The Fey - Zack Gardner - Magical Realism - 3009 words - 2016
It never fails I thought, leaning over the rickety old railing of our rickety old wrap-around porch, swishing the melting ice cubes in my empty whisky. Annie was working late again, as it was most nights now that we had moved away. I was city, born-and-bred, and deep down I hated this place. But, with the baby starting to crawl and the possibility of Annie's new job, we took the leap and moved out into the country. It was beautiful out here, this old farmhouse, surrounded by fields on three sides and woods on the other. So much nature, if you're into that sort of thing. The buzz of crickets and cicadas droned on in the background as I purveyed my tiny kingdom. I sneered and took the last sip of what was mostly just melted ice by now, crunching the last few cubes between my teeth, feeling the last bit of whisky heating my throat.
Dusk approaches so strangely in the country, the shadows from the treeline that framed our expansive backyard throwing mean blackness up at the house. The woods were thick back there with hardly any of the sunlight breaking through the brush. We've been here hardly a month and… It's not that I'm afraid of the dark, even though here away from the buildings and the streetlamps and the neon it gets infinitely darker. It's odd to say, but city dark is so much friendlier than country dark. It's just that the blackness is so much more permanent here.
In the city when you weren't safe, at least you knew. You knew what to expect. I had been mugged twice in my thirty-aught years living in the city; both times knowing it was coming beforehand. Both times aware - knowing.
Who knew what was in these woods. Did bears live out here? Wolves? Coyotes? How big are coyotes anyway - should I even be worried about them? Do snakes sleep at night or are they out there too, just waiting? What the hell is a badger, for that matter? I stared into the increasing darkness, the green giving way to smudged charcoal. You could make out shapes in the treeline. Trees turned to figures, branches and bushes adding disjointed limbs and insect-like antennae. Anything could be out there. Badgers. I had to get some nature books.
The wails of Jerry brought me back to the present and shook me out of my paranoia. I turned my back on the yard and went into our rickety old house through our rickety old screendoor. The baby was hungry, and who knows, maybe Annie would be in time for a late supper. I could wrap up a few articles that were overdue, and maybe we could binge-watch something…
The sound of gravel on tires brought me around again, Jelly-boy playing with my fingers as I cleaned carrots out of his hair with a dishrag. Annie always drove up our quarter mile driveway a-hellin' coming to a stop in our turnaround beside my new-used F150. Hope and melancholy preceded her - would we talk tonight? Maybe she'd get away from the laptop long enough to hold a conversation, a meal, or god-willing a romp on the old couch once Jerry turned in.
Annie had fallen asleep on my shoulder, and Disk 3 had ended a half hour ago, the menu screen theme serenading me into dozing as well. There came a thunk from the back of the house, and I jerked up, jostling Annie into a state of semi-awareness. I ran through the living room into the kitchen, the light above the sink guiding my way, bare feet slapping against the rough hardwood. The screendoor leading out to the back porch wasn't hooked. I banged it open, cracking loud against the outside wall, the rusty spring squealing in complaint. I paced the length of the porch, adrenaline pumping, squinting into the darkness, trying to make out shapes. That sound was the screendoor, it had to be. Something was out there. Animals can't open doors, right? Did raccoons have thumbs? Was it someone, and not something?! I paced some more, the paranoia being fed by the adrenaline, clenching and unclenching my fists. Annie shouted for me from inside, and I hurried to her, hooking the screendoor while sending one more warning glare out to whatever phantom I had conjured to lurk in the shadows of those damned trees.
I ran up the stairs and turned the corner to the nursery. Annie stood by Jerry's crib, holding him in her shoulder and cooing into his ear. The demeanor she projected for calming the baby stopped at her eyes, as she motioned for me to look down at the floor. At the foot of the wooden crib smeared into the thick carpeting of the nursery was a barely noticeable trail of dirt. I fell to my knees and followed it on the hardwood, barely a dusting, leading down the steps and into the kitchen to the back screendoor. Jelly-boy, ever the trouper, went back to sleep easily. As Annie cleaned up the dried dirt, I assured her it was only an animal that had gotten in, probably more scared than anything else. I convinced her to head up to bed, her eyelids already heavy. Easily enough, I had assured her. I went around closing every window, making sure they were all locked up tight. It was a warm night and it made the old farmhouse stuffy, ceiling fans doing the best they could. I sat up that night, in the kitchen, peering out into the darkness, guarding my family.
Later that week I had shown my hand as an electrician, installing a dusk-til-dawn light on the back porch. The stark white of the massive bulbs illuminated the backyard each night, turning on shortly after the sun would disappear behind the trees.
