Syth and Axe (part 3) : Old Grudges

Read part 1 here: https://parallaxrealms.blogspot.com/2024/04/bunyan-went-down-to-jersey-part-1.html

 

Book 3 - The Sacred and the Profane

1948 - Somewhere in Louisiana

The skittering began again. She looked up, her golden locks falling free of her hat and billowing around her shoulders - strands in the sunlight. But there were other strands - fibers. Faint, imperceptible. Then she felt something land on her skin and stick.

She brushed at it. Strong.

Sticky.

She rushed away, and felt the tug at her cheek as the strand broke free, leaving a small stinging line. She sped down the road and up into her house - an old mansion nestled in this part of the bayou. She’d always heard rumors - she’d always left treats at the crossroads, hadn’t messed with the strange lady with the large snake, hadn’t cursed any of the loa, even though she didn’t believe.

But something was skuttling along behind her now.

And the fibers. The strands were coming more now - in through the windows, through doorways… Something was surrounding the house.

She rushed through the sitting room and into the kitchen.

“Henry?”

No answer.

“Henry?”

Skuttling.

Scratching.

Creaking.

She paused in place. “Henry? Henry? Is that you?”

No response.

“Henry?”

She pushed open the door to the pantry. It stuck slightly. She pulled her hand back, freeing it from another of the sticky strands. She took a deep breath to hide her shaking, muttered to herself a silent prayer, and pushed open the door fully. Something heavy thudded inside.

“H-henry?”

She fumbled for the switch. An overhead bulb clicked on with a light hum. The room was cast in the orange-white hue of the dying bulb.

“If you’d replace it…” she scowled. She stepped into the room. The door creaked and slowly closed behind her.

She turned and saw the bundle lying on the floor. Some sort of sack - like grain shipments come in, or like Henry’s duffel bag when he came back from the war. She stepped over, confused.

Grey-white, about the size of a man.

She knelt and reached out to touch it. It was somewhat warm to the touch. A single strand pulled back against her finger as she removed it.

Then the bag began to squirm.

She jumped back, clattering into the shelf containing the canned goods.

One dropped to the floor, another stack toppled, spilling and rolling. She lost her footing on one, and, while trying to catch herself, stepped fully on another. It spun violently away, and with a sudden, violent lurch, her feet popped out from under her, sending her legs high and her back into the ground. She hit the floor, hard. Sparks flashed in her vision.

Everything went dark for a moment.

When she came to, she could feel the cloudiness in her mind from the blow. She blinked up at the light several times, then tried to raise a hand to push a shock of her blonde hair out of her eyes. She couldn’t move. Had she broken her neck? Was she paralyzed? Was she trapped in here?

She craned her neck and looked down.

She was in some sort of sack, too. It was sticky, and tight. She was being wrapped up in the stuff.

Then she saw it. It skuttled up from the darkness. 

A spider - the size of a large dog - was sitting on the other sack. It wasn’t a sack at all - it was a body… a body wrapped in webbing!

The spider lowered down onto the form. It writhed, cried out a muffled groan, then lay still.

Blinking back tears, she saw the creature turn and slowly creep across the floor to her.

Then it skuttled up onto her chest, it’s eyes staring unblinkingly, its mandibles moving slightly - a few inches from her face. Then two long, black, glistening fangs lowered from the underside of the beast’s horrendous mouth, and it dropped into the front of her chest.

She screamed, but there was no one left to hear her.

Two Days Later

Paul stepped out into the bayou and immediately regretted his decision to wear his typical fleece shirt and jacket. The sweltering summer heat, humidity to match, met him as soon as the car door opened. 

“Far as I go, mister.”

He thanked the driver, tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder, and strode into the forest. Within a short time, he found himself before a sprawling manor house, its former majesty dimmed by the ravages of time. Rumor had it the previous owner had died in the war, and having left it to his children, they were unable or unwilling to upkeep the maintenance, and so had dedicated to the loa of the swamp.

He chuckled and with strong strides crested the staircase up onto the broad porch. A board creaked in protest. He rapped on the door.

No answer.

He turned the handle and gave a push.

Slight resistance, then the door began to creak open.

“Wouldn’t do that, Joe.”

Only one person in this world still knew him as Joe. “Cole, what’re you doing this far afield? Thought you couldn’t cross the water?”

“Living water, old friend. And there’s little living in this place.”

“Friends now, are we? Haven’t seen each other for years! And you never write.” Paul retorted, sarcastically.

Before him, wreathed in a darkness that seemed to radiate from his body, was a horseman. His mighty jet charger snuffled impatiently. Cole petted his steed with a gloved hand before dismounting.

“You got a new head.”

Cole’s head was dramatically improved - almost lifelike - compared to the last one Paul had seen him wearing.

“Found it last week,” Cole responded, gently touching the fresh flesh of his cheek. No doubt, just above the shoulderline, stood a ragged scar where the head had been attached to the raw neck, but Paul could only see the pale skin against the dark collar of Cole’s longcoat. He pulled free his gloves, revealing remarkably life-like hands, as if the entire body were still living save for the head.

Indeed, this new head, while “fresh” and “lifelike,” still sported the dark, empty eyes that Paul had ever seen. Cole seemed incapable of bringing life to the one part of him that was not native. His heads would wither an die over time.

“What brings you to Louisiana?”

“Same thing as you, I imagine.”

“Sightseeing?”

A hollow chuckle, like the vibrations in an empty container, rumbled from the horseman, not completely in the area of his head - somewhere other.

“Family goes missing, spider webs. We both know what’s here.”

Paul dropped his bag on the porch with a thud and drew out a lumbering axe. “So, come to stop me from messing with your plan?”

“Not at all. Actually the opposite.”

“I’m not helping you… whatever it is you’re doing needs to stop. Too many have died.”

“You don’t know of any who have ‘died’ to my plans.”

“Whose head are you wearing?”

“A death row inmate, if you must know. I have yet to kill a single soul. They give themselves willingly.”

“And what’s in it for them?”

Cole shrugged. “They get to live on.”

“You saying the soul of your victim is still in that head?”

Cole shrugged before drawing off his coat and draping it over his horse. He drew a long saber from the saddle, then a pistol. He holstered the pistol on one side and sheathed the saber.

“In a way yes, in a way no.”

“So what business do you have with a spider infestation?”

“Do you remember that village you destroyed in the Pine Barrens, twenty years ago?”

“Yes.”

“The spiders came from the jungles, but not the way you think.”

“I suspected you knew how they got there.”

“That’s not how I know. I had nothing to do with it.”

“So you say.”

