The Village was a small thing, nestled between Lake, Forest, and Mountain like a bit of bark rubbing shoulders with a marble, a leaf, and a rock in a boy’s pocket.
The Village was crude and sprawling, composed of dirty mud-sealed, roughly-thatched cottages, which sprung up like giant mushrooms wherever there was empty space.
The Lake was life itself. Men fished its waters, eking out a slim existence from its fickle bounty. Women drew water from it and washed bowls, clothes, and babes in it. Children skipped stones on its marble surface, sailed leaf-and-twig boats, and dreamed of one day fishing its infinite depths, like so many brothers, fathers, uncles, and grandfathers before them.
The Forest was evilness, the strangeness of an old wives’ tale, boiled down to stock and left to sit and simmer, spreading its unfettered wrongness like a scent on the breeze. No man hunted under its lichened boughs; no woman gathered berries and mushrooms in its twilight shade; no child climbed in its ancient branches, or chased foxes across its moss-covered floor. Even the Village houses were built from matted rushes to avoid troubling the Forest for wood.
The Mountain was eternity and tradition. It was contentment and faith. The only source of wood, hides, and red meat the townsfolk trusted. When a man came of age, he would choose one of the thick pines growing on its slope and cut it down to fashion himself a fishing boat. Even beyond that, The Mountain was the unchanging nature of the world. Whatever was before is now, and always will be. Peace rested upon this rock, this eternal covenant. “Seek not change, and change shall not seek you”, as the Elder said.
This was the Village, and this always would be the Village.
*******
Izrld was a cursed child. The Elder’s wife had spoke these worlds before she returned to the sun-baked clay she had been carved out of. Although his parents firmly denied it, as Izrld grew, so did the town’s certainty;
He was “Forest-Touched”.
Whereas all Villagers averted their eyes from the world around, casting their gaze to the dirt and the waters, Izrld looked straight forward, unflinchingly. His gaze was a challenge to the Village’s simple tradition.
Izrld saw what others didn’t. Three days before the Great Storm, he had read the clouds, and predicted no one should set sail on the Lake that day. Further, when the storm came, battering down cottages, carrying off nets and blankets and sinking boats, Izrld had stood on the beach, watching steadfastly as his grandfather battled the elements, fighting with bucket and paddle to reach the shore. And, when exhausted as last, his grandfather was claimed by the Lake and swept under, while the Village hid their heads and held their family close, Izrld witnessed him to the end.
Years later, when the sickness came and Izrld’s father was stricken, Izrld was not surprised. He had seen first foxes dying of disease, then boars in the months past. Then, when his mother had decided to go into the Forest to look for herbs to help with his fever, Izrld was the only Villager to not try and stop her. He watched her vanish into its embrace late one night, and never saw her again.
When his father eventually succumbed to the sickness, Izrld stayed by his side, watching him silently until his father’s eyes glazed over forever. Then, without a word, Izrld began to dig his grave.
*******
With his last family member dead, Izrld was truly alone. No Villager volunteered to take him in. He was the “Forest-Touched”, and so, they averted their eyes. Better the suffering of a familiar everyday than the thousand terrors of the unknown, they reasoned.
And thus, Izrld was forced to gather his own food from the Forest. At first, he merely skirted the treeline, sustaining himself with low-hanging apples and the tangy little berries the foxes ate, but after a few days, the fringe had been picked clean, and Izrld had to venture further in.
The townsfolk didn’t try to stop him. They were busy with their own lives.
The deeper into the Forest Izrld ventured, the denser it grew, until it felt like the Forest was not thousands of trees so much as one tree with a thousand interlocking branches, reaching out like so many arms to grab and snag and jostle and prod at you as you walked.
The longer Izrld spent in the Forest, the less he felt like returning to the Village. The Forest was everything; it supplied food when you were hungry, shelter when you were cold, and more importantly, it was always fresh and new. No matter how much he tried to commit it to memory, Izrld could never seem to find the same location twice when he returned.
That is, until he found the cave.
Like a great North Pole to which he could orient his mental compass, the cave stood in squat and solitary splendor, pressed on all sides by the ever-encumbering green. It seemed to Izrld that some great beasts must have claimed it as their residence, because the deep breathing of multiple mouths echoed from inside, a sibilant rush of wind, large enough to warn passing animals to not rouse their slumber.
However, Izrld never managed to glimpse the great owners of the cave in the flesh. And so it was that one rainy day, his curiosity overcame his caution. A great windstorm had carried thunderous clouds in from the east, and carried off Izrld’s meager shelter of leaves and branches, leaving him alone in a wet darkness only broken by interspersed cracks of loud illumination. Searching for some shelter from the streams of rain that ran like millions of rivulets and waterfalls through wherever there were breaks in the all-encompassing canopy, the boy entered the cave.
