14 - The Old Soulwood
“No ill. I mean you no ill, enormous hunter. I am (or was) a Lady. I carry no edge to lay into your thick fur. “Please, stay upon your bed of needles, and keep your long claws sheathed. “I’m not unlike you. Not in size; you would loom over me if you rose, and snap my bones with your gravity. But see, my hair is blue. Not unlike your coat, though yours is brighter. “Periwinkle Forest Cat, you seem at ease… “In this heavy wood, is there a cave? Or bough-shaded glade? A place you call your lair? “Have you cubs? One mother knows another.”
From heaven, a bronze drum rolls.
“Periwinkle Forest Cat, that twinkle in your eyes seems not the reflection of a morsel of dinner, but rather a Lady whose meaning you somehow comprehend. “I am lost in these aged, twisted junipers. In these larches of lordly height and reaching limb that conjure a lasting eclipse. “I would leave you to purr on your bed of needles, under this deadwood hollow, but I know no other place of shelter from the storm. Its wind makes breakers the rooted humus. “Nor do I know what else prowls in these your woods.”
Two yellow eyes wink shut, as a wide mouth of gleaming white mountain peaks yawns.
“I shiver at what may have drawn my knight’s eye and step; he would stay by my side if he were able. “He nurses his oath to serve me more than any other oath. He has spoken an oath upon The Road of Graves, an oath to silence, an oath for each of the necromancer-gods. But if a choice were forced upon him- “I wish this Time had not been so violent upon us. “We fled Middlemoss. The Monks of The Lidless would never have endured us to remain there, and I knew by then that my stepson was gone. “We travelled east, where The Road of Graves winds through the sun-washed heather. Then into the low country, at first dotted only by sparse field lindens, but thickening with conifers. And The Road spread strangely wider and wider…”
Having plunged into The Old Soulwood you swiftly find yourself enclosed on all sides and above by the knurled trunks. The scaled leaves of the lowest branches try to distract you as they trace along your armor. You hold your visor steady with a view of your Blue Lady. A strange idea has slipped into your brain; that if you lose her now, you will lose her forever.
The woods are heavy with the musk of the junipers, and with darkness, though not a wicked kind. The sun’s rays are concealed by the dense canopy. You’ll have to rely on finger-pointing moss, on the south side of the youngest trunks. You should also give your Blue Lady the Cat’s Eye Spear. You have your lamp and flint, and she will need her own light before long.
If you happen to spot a stone with the epitaph ‘Grau of Faceless Statue Way’, pour water on it. You will flush out a faerie, either black or walnut.
| Black Fairie Hides under gravestones, beached scallops, and manure piles. Swallowing one grants three days of prosperous financial dealings. | Walnut Fairie Will beg to be taken to the nearest frog pond. If you agree to escort him, he shrinks down to the size of a yam, and climbs inside your Blue Lady’s pocket. |
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You push yourself to the top of a steep and long hill. The looping roots and great shelves of rock – epithets, those sacred labelled stones, scattered seemingly all around – act as both obstacle and handhold in the ascent.
When you reach the summit, you see only more dense wood.
Admit to yourself that you are lost. Your flight from that silent tower was unasked for, yet what trial ever is? You did wrongly, then, in running hotfoot from Middlemoss. You should have consulted a seasoned wanderer of this span of The Road familiar and strange. Or else found a set of palfreys, or food. You trusted too much in a bi-directional Road. You have heard of The Soulwood. But you yourself have never travelled more eastward than Middlemoss. Do not feel easy in these woods, peaceful though they seem. It’s better, still, to stand in a forest floored entirely in Road epitaphs, even overgrown and scattered. This forest has a sacred smell.
The Soulwood Widow
In the oldest Time, the foundation of The Old Soulwood was a field. That field was the possession of one of the demon kings. When the seven necromancer-gods destroyed him he passed the land by will onto his favored concubine, a human slave.
She became the witch of this demon king’s field. The necromancer-gods could not slay her, a human, yet they demanded that their Road of Graves be sewn through her late master’s land.