“Because it’s true. These spiders come from a weakness between our world and the fairy realm. If there’s a weakness where they come from, they can freely pass through to other parts of the same realm.”

“So they use the fairy realm to travel from earth to earth?”

“More or less.”

“What is it, ‘more’ or ‘less’?”

“It’s exactly that.”

Paul groaned and pushed on the door.

“I already said I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m not you.”

The door creaked open, revealing the dark, spider-infested interior. Paul groaned. He remembered destroying an entire village to keep these things at bay. Now, they were here, too. All that work, wasted.

He turned and rifled through his bag, drawing out a stick of dynamite.

“That’s not going to work as well as you hope.”

“And what will?”

Cole gestured off toward the bayou. “Come with me. Let’s visit the guardian of this realm.”

Paul set the bottle back into the bag and turned away from the house. Something shuffled deep within, a tunnel spider moving inside its massive lair. He pulled the door shut, picked up his pack, and stepped down. Cole stood there, but his horse had already vanished.

The horseman’s pale face was almost the same whiteness of his crisp shirt. Around his neck, hiding the scar, was a bright red ascot, tied bandana-style around his collar. His black pants ended in equally-black boots of flawless make, cleaner than any rider’s boots had business being. The man stepped off the path. “Let me show you something.”

Paul followed.

The two crossed the yard, rounded behind the house, to an old dock. A canoe sat nearby, tied off to a cleat. “Climb aboard.”

Paul obeyed. Cole undid the rope and climbed alongside, his body giving the slightest hesitation.

“Water messes with you?”

Cole nodded, then pushed off the dock. He picked up a paddle, and they began their journey off into the swamps. Spanish moss dangled around them, the smell of wet leaves, algae, mold. The splashing of water as the paddle cut deep into the dark waters. Soon, they were lost in the middle of a maze-like copse of muddy trees.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a guardian around here.”

“A guardian?”

“One who protects this region.”

“I know what a guardian is. Who’s the guardian of this region?”

“Locals call him papa.”

“Of course they do…”

The canoe traced its way through the marshes, finally coming to a stop at another equally-dilapidated dock. Cole pulled up alongside, tossing out a rope and pulling the boat in against the rotting pylons.

Paul clambered out, feeling the boards flex and groan under his weight.

Cole followed deftly, and the two strolled out onto what Paul assumed was a the other side of the lake, though it if were an island, it was large enough that he couldn’t see its edges.

“Where are we going, Cole.”

“To the crossroads.” He reached into his pocket and produced a small white ball. “Need to talk to the keeper.”

“You believe these old superstitions?”

Cole chuckled from deep inside his chest. “Legends come from somewhere. You know that as well as I do. The line between myth and reality is rather thin where we’re concerned.”

The trail widened, then split off to each side. A single crooked post stood on the side of one of the trail, its arrows long since rotted and shapeless and illegible.

“Not sure this counts as a crossroad. No one’s been on this road for years.”

Cole shrugged and tossed the candy out onto the road. “Technicality. The barrier is weak, surely even you can sense that… but barriers have little effect on you, don’t they?”

Paul set his bag down and folded his broad arms across his equally broad chest. He didn’t answer.

Cole stood for a moment.

Something sniffed.

Paul watched as a formless something stepped from the shadows and paced its way across the street.

“No be summoning me properly, are ya, ol’ corpse.”

Cole bowed slightly. “I’m afraid I’m ignorant of such things.”

“Ya lookin’ familiar. Have we dealt before?”

“Papa, I believe this is our first interaction.”

“An’ the woodsman?”

“Bystander,” Paul responded.

“You have the touch o the spirit world on you.”

“I’ve been there.”

“An’ it lingers.” the spirit responded. “And this one is just as out of place as you are.”

Cole nodded. “I’m not quite human, either.”

“Never were.”

Paul saw Cole shuffle at that statement. The spirit moved across to the center of the road, pausing over the small piece of candy. It vanished, then the swirling shapeless cloud materialized, and an old man stood there, parts of his features slightly ethereal, as if he were wafting in and out of existence as they watched.

“So, interlopa’s, what brings you to the crossroad?”

Paul nodded toward Cole. “I’m along for the ride.”

Cole stepped forward, bowing slightly. “We wish to enter the spirit realm.”

“Ha!” The laugh ripped through the swamps, actually succeeding in startling Paul with its suddenness. The spirit paused. “Ya serious? Ye bring me a small token offerin’ and ye expect me t’ do your bidding? Yah ever treated with a guardian before?”

It was the first time Paul had ever seen Cole caught off guard. The horseman seemed confused, as if a carefully-laid plan had gone suddenly awry. “Surely we can make a deal.”

“Ya be wantin’ to visit the spirit realm? Then ya got t’ give me ya spirit.”

“Agreed.”

The old man smiled. “That be almost too simple.”

“Show us the portal and we’ll give you the spirit.” Cole replied, his hand fidgeting near his neck, as if he suddenly had an itch.

“Fine,” replied the guardian. A hat materialized upon his head, then vanished slightly before reappearing. He leaned on an old cane and shuffled forward. “The realm is hostile these days… ye might be wishin’ ye didn’t give up the spirit.”

“A deal’s a deal,” replied Cole, still fidgeting at his neck.

The portal whirled into view. A void of emptiness - a pinprick of nothing staring out at them.

The old man reached out a hand. “Then let’s shake, and make the deal.”

Cole reached out a hand and was just about to grip the spectral guardian’s outstretched palm when he wrenched his head free and tossed it. The guardian paused, confused at what he was seeing before him. But then his gaze shifted toward the now-severed head, and like a dog after his prey, he bounded off.

Cole shoved Paul forward. “No time like the present!”

And they vanished into the void.

It was darkness - a spectral swamp devoid of life, devoid of scent, of taste. It was a land of dim sight and faint noise. It was a stifling gloom that sucked all pleasure from their forms, replacing it with muted, dulled tones.

“This the same realm you visited?” Cole asked.

“Not exactly,” Paul responded. They stood in a formless void. The ground beneath their feet was fog, and an empty vapor stretched out beyond them in all directions. “So, what’ve you gotten us into?”

“This is why you need a guardian. He acts as a guide and translator.”

“The guide is an important point, I think.”

“Why do you think I brought you?”

Paul remained silent.

“Think about it, Joe. You know your way through here. Look.”

As if on cue, a small section of the fog broke, and a path split out before him.

“Let’s hurry… there’s something else here.”

“You drag me into another world and have the audacity to tell me to hurry?”

“Fine with me if you want to get eaten by whatever darkness is producing this fog.”