At once, the sense of presence from the cave’s denizen was overpowering, magnetizing the air so that Izrld’s hairs stood stock-straight like lightning rods. Taking small steps, Izrld crept deeper into the cavern, letting his eyes gradually acclimatize to the tar-black gloom.
It was in this manner that Izrld nearly stumbled over the creature. In surprise, Izrld took a full step backwards to catch himself while he mentally categorized the sight before him.
It wasn’t a grasshopper, for it had lips.
And it wasn’t a frog, for it had wings.
And it wasn’t a bird, for it had pincers.
And it wasn’t a crab, for it had a long tail.
And it wasn’t, well, Izrld had never seen anything with quite that many eyes, heads, and tongues.
And then, it moved.
Dozens of heavy-lidded eyes flashed open and alert, showcasing great golden irises with almond-slitted pupils. Now coming fully awake, its great body rustled like dry papyrus as fold upon fold of leathery bulk passed across smoothed stone, great claws clicking rhythmically as it shifted comfortably.
And the creature observed Izrld, while he observed it right back. Great pupils widened and dilated, forked tongues tasted the damp air, frilly antennae relayed the echoing throb of Izrld’s heart to the creature as it took in its visitor.
Then, it retreated in on itself, shifting so that its great carapace hid the rest of it from sight, like a turtle hiding in its own shell. Then, two great grasshopper legs sprung out, standing to attention mere inches from the taciturn Izrld.
As he looked on, it circled one of its great wings around the ends of the legs, dragging them backwards and tucking around them like a great feathered dress. Next, it slipped its tail through the folds of the wing, and the dress had an arm. A long pink tongue followed, and the dress had another arm, ending in two delicately pointed digits. Then, as if pulled along by the tongue, one of the heads rested on the wing, and the dress had a head, all bulbous eyes and needle teeth.
Lastly, a suctioned proboscis shot past Izrld, snatching something off the floor behind him. As he followed it with his eyes, he saw the creature had donned a human-like mask, carved from smoothed driftwood. The likeness was so familiar, Izrld smiled in spite of himself.
The long raven hair depicted in blackened charcoal and the angular eyes looked so much like his own mother, he almost believed it was intentional.
And then, he remembered; it was no coincidence. That was her death mask, left by the Village in memory of her on the day of her funeral. Why had it chosen to claim that of all things, and how had it got so close to their Village despite its size?
As Izrld pondered, the creature’s careful effigy shifted. One grasshopper leg twitched beneath the wing robe, then the other. Like a twisted marionette, it stepped even closer to the boy. Then, it raised a single pink two-fingered arm and gently caressed his cheek. The tongue was warm and pulsing, and Izrld shuddered in spite of himself. This was it. This must be it! This was what the Village feared; this was the evil of the Forest, taking humanesque form to communicate!
His mind whirred at top speed. Deep inside him, every fibre screamed to flee. This was the great pariah, the bogeyman, the monster that had kept generations of Villagers scared inside their homes, never venturing into the great Forest for fear of its wrath. His mother that had vanished into these woods, never to return…had she encountered this being too? Tradition passed by word of mouth through countless generations of Villagers told him to run away, to huddle in uncertainty in his house for fear of this great unknown. Izrld steeled himself. There was only one thing to do.
He reached out and grasped the creature by its clammy hand warmly, giving it an amiable squeeze. After all, there was not one thing in this world to fear. Walking to the edge of the cave, Izrld set himself down with his back to the wall, gesturing for the creature to do the same. With much rustling and shifting, the effigy finally managed to hunch down into a squatting position, though its mask fell to the ground once and had to be retrieved with claw and proboscis.
And then, Izrld began to talk, firmly fighting down the rush of adrenaline coursing through him.
There was no definite plan in his mind. Izrld simply let his tongue run while the creature listened patiently. Although he spoke to the effigy, in the corner of his vision he saw two hairy antennae flicking to and fro in the gloom, attentively picking up what fell deaf on the mask’s wooden ears.
And then it was late, the rain had stopped, and Izrld had to eat.
Bidding the creature goodbye, he fearlessly walked out of the cave, back into the fiery evening glow of the Forest. When he turned back to see if the creature was still there, the effigy had risen to its spiny feet, and was waving at him with one pink arm.
*******
From that day on, Izrld visited the creature’s cave often, not just on rainy and damp days. Always he would sit and talk, and the creature would squat and listen patiently.