A few weeks passed, as they often do, in an assortment of days, one after the other. Eventually the windows opened. Eventually Annie stopped checking in on the baby three or four times a night. She had started coming home at decent hours as well, which did wonders for our relationship, but even that started to back off as time progressed. I still had my evening whisky on the back porch as night shrouded our little world, and I never put my full back to the wood. The dusk-til-dawn light would kick on as I headed indoors, the sudden light forcing the shadows to retreat back into the trees.
I took to taking short hikes into the woods, Jelly-boy in an emasculating baby carrier, strapped against my sweaty chest. I would get a few hours work on the porch in the cool of the morning, Jerry babbling to himself in the playpen beside me and gnawing on anything that got too close to his slobbery face. Eventually with the impending heat of the day and the ignorance of my clients, I'd get fed up, slap the laptop shut, strap on the baby and head into the shade of the trees. Jerry would marvel as we walked, cooing and straining to reach branches thick with vibrant greens. I had a walking stick, almost a cudgel, that I carried with me on these jaunts and had taken to keeping a springblade in my back pocket again, just as I had in the city. Forgive, but not forget.
We took the old deer path that ran along a stream that coursed through the woods, easily narrow enough to leap across at its widest. The path wasn't foreign to us; we had come and gone this way quite a few times in the past few weeks. We stopped in a clearing, sitting out in the open, yet in the cool shade of an oak. Or a maple. I have no idea, really. I had ordered a stack of books on nature, but they had yet to arrive. I sat Jelly-boy down between my legs and pulled some snacks out from a pack I had thrown on before leaving. I thumbed puffs into the baby's mouth and cracked open a soda, already lukewarm from the day. We sat in silence, the cicadas trilling in the trees, birdsong filling the meadow. A score of small white and yellow butterflies busily danced along the wildflowers that populated the meadow, while heavy honeybees went methodically from bloom to bloom, all business. Occasionally a damselfly or dragonfly would zip through, no doubt searching for the stream we had followed here.
The peace and serenity that emanated from the tableau my son and I shared was cut short by an itching at the back of my neck. Not an itch-itch, but a nervous-itch. I started scanning the treeline that surrounded the meadow, inspecting the midday shadows instead of enjoying the warm afternoon. I tried ignoring the anxiety, but it wouldn't be quelled. Finally, I stood and packed Jerry back up into his carrier, much more hurriedly than I would like to admit. I set a brisk pace back the way we had come, one hand holding my son closer than the carrier did, the other hand holding the walking stick at its midpoint, parallel to the ground. By the time we were back at the house, stepping out of the woods into our yard, I was running.
A few more days of normal passed, but still I never put my full back to the wood.
I had spent the day mowing the yard with our new riding tractor, still getting used to a task that I've never done in my life up until a few months ago. I had the grill out, something else that I had to buy now that the country was our home. It was late afternoon, Jelly-boy napping in his playpen a few paces away in the shade of the shed in the corner of our turnaround. Annie had promised an early night, and damned if I wasn't trying to make a decent steak for her. I flipped the delmonicos with a large meat fork, juice pouring into the charcoals and hissing. A bundle of tin foil took up half of the little grill, housing peppers and onions.
The chirrup of my cellphone perked my ears, and I instinctively patted my front pocket for it, knowing it wasn’t there. Keeping the grill and the playpen in sight, I jogged to the porch where I had left my cellphone earlier that day when I had started mowing. Annie would be late again, held up at the office. I said that I understood through gritted teeth, white-knuckled clutching the meat fork in frustration. I hung up and pocketed my cell, rubbing my temples and wishing I were young enough to cry or throw a fit. I was losing her again. I straightened and told myself to man-up, hopping down the porch steps and heading back around to the grill. A shriek lit a fire under me, and I ran full-tilt around the side of the house to the turnaround. The playpen was toppled, on its side. I threw it out of the way, sending it across the turnaround in my panic, searching for my son. That was no sad wail or upset wail. That was a shriek. A pain shriek. I felt it with my heart as much as I heard it with my ears.
Another screech sounded from my son, my head snapping to where I heard it. I had just enough time to see Jerry being dragged by his leg disappear into the shadowed underbrush of the woods. His hands were out and reaching for me, terror in his pouring eyes. I ran again, filled with fury toward the treeline, barreling through the underbrush where he had vanished with complete disregard.
I could make out a rustling in the failing light, something in the thick underbrush, bathed in shadows. I sped after it, oblivious to the branches lashing my face and chest, jagged raspberry vines tearing into my legs. Jerry sounded again, closer: I was gaining. Now and again, I could catch glimpses of the beast that had snatched my son, hunch-shouldered, covered in course hair and the size of a large dog.