Paul groaned, but had to agree with Cole’s reasoning. The fog continued to split, drawing them forward step by step. Spectral trees rose around them. Something slithered in the darkness. Something splashed.

“Water…” 

“We must move through it.”

Cole shook - or at least seemed to shake, Paul couldn’t actually see - his ghostly head. “It’s living, I can’t pass.”

“Stinks to be you, then.”

“Don’t enter it either, something lurks beneath.”

“You almost sound concerned, Cole.”

“If it drags you down, I’m stuck here, too.”

“I’m sure you’d find your own way back. You’re always slinking your way out of trouble.”

The water pulsed slightly. Paul could hear a whisper at the back of his mind. He turned to Cole. The man was frozen in place. The ethereal wisps of energy where his head had been seemed frozen. Against his better judgment, Paul grabbed the man by the arm. “Stop listening. We’ve got to move!”

The vaporous trails at the end of his severed neck began to move again, and the glowing embers where his eyes should have been appeared. “Right. Let’s go.”

They threaded their way through the grey-white darkness, looping around the edge of a massive, formless lake. The whispers continued, promising all manner of temptations, but they did their best to ignore them. All the while, Paul led onward, their defacto guide through this barren void - this realm between realms.

“Any other dumb ideas while we’re in here?”

“Want to disable another pedestal?”

“Not really. That didn’t go so well last time.”

“Indeed,” replied Cole. “But we may not have a choice this time. It may be out only way out.”

“What was your plan here?”

“To find out where the other end of this gateway is. That didn’t go to plan, so I used what cards I had in my hands.”

“I doubt that, Cole. There’s quick on your feet, and then there’s you.”

“Always have a backup plan,” Cole responded, cryptically. His voice hummed from the air, reverberating airily in the fog. “The portal didn’t drop me at the other side of the portal like I expected, so I made due. We find the pedestal and shut it down and return to our world - we solve the spiders and free ourselves at the same time.”

“And all the fallout is completely unintentional?”

“How have I possibly benefited from what happened in the Barrens? It seems to me you and your friends have discovered new abilities, and the guardian of that forest is free. Seems like none of that would benefit me if I were rooting against you.”

“So it would seem,” was all Paul could reply.

“I’m not sure what more I have to do to prove myself.”

“You could start by not dragging me into a portal to another realm.” Paul paused. “Besides, I thought you weren’t allowed to enter this place?”

“I can’t enter through certain sacred sites. Crossroads are iffy. You’ve heard of ‘dark magic’?”

Paul nodded.

“Crossroads function more in line with that that whatever the normal fairy magic is.”

“Then we’re not in the fairy realm?”

“Not as such,” Cole responded. “I think we’re in a sort of ‘in between.’”

The whispering continued.

“And I don’t think we should stay here much longer.”

“Well, I don’t think we should have come here in the first place.”

Something skuttled in the shadows. A deep voice muttered something in a language neither of them understood. “Best be finding that pillar, I’d imagine.”

The path split before them. “Which way?”

“Either.”

The muttering grew louder. It was a gutter speech, that out of old tales. Mutterings in the woods. The dark presences that presaged disaster.

“Any time now, Joe.”

Paul chose the right. They rushed down the trail, attempting to ignore the growing whispers. In the trees, in the bushes, seemingly rushing up along the path behind them.

“Hurry!”

Something small shambled out of the grey onto the trail behind them.

The path opened into a wide expanse, promptly vanishing into the grey grass.

“Come! The pedestal is this way!”

Already, Cole was fishing in the pockets of his pants. He drew something from within and drew his pistol with the other hand.

“Got your axe?”

“Always.”

“Best be ready to use it!”

Something rose out of the shadowy fog, a finger pointing up toward the sky. It appeared in every way the same as the one Paul had seen in the portal in the Pine Barrens. Cole drew out his small fairy cross.

“This will disable it and free us from this realm. Place it inside.”

Paul took the small cross and turned to the pedestal. Cole spun, drawing his saber out with his other hand. The shots began to fire, one after the other. Screams. Whispers. Crying. Cursing in a language he barely heard, much less understood.

Something leapt upon the pillar. It was dark, with glowing pale eyes that looked more froglike than human. Its mouth split in a broad, toothless grin. Its hairless face jerked left and right, pivoting on an unseen neck as it examined him. He raised his axe.

“Joe, any time now!”

More shots rang out. A shink of sword striking metal, followed by a sudden blast of pistol fire. Paul looked back and the creature was gone.

He drew out the cross and was about to place it on the pedestal when he caught a gaze directed his way from Cole, who was almost surrounded by the creatures flooding from the dark beyond. Paul pocketed the cross, reared back his axe, and slammed it into the side of the column. It split, but held. The creatures tore off from engaging Cole and rushed him. He spun, bringing back his axe, and bit it deep into the side of the column once more.

A crack raced through its surface.

A strong hand bit into his shoulder. He shook free of the creature and rushed toward the damaged stone, ramming his shoulder into it. The structure cracked, but held.

Then something grabbed him by the side of his face, and the froglike face of that pale creature appeared from above, pulling back his head, drawing his chin up so it could look full in his face. Upside-down, the being’s features seemed all the more horrible. Its grin stretched out, wider than seemed possible, and a broad set of lipless jaws widened, threatening to consume him face-first.

Paul reached up, gripping the strange, rubbery face, and prying back the jaws before they could consume him. But this monster was strong!

A shot rang out, and suddenly a spray of ichor and a jump, and the creature was gone.

Paul shook his head as another set of hands clenched around his ankles. He kicked one of the small human-like creatures aside and rammed his shoulder into the damaged top-stone of the pillar. It creaked slightly. Another body struck him, and another. They were piling on top of him now.

  Using the damaged pillar as leverage, he pulled himself upright.

Then something grabbed him.

Paul swung with his axe, catching the monster alongside the jaw with the butt. It spun away, its claws digging deep into the soil to stop itself from falling any farther. It bared dog-like teeth and roared, its goat-like face an uncanny mixture of beasts. It charged again, claws sending sprays of dirt flying. Paul rounded, catching the beast across the face with his axe before using the momentum to bring the body into the pillar. The blade split through the monster’s cheek before biting deep into the remaining section of post. The column cracked again.

Paul roared, shaking off another creature, reared his axe back a final time, and brought it screaming down onto the pillar. The top splintered, then toppled free, striking the ground. He turned. Cole’s gaze seemed to shift, and he leapt back toward the now-broken pillar. “Ready?”

And the world went white, then everything became black.

Paul landed heavily in the water. He splashed clumsily, attempting to get purchase in the soft soil at the bottom of whatever pond he’d landed in. He walked his way up the bank, holding his breath, until he pulled himself ashore.

