin said quickly, and from his knapsack brought out a clay jar of honey from his own hives.

“I thank you then. For your kindness,” the beast said after a while, and his speech was the awkward and stilting gait of a new-born foal when he continued: “Your mother? Is she better?”

“Her cough has left her,” Martin confessed. “Though she is still afflicted with a malediction of the bones that the winter brings on fiercely.”

“You know my price,” the beast said, and Martin nodded, and when the beast’s many eyes gazed upon him like a flaying and demanded the story of his greatest grief, squatting ruinous at the tender heart of him, Martin poured it forth without resentment.

“You should pick more flowers,” the beast advised. He had bought out a folded cloth from his pocket, promising that it was clean, and offered it to soak up Martin’s tears which trickled plentiful down his face when his payment had been satisfied. Martin took it with a wary hand, but it was an offering sincerely made and as such, gratefully received. “They are known as cat’s tongues in common parlance. They nestle in thickets amidst blackberries, and their petals are long and red and they will score your hands should you attempt to pluck them. They grow half a day’s walk from here. They should be ground into a paste, and administered at dusk, rubbed over the limb like a salve.”

Again, the beast soon disappeared amidst the branches of the great forest. And Martin followed the missive delivered to him, the cloth tucked away in his pocket, and picked the flowers known as cat’s tongues, which scratched and tore up the skin of his hands in his mission.

Martin served his mother dutifully night after night. Her legs grew stronger, and she could walk around the small farmstead with the gait of a maiden threescore years younger. And once a week, once his chores were done and the livestock attended to, Martin packed his bag with offerings for the strange beast of the forest who so occupied his dreams and waking moments, to thank him for his pains. To request another medicine, to see his mother whole and well.

The beast requested tales of hurt and shame and loss and grief, and Martin had many of those to offer upon his altar. After a drawn-out tale of miserable indignities, Martin was left shivering and swaying as a ship with storm-tossed rigging, his legs ill-equipped to carry him hence. After a pause, the beast had snapped at him to sit down, to take nourishment before continuing his quest.

Martin did as he was told, sensing no malice in the beast’s tone. Opening his bag, he offered the beast some of his bread and cheese. The beast blinked with all his eyes before cautiously agreeing, and their silence as they ate was companionable.

As time passed, the beast asked for different tales; those of quiet joy, warmth and comfort. Martin had fewer of those, but he delivered what was asked of him, and the beast rewarded his pains with the knowledge of where more flowers and berries and herbs were to be found. Gradually the beast tarried longer, as if unwilling to immediately depart, and they often broke bread and shared water under the soft shadow of the great forest.

When the touch of winter had passed into a chill spring, Martin visited the beast once more. He had crafted a woollen blanket from the fleece of one of his sheep, spun it on the wheel in the candlelight while his mother slept.

“For my thanks,” he said, like he always did, his face flushed the colour of strawberries, and the beast held the gift carefully in his hands to feel the weight and warmth of it. His voice was unsteady when he declared Martin was too kind to present him such a gift.

“How may I help your mother today?” the beast asked quietly.

Martin was silent for a long while before he spoke.

“My mother has no sickness of the body remaining,” he replied. “Her pains have been taken from her through your patient instruction. It is only a sickness of the heart, rooted as ivy in her. She sees in my face the ghost of my father’s follies, and her manner has long hardened towards me.”

The beast appeared sorrowful.

“This, I have no cure for,” he said.

“I would not ask one of you.”

“What would you have of me then?”

Martin did not look upon the beast as he stammered and stuttered that if the beast wished, Martin would have his company, to sit under the branches of the great oak. That they might share a small meal, speak without transaction, that Martin might ask questions of the beast if that would be deemed permissible.

The beast smiled, the gesture foreign to his face. It would take a long time before he was to realise that love, unbeknownst to him, had begun to seed in the soil of his heart left to fallow.

For months, Martin visited the beast of the forest, to break bread and share small tales not fed to any god, but kept as keepsakes within the memories of the other.

One day, it came about that a band of soldiers travelled through town, passing through to reach the port a few day’s south. They roamed in search of able-bodied souls to swell their number, and Martin was not unknown to the villagers, to whom he sold the produce from their farm and involved himself in the passage of their lives. And so, to his door came a man as tall and broad as a barn door. His handshake was a frost-bitten chill of a winter’s eve without candlelight, and he introduced himself as Peter Lukas.