When the first line of stones had, after years, been set, the witch sewed juniper berries atop the epitaphs. These juniper berries were magic, and rooted right into the stone.
Men of older Times tried to weave their epitaphs around these trees. But the trees only spread wider, no matter how many they felled.
An observation of the forest presents only the tapping of a woodpecker, and emulsifying shadows. Dusk comes.
You swivel your visor back to look ahead. Your Lady is still there.
But something caught your eye, there, in the hollow of that fallen beech log. A light. Yet no light as you have seen, indeed, as your eyes can ‘see’. The strange, small light in that hollow seems something like a ‘light of music’; harmony and melody to the vision; color and shape in the ear.
You remember your Blue Lady. You spin; she is there. She raises the Cat’s-Eye Spear and peers down a slope of brush.
You glance toward the log. The music-light remains. You feel a warm sweat, like youth, as you stare.
Unseen is a grumble in the stomach of the sky.
The light fades. Its silence is deafening on your eyes. You make quiet strides over a sward of sponge moss. Bending, you peer into the log cavity. Nothing. You crouch just inside, then stand. The log is bigger inside than outside. You turn to wave your Lady.
But there is no opening, no exit.
And your Blue Lady is gone.
“A dry and cozy den have you claimed. A fortunate space, a ledge above the swollen creek, sheltered by the overhang and this leaning fallen tree. “Thank you, Periwinkle Forest Cat. If my knight were present he might have fought you for this place. What if he- miserable girl. I banish that unworthy thought from my mind. “Forest cat, will you let me lay my head in this den tonight? “My sleep has been dreamless and untroubled, ever since The Tower of Silence. I dream not of my daughter, her ghost. I dream not of my husband. “What is in my knight’s dreams? I hope, more than service to me.”
You may have escaped the pulpy hall of that log, but surely it is not without cost. No trunk here comes to your memory. Fool. You have left Her alone. In the dark. Do you call out? Break your silent vow? It would do no good. How could she hear you, or you her, in this pounding rain? The canopy gives strangely little cover, the pellets seeming to fall horizontal. Even now you let your cold, soaked wool distract you. Why have you not looked for the light of her spear? Is it because you fear the other lights in the wood? Are you afraid that another beautiful music will dazzle your will? Beautiful, but surely an evil twinkling.
Your lantern gleams, through the levelled rain lines, against a wet wall of trunks. Not the columns you have seen, but a wide surface of interwoven, living wood. Casting the light higher, left, right, you spot an opening. The branches form an arch.
Beyond the gate the hissing rain is instantly inaudible. The air is dry, the ground covered in soft yellow needles. The darkness is the same.
The trees are all bare-trunked cypress. They form a roof of gray rafter limbs.
Though blackbirds, deer, other animals have taken shelter here, they are oddly docile. Even the thousand-pound grizzly seems domestic, like livestock.
The Tree with the Face of a Lover
It is the nucleus of this cypress glade. It is not the widest bole, nor the oldest. But you know this tree is sovereign. The bark is an extraordinarily smooth shade of cream. For you the face is a young blonde woman, narrow and imperfect, with freckles. The lids are closed, but when they open the eyes are fuzzy-emerald, like succulent petals.
The Tree’s unusual beauty will catch you off-guard. You’ll only notice the tendrils of soft, warm roots when the first has already climbed up your leg. They twine up your leg like fingers through hair.
You can cut the roots with your Polished Steel Longsword. They bleed. But the cutting will feel like an evil, and no matter how many you cut there are more.
The key to overcoming The Tree with the Face of a Lover is submission, but only in body. Let the tendrils of root slide up your legs, your torso, your neck. Let them slither beneath your armor and rub warmly on your skin. The tendrils will reach all the way to your neck, and move to touch your lips. This is the test of faith to your Blue Lady. If you succeed the test, the vines will recede.
The Tree with the Face of a Lover closes its velvety eyes. It begins to speak. The Tree offers you a guide, a companion to aid you in your search for your Lady, a fox with shining onyx fur.
You know it will be best to set out at once, though night still weaves with the canopy a dense blackness.