Cole sat there already.

“You missed.”

“I broke the seal.”

“I meant the island. You hit the water instead.”

Paul nodded. “Apparently.”

The two sat, wet and miserable on the island.

“What now?”

“We wait.”

And so they did. For four days, the two of them sat on that island. The tide rolled in and out, and the brackish water moved slightly. Paul had never specifically needed to eat, but sitting so long on the damp isle finally cracked him.

“I want a pancake.”

Cole stood nearby, staring across the water.

“I could eat one the size of a pond. Slap large slabs of butter to my feet and ice skate across the surface. I could eat that pancake.”

“Always have been larger-than-life, Joe. How old are you?”

Paul shrugged. “Almost 250 years, I’d guess. At least 200. You?”

“Same.”

“What do you mean I’ve always been larger than life?”

“Your legend, growing huge, battling gigantic monsters. Everything about your legend.”

“Well, whoever that was, it wasn’t me. Besides, I only recently began growing huge.”

“You say that, but the legends of a large lumberjack moving through the forest - that dates back almost a hundred years.”

Paul shook his head. “Not me.”

“Of course not you, but someone else has always been there. You just gained the ability to grow larger?”

Paul nodded. “When I broke the barrier in the Barrens.”

“Interesting…”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. You seem to have your finger on the pulse of everything strange happening throughout the Eastern Coast.”

“Yes…” replied Cole. Then fell silent. “I was somewhat aware, but nothing was verified.”

“Your minions don’t report in?”

“I have no minions…” Cole replied. “Unless you count my charger.”

“What’s your end goal in all this, Cole? What do you hope to gain?”

“I want to die.”

“What?”

“This immortality was a gift,” a ghastly voice whispered from the depths of his body. “A second chance at life - I’d never weaken, never tire. I’d never be caught off guard again. I’d be in complete control. Never have to sleep. Never have to rest. I could never fail at anything I tried.”

“And that wasn’t enough for you?”

“On the contrary. It was too much.”

The stillness of the swamp met them again.

“My only weakness was those things that have always deterred the undead - running water, holy ground, sacred spaces - and the definition of ‘sacred space’ always seemed to change. ‘Sacred’ to whom?”

Silence fell again.

Paul tossed a stone into the muck. “Could still use that pancake.”

Cole turned slightly and paced out the island again. He’d done this like clockwork. Each day, he’d begin and end with a lap around the island before crossing back and forth across it at various intervals.

Paul watched, half interested. “Can’t you just swim off the island?”

“You can. I can’t. One of my regrettable weaknesses.”

“So you haven’t showered in two hundred years?”

“Funny joke coming from a lumberjack.”

“Why water?”

“Why silver? Items sacred to the church - items used in religious service - I don’t know for sure,” Cole responded. He tugged at a broach on the edge of his shirt. “I have one right here. If I held it in my bare hand, it would sizzle like a hot poker.”

“You’ve tried?”

“Yes.”

“And when you get in water?”

“I sink like a stone. The deeper I go, the less I’m able to move.”

Paul thought for a moment. “Like the giants?”

“Exactly. Lured into the waters that would become Lake Baikal.”

“So they’re still alive?”

“The best I can tell. Obviously I’ve yet to find a way to investigate.”

Something dawned on the lumberjack. He remembered the portal he’d entered, and how it had dropped him out in line with where he had walked. “You want to find a way to travel to these places through the fairy realm. That would allow you to pass through barriers.”

No response.

“I’ll give you this, Joe. You’re smarter than you let on.”

And with that, he vanished.

More accurately, everything but Paul vanished.

He landed softly on an empty island in the middle of a dried up stream bed. He stood. “Cole? Cole? Where’d you go?”

No response.

He stepped down into the dried up stream. Silence. Utter and complete silence. Over the dried up bed, up the far bank, through the dried-out grass. Nothing. The land was barren and wasted. He was completely and utterly alone in a lifeless world.

Elsewhere, 1948

Syth traced a long finger through the soil. He felt something move on the breeze and pulled his wings back and tight. He’d need to slip through a bank of trees, and they’d only get in the way. He slipped through the narrow opening, sniffing at the air as he went. Just up here…

He rounded the corner and watched. There it was. 

The fairy circle - nearly twice as wide as he’d ever seen one. And there, in its center, a blue hole. He stepped over the ring of mushrooms and stared down into the water. He couldn’t enter, but he imagined something at the bottom of that pool - something important. He could feel it pulsing up to him.

“Be careful. We’re not meant for those things.”

He turned.

“What are you doing here, Cole?”

The man looked shocked for the briefest of moments, his dark skin glistening with what could have been sweat. His long coat hung to his knees, dark gloves adorned his hands, and a tall collar rose up around his neck. A red ascot covered his throat like an old cowboy bandana.

“Syth, is it?”

“I asked you a question.”

“I’m here to get your help.” Cole eyed the circle, but apparently couldn’t cross it.

“And what does the great Headless Horseman want with the Jersey Devil?”

“It’s about Joe.”

“Joe?”

“Your lumberjack friend.”

“Paul?”

Cole nodded. “Old habits… I always knew him by the other name.”

“What about him?”

“He’s missing.”

“That happens.” replied Syth. “He’ll turn up in another decade or so.”

“No, I mean he’s vanished.”

Syth stepped over the boundary of the circle, scowling at the man. “Tell me everything.”

Unknown Realm

Paul stood at the edge of a clearing. Dried grass stretched out before him, forming a strange ringed pattern as it went. Strange shapes moved off in the distance. He knew better at this point than to engage them.

Something shuffled in the trees off to his right.

He remembered these creatures. He remembered the fear he’d felt as a young lumberjack, moving in a small squad through the trees.

One of his friends had vanished that night. They’d found the trail of blood. Oh, they’d made up tales to hide what had happened - the trees needed clearing, after all, and if the rumor got out that something had been hunting them, picking them off one by one… well, that wasn’t a risk anyone could take.

He remembered the man, holding a bottle of alcohol, swigging it to calm his nerves. He remembered the shaggy beast, long claws raking the ground, as it closed on the man. Then it had stopped, sniffing the air. It had retreated. Either by dumb luck or fate’s kind hand, they’d chanced upon the Lumberjack’s Friend - and had cleared the rest of the forest completely plastered.

They may have nearly crushed each other more than once, but the truth of it was better - they’d driven off the monster and cleared its habitat. They’d won by complete dumb luck.

Paul wished he had that luck now.