Peter Lukas gazed upon Martin with eyes the colour of fog, and offered him an apprenticeship, serving upon his ship that laid wait in dock not two days travel. He spoke with feigned sincerity on how valuable Martin would be to his crew, how honoured such a title was, but while Martin did not trust his over-sharp smile nor his fool’s gold promises, it was true that the farm was suffering. His mother, while hale, was too old to work in the fields as she once had, and the money Peter Lukas promised was enough to keep her comfortable.

It was enough for a good dowry, Lukas chuckled, as if the idea was cause for merriment, should Martin wish to marry. Enough for a home, should he wish to settle down. Martin’s lot was a poor one, and would consign any beloved to gruelling hard-work all the days of their life. And surely, Peter Lukas chided, Martin would want to provide for those he loved, not damn them to a thankless life easily washed away by an errant storm or an ill-tempered season.

Peter Lukas cast himself in the manner of a liar, but his mouth spoke the truth well enough.

That evening, Martin visited the beast of the woods and told him he would be leaving. With the soldiers, and Peter Lukas, to make what fortune he could while his body was unbroken by time and labour.

The beast was angered and afraid. He had heard tell of Peter Lukas, who served a god much like his own, and in his heart flourished a fear of Martin’s fate, lost to the fog and sea. He snapped and goaded and snarled, tempestuous and terrified, but Martin had set his mind to it, and finally the beast relented. Beckoning Martin to follow him, he lead the young man deeper into the woods, his corona of eyes a light by which to see by, eventually arriving at a clearing and the cottage where the beast made his home.

The beast’s cottage was comely, ringed with warmth from the hearth, the brickwork soaked with heat. Martin perused the laden piles of manuscripts and scrolls that tiered from floor to the low ceiling, and he wondered what knowledge they spoke of, for no one had ever taught Martin his letters. The beast searched impatiently through disordered piles before he brought forth objects that shimmered in the glow of the firelight.

“I would make three requests of you,” the beast asked. “Though I have little right to.”

Martin bade him name them.

The first, was to accept the unusual treasures he had gathered in his arms. The beast gave Martin a compass, well-used by time, the glass splintered like a lightening bolt through the centre of its face, and told him to keep it upon his person, that he may not lose sight of land, for the hand would ever point homeward. Next, he gifted him a mirror, plain and foxed in the corner with black speckles.

“So you will never be lonely. Its twin is in my possession, and whatever is spoken in yours will be heard in mine. Alas, the charm is old and warped, and I have not the skill to mend it, for the same does not bare out in the reverse.

“What should I say to it?”

“I would have you whisper into the mirror,” the beast said after a moment’s thought, and his gestures were as the flight of anxious birds and his eyes for once did not meet Martin’s gaze as he spoke. “On nights becalmed and troubled, when you are heartsick. The domain Peter Lukas presides over is peaceful, in its own way, a place to soothe and numb and forget. But I beg of you, speak to the mirror and remember every blistering, joyous, terrible moment of being alive, and what you have endured to call yourself such. So that I know you breathe still, that I have not lost you to the fog.”

The second gift the beast bestowed was the knowledge of his name, long unspoken and unheard even to the ears of the beast. And Martin tasted the word Jonathan on his lips, and knew the knowing of it would warm him even on the coldest of nights.

“The final request is my gravest charge,” the beast said, and he stood before Martin, studying him with every one of his eyes, and touched his hand against Martin’s chest to feel the fragile motion of his heartbeat.

“Name it.”

“Come back to me,” he asked, and Martin’s eyes prickled with tears as he gave his solemn word.

Martin gifted him the last of his honey, and another garment spun in candlelight and dyed with woad and weld so its colour was that of the beast’s eyes.

The beast watched him leave, standing at the threshold of his cottage long after his eyes could not see him.

Martin’s lot was arduous, though he quickly rose through the ranks under the tutelage of Peter Lukas. He saved diligently every penny of his earnings, with a mind to build a home in the woodland, to buy a modest ring of silver, to deck himself in clothes worthy of a man like the beast and ask him for his hand.   When it was his turn on lookout, he’d take the mirror up to the crow’s nest and speak gently into the glass as he sat curled under a bedrock of stars. His compass was ever in his pocket.

