Within a Called Heart

There is an ache in my chest, an unmistakable call to return to the Forest. It’s a siren's song to my soul, seductive & deadly. Last time, it left me with wet woolen mittens, skin cold as death and holes in my memories.

         Our home was on the edge of the village, and I saw no one else as I had quietly tip-toed out into winter’s predawn light thirteen years ago. My little legs had no trouble trudging a snowy path to the Forest, my mother’s three hounds in tow.

       I did not question it, the odd but undeniable sensation beckoning me into a Forest my mother and my grandmother had tried to warn me away from with horrific tales of beautiful monsters.

       But on that day, so very long ago, I felt more curious than scared. The hounds, Gertie, Sasha, and Hogan, followed along with me as I walked for what seemed like forever. I followed deer trails and explored the paths of unknown streams. I remember searching for the source of the pull, the Forest’s beauty was on full display, decorated in frost and snow and a layer of ice covering every branch, beautiful, but I found nothing.

       That’s the last thing I recall before being found on the edge of the Forest at sun set, chilled to the bone, lips blue and barely breathing.

       This morning reminds me so much of that one, it’s eerie. Though it’s summer now, I shiver at the memory. Then, I was curious. Now, I am determined and leery. It is barely dawn, but I am wide awake, a feeling in my chest of longing, of anticipation.  Again, only the hounds wake with me, no one else stirs. These hounds, Saffy, Hugo & Miks, are the children of the ones who followed me many years before.

       I fight the pull as it becomes nearly unbearable; a growing feeling of restlessness and an ache to move. I also know if I do not follow it now, I will lose my chance to find out what happened. I keep my attire light, though I wear my boots. Around my waist, I tie a dagger to my belt, who knows what I may as I search for answers.

       I am at the edge of the Forest before the sun even crests the hills and spills out over our fields. The feeling of longing becoming stronger the closer I get to the stone wall delineating the Forest’s border. The hounds’ range on either side of me as my feet follow an unseen path, like I am being directed in the gentlest method possible, barely perceptible and nearly indistinguishable from my own thought.

       As the sun rises, the trees and underbrush cast dark shadows that seem almost unnatural. I avoid staring into them for fear something may peer back.

       After a time of following the pull, I hear faint sounds of music and people making merry. I am nowhere near another village or settlement, but the distinct sounds of laughter and cheering draw me in.

       I move slowly to not make noise. There, in a small open glade, a feast and celebration are underway despite the early hour. The sun filters through the canopy dappling the surroundings giving it an otherworldly air.

       “She is here!” I hear the triumphant shout thunder through the clearing before I see a figure peer around the large tree where I am trying to hide. I never heard him approach. He reaches out with fingers too long, grasping my arm and pulling me into the glade. “She is here! Oh! She is here!”

       I do not struggle with the stranger, but I’m rooted to the ground, as I am at first perplexed by the length of his fingers, quite evident in the way they wrap around my arm and look like they could do so again. And then the wrongness of his face; a face too perfect, gone past perfection into grotesque in its flawlessness. His shaggy hair is purplish and black, but floats around his face as if he is underwater. His skin is many colors of orange, brown, tan and white.

       “Come, girl. Child. Come!” He says, yanking on my arm and inching me closer to the crowd beginning to gather. This creature is nearly hopping up and down in an attempt to move me closer to his curious companions.

       His hands and his face are not the only features giving me pause. There is his clothing as well, seemingly the height of opulent splendor but it is most queer. He has pinned a living beetle where a brooch is typically worn on a jacket, green lace made of leaves spills forth from his sleeves edged with webs, spiders darting to and fro, and his trousers seem to be made of fur, akin to a young fawns spotted pelt. Somewhere deep within me, I am screaming at myself to flee, to not let him touch me further; to run home and clutch iron to my breast and line my doors and windows with salt, for protection.

       A crowd is forming and my hounds retreat into the forest. All around me are faces grown from tree bark, hair of darkest coal and brightest sun, skin like pearls and soil; they are ridiculously tall, and unbelievable diminutive. They are all beautiful, ghastly, repellent, alluring but entirely, inhumanly monstrous.

       But I am drawn further into the glade. The longing in my chest nearly a keening that escapes my lips. It is a sweet agony to be on the edge of finding my goal, of answering the question, of reaching the climax of my search. A figure at the back of the crowd catches my attention, their long hair dark shades of impossible colors with pin pricks of white, mimicking the feathers of a starling. Even at this distance, I can see their eyes are a bright yellow, piercing, nearly too large for their face and focused solely on me. They wear an ornate skirted jacket of green beetle wings with black accents and underneath, a tunic of black so dark it looks stolen from the night.

       YES! My soul seems to crow with victory nearly driving me forward, towards the magnetic stranger.

       “Wait! What are you doing?” I yank my arm from the creature’s hand. I get a closer look at him. He has a dusting of hair painting faint stripes across his exposed skin. Stumbling back, I realize these are the Folk. The Folk who are known to harass travelers or steal babies in the night to feast on tender human flesh. I rest my hand on my dagger.