They’d jokingly called it a Hidebehind… but it was living up to its name now, and Paul was fresh out of alcohol. 

Something shuffled in the trees behind him. Paul brandished his axe and turned his back to the field. He slowly retreated, trying to face as much of the forest as he could. The grass was dry and dead. Seeds and bristles clawed at his pants, and he could feel the spines biting through the fabric, scratching at his legs.

He stood in the middle of the clearing, watching the dark, hairy silhouettes rounding him, staring from behind every tree. Wherever he was, he was in the middle of their territory. And they weren’t happy.

Trees began to shake and quiver, and they all vanished.

He clenched the axe, knowing he had to return to the trees, but knowing what awaited him if he returned. These killers of his kind would show no mercy. They’d rip him to shreds as soon as allow him to walk a single step back into their realm.

Something shifted in the trees.

He spun slightly, trying to keep his eye on as many portions of the forest as possible, even though it surrounded him. Death awaited a dozen paces in any direction. And they knew it.

A stone struck the ground near his feet - no, that was an understatement. It was a boulder the size of his head. Another. Then another.

One thocked into his shoulder. He stumbled backward with a groan. Another pelted him in the knee, knocking him down. He groaned as another boulder whipped past his face, then another struck him against the cheek.

“So this is your game…” he muttered.

Another thudded heavily against his arm. He couldn’t stay out here. They’d stone him to death if he did.

Another boulder sank into the soil near his feet. He had no choice…

He ran. With axe in hand, he rushed into the forest. A stone ricocheted off a nearby tree, then one struck something as it reared up to attack him. He was saved by a clumsy throw. A claw raked out of the darkness, barely grazing his face. He dove, then rolled into a protected crouch, blade at the ready.

A Hidebehind revealed itself, raking toward his face. He struck back, leveling the blade at the thing’s gut. His axe bounced harmlessly off the furry stomach. He growled and struck again.

Useless.

He rushed forward, a blade slashing against the side of his face, taking off a few hairs of his beard but otherwise leaving him unscathed. He rolled a few feet, vaulted back up, and darted forward.

They were quick.

Claws raked his back.

He dodged around a tree, hearing the crack of bark as talons raked the air where his face had been. These creatures thrived on fear and surprise. They weren’t used to someone knowing of their presence… but they were also not known to hunt in packs. Had he and his men driven them all here? Was this their last stand? How he wished he hadn’t give up alcohol!

Screams. Angry cried.

He dodged headlong and ran until his legs finally gave out. The forest was dark, but quiet once again.

He groaned and tried to pull himself upright, but he couldn’t move. His legs groaned, is arms screamed. Blood oozed from a dozen wounds. He pushed himself up on his axe and hobbled a few feet before collapsing against a broad tree. He chuckled morosely to himself. Live in the forest… die in the forest. Wasn’t there an old saying that said something like that?

He listened to the silence of the trees.

The Hidebehinds had returned to hiding… hopefully.

Where was he, and where had they come from?

Something shuffled in the treetops. He groaned and looked up. A hair-covered beast sat in the branches. It was faceless, just a bulge in the carpet of fur where a head should be. But then a triple-row of razor teeth - yellowed with dried blood - parted the fur, and the creature began to clamber its way down the tree. Its long, clawed finger clutched at the wood as it came. He couldn’t tell if it was upside down or not, since the hair hung down toward him, covering most of the head, but not the teeth - not those dreadful teeth.

He forced himself to his feet and darted deeper into the forest.

The beast continued its slow pursuit, teeth bared, hair draping eerily down its body, as if a mass of forest lichen had come to life and was bent on bloody vengeance. He ran until his legs gave out again. 

Then he heard it - the gurgling of water.

He pulled himself to the bank and tossed himself into the current. It was all he could do to keep himself afloat, but he could at least do that. He let the current carry him downstream, and before he knew it, he had arrived at a small port town. He pulled himself up against the pylon of a dock, then clambered his way onto the weathered deck and flopped down, feeling as if he’d just died.

“Stranger, you all right?”

He stared up into the darkskinned face of a deck hand.

He nodded unconvincingly.

“Get this man some help. Someone tried t’ kill ‘im!”

Paul smiled appreciatively, and everything went black.

Hidebehinds stalked him still. He could feel the hairy monstrosity with the rows of sharp teeth eying him. Then something doglike stalked its way out of the night and began pacing - just on the other side of the river. Its moving water prevented them from approaching.

He sat on a steamboat, its mighty paddlewheels cutting through the water as it marked its way up the raging waters. He stared over the edge. Something moved in the waters beneath. Something dark, sinewy, with small vestigial hands and a broad, paddle-like take. It moved like a shark, but its humanoid head, squat though it was, belied something else. He pulled himself away from the railing and stared upriver. They were cruising at speed, yet they weren’t turning. They were heading straight for the oncoming bank!

He rushed across the deck to the wheel, but it was unmanned. He attempted to seize it, but it spun wildly out of his control. He growled and attempted to heave it away from the shore, but nothing could stop it. The craft stove forward, whipping the water into a froth.

Then, with a crack and shattering wood, he was thrown forward, off the ship, and onto the unforgiving sod.

He rolled several feet, pulling himself to his knees, covered in grit and muck.

Then the growling began.

He pulled himself around and attempted to rise, but something was coming.

He felt a claw wrap itself around his face, felt something else lance across his stomach, and cried out in horror as the Hidebehind lanced a single claw across his gut, spilling his –

He woke with a start and clutched at his stomach. Large strips of fabric traced his wounds, several of which had been opened across his gut. They’d almost gotten him several times, and he hadn’t even noticed. He breathed heavily, attempting to catch his breath.

The bandages had already started to stain red with blood.

“Mista’, what happened? Who tried t’ kill ya?”

Paul shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure. Creatures from myth.”

“Yah be in Loosiana, myth is normal round here.”

Paul nodded. “I believe that…” he stared at his hands. They were covered in bandages as well. Bandages the like of which he hadn’t seen used in … in quite some time.

“Tell me… what’s the date?”

“Why, it’s June 14th.”

Paul nodded.

“1851.”

1948 - Pine Barrens

“You’re free to leave, if rumor is to be believed,” Cole said, eyeing Syth warily.

Syth nodded. “I’m aware. I just have things I need to investigate. Like why Ingrid Cole has graced this forest with his presence again. Were the spiders and the Tree Walker not enough?”

“I had not hand in any of those.”

“But you had a head in them, am I right?”

“Those rampages were not my doing.” Cole responded. “And I think you meant ‘hand in them.’”

“I said what I said,” Syth replied. “What did you do to Paul?”