It never interrupted, or spoke at all, something Izrld was quite okay with. Back in the Village, whenever he tried to explain his theories of how the clouds, wind, and air pressure predicted the weather, or how you could collect clean water on humid days with a sheet of canvas, the townsfolk merely repeated the same tired old adage; “Seek not change, and change shall not seek you”.
The creature didn’t voice any complaints, however. In fact, the creature didn’t voice anything at all. It just lounged in the darkness, a shapeless mass behind the effigy, drinking in every word with its frilly antennae.
About a month passed in much the same fashion, with Izrld remaining in the Forest. However, the sight of frost dusting the dew-soaked Forest floor one morning was warning enough to the boy that winter was coming. Facing winter in the Forest unprepared was not an appealing thought, so Izrld readied himself for one last trip to the Village. In his parent’s house, he knew he could find reed blankets, and plenty of fur-lined boots and jackets made from the hides of the Mountain rabbits and goats the Villagers hunted.
However, the more he thought about his “last trip”, the more an idea began to stir in his brain. The Villagers feared the Forest and the creatures within because they didn’t see, nay they didn’t try to see. But if he were to show them… If he got them to face their fears… wouldn’t things change?
He would never know if he didn’t try.
Getting the creature to follow him was easier than he had expected. Ignoring the crouching effigy, he addressed the huddled mass in the back of the cave. He carefully explained his intentions, cautioning it not to show itself until he gave a signal. Then, gesturing for it to follow him, he stepped out into the cave and headed home.
*******
At first, Izrld thought the creature had decided not to follow after all. However, when he turned back to look, there it was tracing his steps exactly, making less noise than a breath of air. Deftly, it weaved under branches, around trunks, and over roots, leaving not a scratch or mark as it glided after him.
Reassured, Izrld continued onward.
He smelled the Village before he saw it. Until he left it, he had never realized how much the scent of fish truly permeated every inch of their small settlement. Still, the smell was familiar, and filled him with courage.
Breaching the final barrier of obscuring branches he stepped into the Village’s clearing and stopped.
The whole population was there to meet him, from the youngest babe in arms to the Elder himself.
And they were armed.
Izrld paused to consider this. To his knowledge, he had never been denied re-entry. Then, a thought occurred to him.
Turning around, he couldn’t help himself from grinning wryly.
Peeking with countless golden eyes through gaps in the branches behind him was the creature, in plain sight before all assembled.
Izrld shrugged. At least now they’d see. A hollow “Thunk!” closely preceded his world going black.
*******
Izrld opened his eyes.
The first thing that caught his gaze was a pile of wood.
Now, as wood had to be gathered from up the Mountain’s steep slopes, seeing such a rarity surprised him, but the answer came quickly. On the Elder’s hundredth birthday, they had lit a bonfire and roasted a whole family of goats in celebration. They must be preparing to celebrate his return!
Izrld raised his eyes from his feet and looked around.
Night had fallen, but the area was bathed in the warm glow of a torch held aloft by the Elder. In its amber light, Izrld saw the whole town was still assembled, except the youngest members which he reasoned were now in bed.
Yet not one of their gazes was fixed on him.
It was at this point that Izrld noticed his hands were tied to a stake behind him.
Most curious, Izrld mused. Instead of goats on a spit, they have me on a stake! What could they be planning? And where had the creature gone?
Then, The Elder threw the torch at Izrld’s feet, igniting the pyre.
Izrld screamed in spite of himself as the dry wood caught quickly, blackening his feet to charcoal as it climbed up his legs. What on earth were they doing? Hadn’t they seen? All they had to do was look!
But nobody was looking at him. With their eyes on the ground, the townsfolk returned to their tents.
Izrld cried out in anguish.
And then, a similar cry of unknowable despair echoed back at him, coming from the Forest.
Half hopping, half flying, the creature emerged past the treeline, parting the pines like water. Izrld felt himself enveloped and carried away, back to the Forest now, quickly, quickly, skirting the jagged tree tops below their feet, the Lake receding like a blue handkerchief, folded up and put away, the Mountain sinking into the background like a melting drift of snow.
And Izrld opened his golden eyes and he saw, he extended his hairy antennae and he heard, he opened wide his mouths, letting his pink forked tongues dart out as he tasted. The Village forgotten, it returned home, to the Forest.
*******
The morning sun rose, tawny-fingered and warm over the awakening Village as life went on as usual. A housewife briskly swept the ash from around the remnants of the stake, as another carted the charred bones of a young boy to the edge of the Forest, where she deposited them with little ceremony. Almost as an afterthought, she pulled a wooden mask from her sash, placing it on the bone pile.
And when the morning sun rose on the day following, the mask was gone, only bones remaining.
The End.
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