The ‘image’ of the strange musical light still worries your mind, but The Tree provides no answers to that puzzle.
“Your den reminds me of my castle. Perhaps not suited for a tremendous cat. There was less of dry needles and raw scattered epitaphs in its aspect, more of damask and iron. “But it was home. “My voice filled not the vaulted halls alone, nor only my knight’s, for he does not speak. I had a hundred loyal retainers. A lord. Two sons. My daughter. “I know it was my daughter who betrayed our family. “I know; not why. “Where are your cubs? Your mate? Have they dens of their own?”
The Soulwood trees of former Times grew wider than those of today. Their roots carved mighty tunnels under The Road of Graves. Though the trees are gone, though the roots are rotted-away, the tunnels remains.
The Underpass. Caverns of clotted midnight.
Your fox guide’s tread is inaudible as you step along the corridor, along the rooted walls of earth. The fox leaves no prints, yet as you follow, you notice larger pad prints in the loam.
You cross one tunnel with a low channel running down its middle. A stream of the hidden storm above splashes by under your feet, casually sculpting new rivers. The water’s trickle is constant. Every so often, however, you catch a distant hideous vibrating sound, like wet purring.
Periwinkle Forest Cat
Sage Name: Felis animosilva major
Description: Among the largest living species of hunting cat: 4.3-4.5 meters in length, shoulder height of 2.2-2.3 meters, and a reach of about 3 meters. This cat species has unusually long and sinewy limbs, allowing it to spring and run with great agility, and even to climb trees. Its face is flat, with a less-powerful jaw comparative to its size. Typical weight exceeds two tons.
Habitat: The Soulwood and its quarters.
Behavior: The Periwinkle Forest Cat’s favorite quarry are the giant tunnel-rats that live in The Underpass, the carved-out tunnels beneath The Soulwood. The Underpass is the cat’s hunting ground. It will not kill hunt creatures in the forest proper, except for play, or vengeance.
The carved tunnels are surprisingly uncomplicated. The widest tunnels run near the original line of road stones, and you should follow them. The only issue is that these wide tunnels are the most-often prowled by the Forest Cats.
You can avert some fights with the cats by ducking into side passages whenever you see a cat on the prowl. They spot you easily, but will leave you alone if you hasten out of their path.
Alternatively, you can carve your way, foregoing stealth. Your sword and armor are effective against their sinewy limbs and small teeth. Each fight is a death battle; the cat’s, or yours. Luckily you don’t have to worry about protecting your fox guide; he’ll always take shelter in a small roothole.
At the end of the tunnel you will have to fight Spekboom. This is a special alpha-cat, with a thorny acacia bush growing from the left side of his skull. A tougher fight, but the strategy is straightforward. Block, cut, and you will emerge the victor.
“You watch me with those eyes. I cannot sleep. Do you know your eyes shine yellow and alone against the velvet darkness? “My own eyes should be invisible. They cannot adjust to night this deep. Still, out there, when the lightning flashes, I sometimes see a scattershot of distinct white beams pierce the black canopy. I have seen in those flashes, gliding under the boughs, sleek cranes of wet steel. “My mind will not rest. It summons images of my knight. Out there. Out among the beasts. “When I see his portrait of late, it seems painted in changed color.”
Shortly after crawling free of The Underpass you enter The Glowing Glade. At first it is dark. Then a circle opens in the canopy ahead.
Lampagogue, The Maker of Wisps
It sits beneath the open sky, a strange pool of liquid which spurns the reflection of the moon. The water is the scratchy, dry, brittle grey color of middle-aged hair. Even as you approach, you hear a voice in the air, like the voice of a man speaking without bones, without the sinuses, or hyoid, or mandible, or the teeth; but a voice like a goulash of lips and tongue.
The sentient pool wants to make you a wisp. You will be forced to fight one of its three forms; it gives you the choice of form.
Form of The Eyeball
You’ll face a twenty-foot long, two-foot wide millipede, with a single socketless eyeball growing off its flank, a third of the way down the rows of syncopated limbs. The Millipede moves with a wagging, hunchbacked gait. It is slow but heavily armored. Its only weak point is its eye. Getting close enough for a strike puts you in reach of its bone-crushing wrap, and standing too far back leaves you open to the streams of yellow insect fluid which it can spew from its iris. Stay light on your feet when fighting this form.