“Nothing. Otherwise I wouldn’t have sought you out.”

“I’m surprised you even found me.”

Silence.

“Where is Paul?”

“I’m not sure. I was pacing out a pattern and he vanished.”

“A pattern?”

“We can’t cross through sacred portals,” Cole explained.

“I know.”

“So I’ve found a way to open my own.”

Now it was Syth’s turn to remain quiet.

Cole continued. “Paul got caught in the mix, and vanished.”

“You seem remarkably bothered about this. That surprises me.”

“I bear no ill-will toward you or Paul,” Cole replied. One eye drooped slightly on his face. He massaged the cheek until it responded properly again. “I have my own mission, and Paul got caught up in it.”

“Lose the head.”

“Excuse me?”

Syth folded his arms. “You heard me. Lose the head. I won’t have that thing anywhere near me.”

“What do you mean? It’s just a way for me to blend in.”

“Yah, and the high collar, riding getup, and dark gloves are so good at blending in with the locals. Off with the head.”

The head crooked into a strange approximation of a smirk, and Cole reached up under the ascot, fished his fingers around for a moment, and wrenched the head from off his shoulders. With a few snaps and a pop, it ripped free. Cole tossed it toward Syth, who stepped a little, expanding one wing just far enough to keep it from rolling any farther. 

“Spoil sport,” came the spectral voice from where the head had been.

Syth spared a passing glance at the head. He had knocked it out of the air just before the fairy ring. “Seeing if a former part of you can pass the barrier?”

There seemed to be something of a smirk about Cole’s headless form. “You’re a little too perceptive,” he replied, with a slight note of caution to his voice.

“Years of being ignored, living alone in a forest. One tends to learn a few things.”

“I think it’s more than that.” Cole responded.

Syth gazed down at the severed head, then used a single taloned wing-claw to life it up. “And whose head was this?”

No response.

“You come wearing an innocent’s head after banishing Paul to some random realm and expect me to trust you?”

“I never asked you to trust me.”

“Then what?”

“Come with me. You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself.”

“I’ll consider it.” With that, Syth flicked the head away. It plopped into the forest and rolled out of view. Cole turned and vanished into the woods.

Syth peered back at the fairy circle. It seemed different somehow. He stared at it for a time before finally turning away. If it would be a problem, it would be a problem for another time.

1851 - Somewhere north of Louisiana 

Paul stared at his map. He hadn’t seen the land looking like this for… well, a hundred years. He’d used these maps - had improved on them a few times. But that was a century ago! That was… now?

He eyed the overly detailed yet incorrect drawings of the Mississippi River as it ran down through the midwest. He traced his finger northward, catching the Missouri. He paused and ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched locks. The Civil War hadn’t happened yet… several states were missing… and his past self, probably still going by the name “Joe,” was… 

He wracked his brain.

Where had he been a hundred years ago? Where was he in this present time? He didn’t understand much about what would happen, but every scenario he’d considered had played out the same answer - he absolutely couldn’t meet himself. And he couldn’t do anything that would make him seek himself out.

“A bit difficult…” he muttered. If his math was correct, it would be another twenty years or so before he would witness John’s death in that tunnel system. He tried to remember where he was during the war, but even if he were around, that would be another ten or more years on… so he’d head north - as far north as he could. And maybe, just maybe, he’d track down an old friend… maybe this time he’d be able to locate…

It’s said that one winter, Paul’s camp got so cold that the snow turned blue, fish migrated south, and the very words from a man’s mouth froze before they could reach the next man’s ears. The next morning, people would finally know what was being said the night before. That winter - the winter of Blue Snow - Paul found a young ox, buried, shivering, and angry that he was too small to see over the snowbanks.

The two formed a fast friendship, and as the little ox grew, he retained the same strange blue color he’d been stained with in that first winter. Babe the Blue Ox, the lumberjacks had named him. He was strong, pulling channels through the ground, straightening roads, and generally helping around the camp in ways to be envied. They roamed the country, clearing massive forests and building great towns.

Then, one morning, he wouldn’t rise. His massive, noble heart had finally given out.

It’s said that the great Paul Bunyan had sobbed that day, crying a river powerful enough to carve the Grand Canyon, creating the mighty Colorado. Paul spent days traveling the tearful river, searching for a fit place to bury his great friend.

And, while traveling the Northwest coast, he found a spot. He buried his friend, creating the Blue Mountain range in the process. But the mighty beast’s spirit lingered on. Paul determined he’d find his old friend and finally lay him to rest. Some, however, say he was buried in the Black Hills of the Dakotas…

Only Paul knew for sure, and legends being as they were, and lumberjack tales especially being what they were, the myth grew and evolved with the telling. But one part, the vanishing of Paul Bunyan, was true. After his ordeal and losing Babe, Paul retired from his lumbering trade and vanished into the woods, never to be seen again. 

And so, when he reappeared years later, after living a lifetime under a false name, no one batted an eye when a man named Paul began roaming the land. They assumed him to be a coincidence, or a false name, or an homage. If only they’d known the truth.

“And now there are two of me…” Paul muttered softly. “That’s a legend larger than life…”

1948 - Somewhere in the midwest.

Syth landed along the banks of the river as it snaked its way through the land. Was this the Mississippi? Some other river? He’d lost track. He scooped up a handful of water and rubbed it across his face. The farther he traveled from his home, the more… he didn’t know how to describe it… the more mortal he felt. He was hungry for the first time he could remember. He’d eaten a fish - which was a crunchy experience. He’d then needed to pause and rest.

He took a deep breath and stretched, water running in rivulets from his snout. He breathed in the air. It smelled so different… the river… it was… fresh. The air wasn’t quiet and filled with the pleasant trill of pine. It was… open… out here. He blinked a few times and took in the surroundings. Fields, forests, a broad river that looked too wide to swim. He could fly over it, but wondered what would happen were he to try to swim in it. He’d imagine that he would immediately begin to sink, as he did with every other pool he’d ever attempted to enter.

It was as if water itself had no buoyancy for his kind - as if it were just a denser form of air.

He’d rested long enough. He stretched, flexed his wings out to full, and leapt into the air. Within a short time, he’d glided over the glittering, snaking river, and had continued off far to the northwest. He’d return to where Paul’s legends had abounded. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot he had.

And it was a shot in the dark, for sure.

1948 - Black Hills

Syth dropped down from the sky. “All right, witch. Where are you and what have you done with him?”

A clay doll stood nearby. “You seek the Tsuma.”

“I don’t know what I seek,” Syth retorted. “Tell me where the woman is.”

“The Tsuma awaits you up there, at the place of power.”