       “Come, child! Girl! Come! Dance and sing! Once again!” The creature is giddy with delight, a wide smile splitting his face revealing two rows of sharp, pointed teeth. He hops-up-and-down again, gesturing wildly towards a ridiculously grandiose table covered in a wild array of fruits and nuts and meats and breads and wine.

       My mouth waters at the sight, realizing I had left the house without eating. My traitorous feet inch closer to the table and the stranger at the back of the crowd appears at my side, catching me off guard. They lean down and whisper into my ear.

       “Dear Ada, you are back among us. Let me show you to your place.” Their breath tickles my ear, sending a pleasurable shiver down my spine as they wrap an arm around my waist. I gasp and they smile at the sound. The stranger tucks me into their side and I allow them to escort me to the table.

       “How do you know my name?” I squeak as curiosity and fear war for control.

       They raise a sharp eyebrow at me.

       “The same way you know mine,” Comes the simple reply.

       “Artus.” My lips utter. I am most certain I did not know their name prior to the moment I spoke it.

       “Yes.” They nod, their smile widening.

       “What is this?” I ask, waving at the table.

       “This is a feast, my love.” They bow deeply, maintaining eye contact as they place a small kiss on my palm, then gently run their tongue over the spot. My mind says I should yank my hand away, but the line of heat from my palm to my lower belly leaves me nearly breathless; my concern and unease melt away. They hand me a goblet full of a sparkling silver wine, tap their cup to mine and take a long draw. “Drink, Ada. Drink.”

       “Welcome! Drink! Welcome back, Lady Ada!” The first creature crows in tune from the other end of the table.

       “That is Tifis.” Artus points dismissively in the direction of my abductor, a look of disgust crossing their face.

       I sip at the wine, suddenly overcome with a feeling of nostalgia, catching a whiff of a chilled breeze, sharp and clean; it is the scent of the Forest in the grip of winter. I cannot make sense of it. I glance at Artus and am met with a studying look, a small smile on their face.

       “What do you sense, love?” They ask, their intense gaze on me.

       My arms erupt in goose flesh, and I feel as if the cold wind is within me.

       “Cold. So, so very cold.” My teeth begin to chatter as I rub my arms, willing heat back into them. Though I sit in the summer sunlight, I feel I am slowly freezing. Much like that winter, long ago. The thought comes to me unbidden, and I cannot shake the rightness of it. Something is very, very wrong.

       Not every face at the table is kind. A few snarl or laugh at me as I look around, a cruel gleam in their eyes or harsh words whispered behind hands.

       I cast about for my hounds, about to call them, when all three lope into the glade towards me. The eldest of the three, Hugo, places his head in my lap and looks up at me with deep brown, mournful, expectant eyes. I scratch behind his ears, and he sighs. It is then I notice I am warm once again.

       Looking up at Artus in confusion, I find them scowling at my Hugo with veiled contempt. Their lips are tipped up in a sneer and they are gripping their goblet so tightly, their knuckles are white. Their unnatural yellow gaze swings back to mine and a wide grin replaces the sneer.

       “Such beautiful…beasts. I did not think them long lived creatures, but it appears I was mistaken.” Artus takes a long sip of wine and as the goblet leaves their mouth, their breath is visible, if only for a moment. I am about to question it when I feel their warm hand on my thigh. “Drink, Ada.”

       I lift my goblet but stop short of my lips. I am so thirsty, but a small piece of me resists allowing even another drop to hit my tongue.

       “Drink.” Artus insists again, and places their slender, green-stained fingers on the bottom of my cup and slowly tipping it to spill into my mouth. I gasp, swallowing the sweet, cold liquid. They lean in, capturing my gaze and slowly lick the wine from the corners of my mouth, their warm and unusually long tongue a shock against my skin. I am shivering again, but this time I am certain Artus is the fire I must curl myself around to regain warmth. As if reading my thoughts, they pull me into their lap, holding me closely to their chest. My cup is at my lips again as they gently pour the cold, addictive liquid into my mouth.

       “What is this wine? I’ve never tasted anything like it.” I ask Artus, as they feed me bits of apple, between chattering teeth. Having now wound my arms around them for warmth, my gut says there is a wrongness to the situation, but I find I do not care. I am warm, I am wanted, and I am content.

       “Wine of a cold winter’s day spent in this Forest, dancing and feasting and reveling.” Their reply triggers a thought, a memory of soaked woolen mittens, of cold driven tears, and of dancing in heavy boots.          

       I shake my head to clear the cobwebs from the memory, but it slips and fades. My hound whines and I jerk my head in his direction. Waking from the spell of Artus’ touch, I remove myself from their lap quickly, instinctively apologizing.

       “Lady Ada, no apology is needed. You may use me as your chair or stool.” Their yellow eyes take on a playful glint. “Or your bed, if it is your wish.” Their words and smile have something in my lower belly coiling deliciously tight.