I burst into the clearing we had visited a few days prior, my quarry already halfway across the small field of wildflowers. The creature stopped, dropping Jerry from his grip, and miraculously stood. It was a little man in shape alone, odd knobs of bone jutting out above his thick brow. Its eyes shone on the increasing darkness, panting around protruding misshapen teeth. Jerry began to wail when he saw me, and began to crawl toward me. The beast's thick arms reached out and pulled my son back, redoubling his screams, never taking its eyes off me. I crouched, my arms out, suddenly remembering my surroundings that my anger had blinded me from. I looked back and forth, troubled, before suddenly realizing - there were no insect sounds. The crickets and cicada had all fallen silent.
From all around the circular clearing figures stepped out into the red-orange light of the sunset. They all held a rough resemblance to man, but could by no means be considered human. A few looked like the beast in front of me, some hunched over further, even one with withered wings, like a bat, protruding from its back. My breath caught in my throat, as they each came into the clearing a few paces, surrounding me, my son and his kidnapper. There were two that were obviously female; their hair thick and matted with leaves, their hourglass figures a deep greenish-brown. I turned, trying to keep them all in my view. There was a beetle the size of my new lawn tractor, a great horn protruding from its head, and a gnarled old man sitting cross-legged atop its carapace chewing on a long-stemmed pipe. Behind me had emerged a thin scarecrow, ghostly white and nearly as tall as me. Six or so legs protruded from his hips, all thin and bony. It had no arms, and its face shone blank in the moonlight.
The odd menagerie of creatures were all looking at me, though some stole greedy glances at Jerry. I edged closer to my boy, who had stopped wailing and was focusing on me. I said some encouraging words in a wavering voice that everything would be all right. I silently prayed that the last words to my son would not be lies. I clenched my fists in my impotence, realizing I still held the meat fork... Realizing my uselessness, my failings as a father. Darkness had found us, the light of the moon bathing the meadow in cool blue light, a stark contrast to the warm yellow afternoon that we had spent there.
The old gnome of a man slowly stood on his mount, commanding the attention of the circle of silent creatures. He pulled the pipe from his ancient mouth, examining it in his arthritic claw. He looked upon the meadow in benevolence, and opened his mouth to speak. A whimper from the center of the meadow brought my eyes back to my son, and I had had enough.
Now.
I flew forward, closing the distance between us as fast as I could, throwing my full weight into my left fist, knocking my son's kidnapper down just as surely as I broke all my knuckles. I scooped Jerry up in the same motion, pain screaming from my hand as my boy clung to my chest with his tiny arms. I turned, sliding in the dew damp wildflowers, caught my footing and ran toward the woods, toward the deer trail that I knew was there, dark or no. An alarm rose among the creatures, angry growls and shrieks as they all turned toward me, taken off-guard by my actions. The thin white creature that had come up behind me crouched as I neared it, legs splayed like a spider about to leap. I held the meat fork out like a lance, meaning to ward the creature off. It's smooth head split across the center and opening in a snarl of thin sharp teeth, too numerous to count, snapping at me as I closed the distance, snapping still as I plunged the fork handle-deep into its maw, it's growls turning to gurgles as blood began to flow. I didn’t hesitate. I kept running, holding my Jelly-boy as tightly as my broken hand could.
We coursed through the wood along the deer trail, running with reckless abandon, dozens of those creatures crashing through the underbrush, gaining easily. To my right I could see the many-legged creature. It ran with the precision of a spider - its pasty white limbs, human flesh stretched over sinew and bone, propelling it along with a ghastly speed, easily keeping time with me as I fled through the underbrush. Jerry had his face buried in my breast, and I could feel his little heart beating madly.
I could just make out the clearing ahead of me, the artificial halogen of the dusk-til-dawn light flooding into our backyard outlining the edge of the wood. The creature paced me, pulling closer, darting around trees, as I beat my feet against the tamped dirt of the deer trail. Behind me were more of the same, all-too-human screeches and shouts of anger and outrage.
I burst through the treeline, stumbling over the raspberry vines I had torn through and glanced backwards, bathed in the lamplight. I didn’t stop until I was on the porch, my back slapped against the old wood wall, panting raggedly. I held my son, arms wrapped around him, and he held me back, little arms wide, tight against my chest. I held my son and cried, watching the creatures writhe in frustration just beyond the treeline, held back by the dusk-til-dawn light. We stayed there for some time, him and I, staring down the darkness until the smell of charred delmonicos faded and the drone of the crickets and cicadas returned.