Form of The Glass Wasp
Its wings tinkling in the wet air, its thorax translucent against the black canopy; this wasp’s sting carries a poisonous curse. Too great a dosage, and your flesh too will be as glass.
The Glass Wasp is a hard fight, mostly due to its near-invisible translucence in the dark. You must abandon your shield, and take your hip lantern in your hand, if you wish to track this form. You can rely somewhat on your ear; the louder the tinkling the closer your enemy.
You should be able to shrug a few doses of the wasp’s cursed stinger. You yourself need only one connecting stroke of Steel to shatter the glass.
Form of The Padfooted Woodsman
The fleetest form, the fellest foe. He flits between the trunks, running in, swiping with his heavy humming iron edge, his treetrunk-unseamer, before vanishing again into the woods. A single blow from the axe will cut through anything but your Pinecone Crest Shield, so use it.
The Woodsman wears thick layers of pelt, with a shaggy beard and skin hat hiding his face. It will take several carefully-timed strikes for you to cut through his weathered, hirsute hide.
“Listen; no hissing rain. And my eyes begin again to discern the contours of the trunks, the swell of that hill across the stream. “I see a silhouette like the flying buttress of some cathedral, which must surely be some elder tree, broken away from its copse of fellows by the late wind. “I hear only your purr, great cat. I must leave now that day comes. Rise not, you are comfortable. Unless you can hunt my knight for me? “The woods seem somehow less dense than last evening, though I know less the direction I must- “Why do you growl? Please, mercy. “But no, I hear now what disturbs you. A footstep…”
When you are exactly twenty paces from the leaning log shelter by the ledge over the creek, your fox companion will vanish into a bramble of mulberries. He does not return.
Just as abruptly another Periwinkle Forest Cat leaps from the dim nook.
The cat’s claws reach you before you can draw Steel. Apply your shield. Endure the first fury of claws scraping off your Pinecone Crest and Helm. Her snarling will raise within your heart that inherited, prehistoric predator-dread of your species, but you must simply swallow it and continue.
This one is large for a cat, but she is still only another beast of The Soulwood. Let her fury spend itself, then put your Steel to work.
Even if you suspect that this cat has in some way helped your Lady - even if you hear your Lady’s cry from the logs, or catch her eye - there is nothing you can change. This feline smells the blood of her kin on you. She will kill you, or you must kill her.
As the animal throes in its crimson death on the wet forest soil, your Lady stumbles to you over the roots.
“What slaughter has your sworn sword wrought this night and morning? Look at the gore on yourself. Look at- “Knight - forgive those warm words. I saw only the matted fur of one animal friend, and not my guardian. “Let me remove your shield, your gauntlets, your pauldrons. “How much of this blood is yours? “…This Periwinkle Forest Cat, whose heart no longer heaves, whose soundless padded feet will no more perform the hunter’s dance; this still mars the forest. “Are you well, knight? The day is dawned, if still obscured. There is a little of that finger-pointing moss.”
Only occasionally do you see an exposed epitaph in the spanless width and length of The Soulwood. Loam, and the old roots of winding trees, and the fallen trees with shelving mushrooms serving as basins of rainwater for the small pale musk deer, and the little creeks; these bury The Road of Graves. But the epitaphs appear often enough that you know your feet still follow the path.
Four days and three nights pass.
At dusk on the fourth day you find the east limit of The Soulwood. The Road emerges from the earth like a worm, and quickly tapers, like pain with the healing of a wound.
Yet just ahead, painted by the setting western sun, like hands of buried gods reaching for the sky, stands another thin forest. The arch trees rise beyond the dreams of the highest clouds.
“My knight, the world wonders that you found the den of dry needles where I laid my head to sleep. Did you too win the aid of some forest guardian? “I spent a night at peace back in that dry den of needles. I had no dreams. “Did you dream? “But forget my questions. I know your oath.”