“This again…”

He swept up, vaulting over the trees, coming to a heavy landing higher up the cliffs.

A woman stood near a scorched swath of land.

“Tsuma?”

“I am.”

“What are you doing?” he accused.

She stepped away. A mound of stone, a charred swath of ground, the stump-like remains of a few trees. Otherwise the entire area was empty.

“Do you know what this place is?”

“No.” He responded.

“This is where Paul was betrayed.”

“It’s a grave. Is this where he buried his old friend - the tunneler?”

“Him? No. He’s buried elsewhere,” she responded. “This is where he buried his dearest friend.”

“I tire of riddles, woman.”

She shrugged. “I’m not even from this world, I don’t care what you tire of. Where is Paul?”

“You said you had him.”

“Yes, that doesn’t mean I do. Where is he? He visits you when there’s trouble.”

“Not always,” Syth replied. “I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“Then you’ve seen him more recently than I have,” she spat. “At least your version of him.”

“My version?”

“They’re about to be the same.”

She stared up at the tomb. Her hand extended, and Syth could see the shimmering bangles, the glittering rings. She smiled. “Almost ready. Oh, what has been wrought here.”

“I don’t know what you’re planning to do,” Syth warned. He could feel his wings slowly slotting into position. He could strike her down before she could turn.

She was focused on the energy in front of her. He’d seen enough.

He rushed her.

Blades extended, his wings dropped down, intending to spear her through the chest - he could kill her with a blow.

But something stopped him.

The blades were still extended. The wings, closed like giant claws, hovered an inch from her face. But he couldn’t push through that last bit. He couldn’t strike her. 

She had stopped him with a single clawed fingernail.

Her face split into a smile, and sharp white teeth appeared in her crimson jaw.

“Not a wise move, devil.”

She thrust him back, a burst of flame surrounding the two of them.

“I have to focus on my work. Now, shoo.”

He reared up and struck again.

She laughed and batted him away. Flames singed the air.

“I invited you hear to watch me return him, not fight you. Don’t wear out your welcome.”

“Your puppet said you had him, and only I could find him.”

“In a manner, that’s true.”

He charged again. She paused, whirled about, and caught his claws with the sole of her boot. She quickly pivoted, swiveling her hips to direct the strength of his attack down into the ground. He rolled slightly, straightening his wings and drawing his whip in a long, smooth motion.

“Impressive,” she replied. Her flames roared up around them again and began to close in.

He lashed out with the whip. She caught it around one wrist, the lathe swirling round and round, leaving a long, snaking welt on her outstretched arm.

She laughed and pulled.

He kept his grip for longer than she had expected. She relaxed, then wrenched again, tugging it free from his grasp.

She unraveled the tip from her skin and tossed it away. “Any other surprises?”

Syth leapt high into the air, above the firewall, landing on the other side.

She smirked and sent it radiating out from her in a massive circular inferno. Syth just barely raised his wings to block the strike before it could sear him.

“Now stay back.”

“I won’t let you keep him trapped there!”

1893 - Wisconsin

Something dark moved in the forest, just beyond his gaze. Eugene readied his rifle, his hands quivering. He’d heard the rumors. He knew the dark truth. This was no figment of his imagination. He looked at the small beast he’d assembled out of furs and a carved log. This had started as a prank… but had rapidly spun out of his control. He strange assortment of parts pasted and nailed together into a monstrous shape didn’t hold a proverbial candle to the genuine monstrosity looming just out of sight.

Something shuffled - broad-shouldered, nearly ten, if not twenty feet high. It was hard to judge from this distance. Two massive horns, spanning out from the sides of its head like an ox, scraped trees as it lumbered its way through the brush.

He could only see it in shadow, set off here and there with large spikes.

He swallowed nervously, his hand quivering as he drew back the action on his muzzle-loader. He’d already primed it. Once he pulled the trigger, a ball of lead would split through the forest and take down the beast. He held his breath, hoping it would steady his nerves.

If he didn’t take this thing down with this shot, he’d either die or the beast would escape, and he’d be labeled a fraud and trickster for the rest of time.

That was fair… up until this moment, he’d assumed the old legends were just fairy tales - stories made to keep kids in bed and far away from the real dangers of the forest. He’d assumed the descriptions were old lumberjack tales - exaggerations meant to stir up the imagination, not describing something real.

His hands shook more uncontrollably now as the monster rumbled back the way it had come. It was pacing - guarding a lair? Patrolling a game trail? What was it doing?

He released his held breath as quietly as he could, trying and failing to steady his nerves with slow and steady breaths in and out.

This… this… hodag - whatever it was they called it. The angered spirit of cremated oxen come back to haunt the living. He didn’t believe a word of it, but whatever it was standing in front of him right now was no spirit, at least not just spirit. It was flesh and blood, fang and claw. And danger. It was living danger. It oozed a sort of fear aura…

He shook again and felt his thumb move to cock the action on the rifle, remembering that he had already done that.

His fingers were cold and stiff. He’d been sitting here forever, staring down the barrel of his rifle, knowing that it just took the pull of that trigger to seal his fate one way or the other.

His finger twitched.

A twig snapped.

He flinched.

Nothing. The hodag reared its spiked head and sniffed the air, then returned to whatever it had been doing. Eugene’s mouth was cotton, his fingers still ice. A shaking finger slowly slid toward the trigger. Just one pull. Just one pull and his spot in history would be secure.

He could feel the ice creeping its way up his arm. Soon, his jaw began to quiver.

Just one pull.

That’s all it would take. Just one pull.

Something heavy landed on his shoulder.

He was about to cry out when a thick hand clamped over his mouth. “Don’t move a muscle,” came a thick whisper and the tickle of beard.

Something dark loomed over him, and he felt the rifle being slowly lifted from his quivering hands. “This one’s on me… I need to lay it to rest.”

The large man, his face surrounded by a neatly-trimmed grey and red beard, stared out through deep, ageless eyes, at the sight before them. “Wh-who are you?”

The man looked down at Eugene. “Gone by many names. They call me Paul these days.”

“Heh,” Eugene chuckled nervously, a too-big smile on his face. He’d been told he smiled to big and laughed too much when he was out of his element. And his face was rictus at the moment. “Like Paul Bunyan? That’s funny.” It wasn’t funny. He didn’t think it was funny. His face kind of hurt it was smiling too big.

“Relax, son. Yes, Paul like Paul Bunyan. But I’m no lumberjack. Not anymore.”

Eugene tried to pull his frozen face back into something resembling a normal human.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Gene, Eugene. Uh… Gene, sir.”