But the way of the Forsaken is a cunning one, the fog insidious in its beckoning. Martin struggled to recall the gift he had been given, and one day found the sea had taken it as payment for his continued service, and he was struck with a terror that he would forget the beast of the forest, and so he spoke the beast’s true name upon waking, upon sleeping, as a chant when the fog settled in low and their voyage was becalmed and there seemed nothing but emptiness from horizon to horizon. And in this way, he persisted, no matter how much of him the fog laid claim to.

It was many years before Martin returned to shore. Salt ingrained in his skin, a scattering of white to his hair like chicken seed. His apprenticeship served. The ship came to port far from his homestead, and he would have wandered lost if not for the compass which bore Martin true and back to the little village and his farm on the outskirts of the Black Woods.

It had been a long time since he had dreamt of the beast. And his return ate up his time and attention, amidst the newly made demands of his mother, grown more distant with age.

He had been returned some three months before he packed his knapsack and ventured along pathways his feet had never forgotten how to tread.

He waited patiently by the hollow all day. A jar of honey in his knapsack, and only one more story in his mouth. The beast did not appear, even as the day slid into night. He did not appear the next day, not the next, nor the next, but Martin made his faithful pilgrimage regardless.

He was rewarded for his pains on the sixth day. The beast appeared wreathed in eyes like a holly garland, his expression hard and hurt. His body had been struck and ill-used by time and events Martin had not been privy to, and he ached, to see him the bearer of so many scars.

“What would you will of me, Martin?” he asked, and his tongue was sharp to hide an anxious heart.

“I kept my promise,” Martin said, but the beast’s face did not soften at this, for he had endured years of silence, mourned and tried to forget the young man who had gifted him honey and blankets and promised to speak to him, even across the vast of the sea.

“I am glad to see it. I ask again. What would you will of me?”

“My mother would have me wed.”

The beast paused, before continuing with a sadness loosening the bricks of his heart.

“I see. Your apprenticeship has not left you a poor man, it was to be expected. And would you ask me for the finest silks, the cleverest bride or the prettiest groom or the gentlest spouse, the happiest matrimony in the kingdom?”

Martin did not flinch at the beast’s tone.

“My mother engaged me in a match while I was away,” he replied. “And although my betrothed is clever and dashing and would make me a happy man, I hold no love in my heart for her, nor she I. Her heart does not take to ardour as others do, though she cherishes my happiness and would be a steadfast companion. And I have never been mindful of passions of the sort expected from a husband.”

“It is not in my power to make people love,” the beast spoke harshly. “Nor is it to offer solutions to things that do not need fixing. The mechanisms of your heart are your own, as valued as any other, and I would not alter them.”

“That is not what I would ask,” Martin said. He approached the beast with open hands and an open face. “I ask only to tell you a story. The only one I have left to give you.”

Martin walked forward, and his eyes were not the grey the beast had feared but the blue of skies sighted through the canopy of the great forest. His hand, worn and calloused by his labours, reached out, and touched the chest of the beast to feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

“It is the story of my love,” he said, “for the soul who lives at the centre of the woods, blessed with the sight of a thousand eyes. Who gifted me his company, for a short time, and his name, which I have carried as a talisman to ward off all manner of evil. Of how I came to love him, and crafted gifts declaring my devotions when my tongue could not, and how my affections were not diminished by neither time nor tide. The man who whom I spoke my dreams and fears and hopes, even when I did not have the mirror though which he could hear me. Of the future I would hope for us, should my affections be returned. Of the life I do not dare to dream we could have, if only I knew he felt in kind.”

The beast took Martin’s hand and cradled it in a gentle grip.

“Such a request has a high price,” he said.

“Name it, Jonathan,” Martin said, and the beast’s face bloomed with a smile that lit up every one of his staring eyes.

“I would have the years of your life, Martin of the Black Woods,” the beast said. “I would have them to cherish and guard and hoard and share. And in return I would love you with all I have within me capable of such a task, and hope you found mind me worthy of the same.”

And so Martin embraced the beast, and swore to adore him all the years of his life. What further words and declarations they recounted to each other were not recorded. Years later, tales told of two beasts in the guises of men, who held court in their home at the centre of the forest. One, granted gifts of knowing, who would ask a story as the price for his learning. The second, a white-haired man untouched by time, who would find those lost upon the winding pathways of the forest and kindly escort them out, only to slip away amidst the trees like mist when his task was done.

But stories make tell of many things, and the truth of this tale is known only to the leaves and the trees of the Black Woods.