“Good to meet you. Now, tell me about this thing.”

The hodag paused and sniffed at the air again.

“D-dunno. J-just… well, we have le-legends round here.”

“Where are we, son?”

“Rh-rhineland-rhinelander, Wisconsin.”

“Thought so. Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna take this little contraption you were building and you’re gonna take it back to town. Do whatever you can to keep people focused on you, okay?”

Eugene nodded.

“Keep all attention on you. Make up whatever story you have to. I’ll take care of that thing.”

“H-how…?”

Paul patted his jacket. “I brought some… special ordnance.”

Eugene chuckled nervously.

“Relax, son. You’re gonna need to sell this, okay?”

He nodded.

“Now go. Get back to town and tell them you killed the hodag - captured it, whatever you need to do. Keep people away from these woods. Do you understand me?”

Eugene nodded.

The man vanished off toward the city, taking his strange contraption with him.

With a sigh, Paul turned away and stared at the beast rooting around in the earth before him.

“Ah, Babe…” he moaned, “What did I do to you?”

It had been a few lifetimes… but he’d finally remembered the burial mound he’d made. He’d burned Babe’s body and buried it. But something…

The creature sniffed at the air and stopped. Something glistened, and the creature let out a mournful peal. Paul looked down at the rifle. He could use it. He could do the beast what Gene meant to. No. That was too little. Even if it could damage the beast, it wasn’t a worthy end.

He stood to full height.

The hodag noticed him. Its face was toadlike - wide flat lips, bulbous eyes, wet, furless skin stretched over a broad skull. Two horns - Babe’s horns - stretched off to each side. And its spine - spiked remains of what had been the bones of his beloved companion, split through the rough leather of its back. The desiccated corpse-like being that had been Babe, roared. Fangs glinted in the evening light.

It charged, its eyes glowing fiercely in the evening light, a hellish fire shimmering in their inky depths.

Paul readied his axe.

“I’m so sorry…”

1948 - Somewhere in the midwest.

Syth dropped to the ground. His wings ached. It was a strange feeling. He’d never lacked for energy before, but now… this strange ache. It was as if his body had grown heavier. The wings were barely able to keep him aloft. 

He tensed, then stretched his wings out to their full length. His fists instinctively closed into tight balls, and he felt his muscles tensing. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulder, then sunk into a crouch, pulling his wings in tight. 

He sniffed the air.

“You might as well come out.” He commanded, looking over his shoulder at the forest. “I know you’re there.”

“Perceptive.”

“Known for it,” Syth responded. “Who are you and what do you want?”

It was a ghoul, for lack of a better term. Hairless, with limp, gangly arms, nearly-skeletal legs, and a torso that showed more bones than muscle, at least the impression of bones. There wasn’t a single scar or cut on the flesh - no eyes, mouth, nose, no ears. It was as if someone had taken the model of a skeleton and stretched gray-tan putty across its entire length, pressing it deeply into all the contours and folds, then animated it somehow.

With no muscles to speak of, save the slightest impression of a bicep and forearm and the faint remains of the leg muscles, it seemed odd to see this being moving around with its over-long limbs. But Syth was used to the unusual by now.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he repeated.

The ghoul held out a hand. It had no prints or folds like a normal hand. It was utterly featureless in its grayness. It was clay formed into the approximation of a life without the details. It was as if someone had drawn a hand from memory after seeing only a sketch of one themselves.

Syth felt his wings slowly rising up over his back, folding togethers. Spike like talons were already preparing to extend. He’d be able to pin this thing to the ground in an instant if it threatened him.

“We have the woodsman,” the voice rumbled from somewhere behind the mouthless face. “He sought to contain the spirit of the woods, and was contained instead. You must venture beyond the darkness to find that which seeks the light.”

Syth felt the fingers of his wings tensing like a coiled snake ready to strike.

“You have no time, Devil,” mocked the voice. “And he has had all of it.”

“Stop speaking in riddles and tell me plainly. Who do you have?”

“Who do you seek?”

The wing talons closed on the neck of the clay figure. “Tell me where he is.”

A rippling laugh rumbled from the throat of the creature. “You threaten an unliving doll with death and expect answers.” Then the laughter rumbled out again. “Your friend is with us. His quest successful, his battle won, his war lost.”

Syth swept his wing spikes across the neck of the doll, and it collapsed, ash floating free as it fell.

“Show yourself!” he demanded. “Face me and talk plainly! Where is he?”

A shadowed form appeared at the edge of the forest.

“Destroying my toys.” It was a feminine voice, and it dripped with a strange mix of threatening seduction. “How bothersome.”

“What do you want?”

“Why, I want to help.”

“What stake could you possibly have in this affair?” Syth demanded. “Speak.”

“You’re bossy for being trapped in a forest for two hundred years. How’s the strength holding up, little devil?”

“I’m tired of these games…” he threatened.

“I’m not,” came the sultry tones from the edge of the forest. The form shifted again, a humanoid form - clearly female. A shape flicked behind her - a tail? “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Not officially,” was all she replied.

Then she vanished. 

Syth stood for a moment, then looked down. The weird doll was gone. In its place was a strip of paper with strange writing on it. He gazed back where the woman had been. There was nothing. Something moved in the underbrush. He rushed at it, but only succeeded in spooking a small fox, which gave a leap of fright and darted off. A few other small animals scurried away.

Nothing.

They had Paul? Who did, and where? And why?

“Head to the Black Hills.”

Syth jerked up. “Who’s there?”

The only answer was the wind.

1893 - Rhinelander, Wisconsin

Paul clamped a broad fist over his shoulder. Blood poured freely from the wound, gushing from between his fingers. He needed to find a way to stanch the bleeding.

The creature was powerful.

He leaned against a tree and pulled back his hand. Blood dripped freely down his palm, staining the ground as it fell. He pressed it against the fang mark. He’d underestimated the beast’s power. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Something bellowed in the woods.

He pushed himself off of the tree and staggered deeper into the woods. This beast couldn’t head toward the town. He had to lead it this way. He had to find out how to weaken it.

A tree splintered behind him as the massive horns gored their way through the dense underbrush.

He pushed his way past some bushes and pushed onward, keeping one hand firmly clamped over his devastated shoulder.

Another tree splintered and fell.

Brambles clawed at him. He used his head and good shoulder to barrel through. He needed to get deeper - farther away from the beast. But he knew it could smell him - it was using his blood trail like a skilled hunter to follow its prey - him.

More splintering trees.

A cave.

He pulled back a snarl of vines and squirmed his way down into the hole.

Then the beast struck the mouth of the cavern.

A mighty tusk-like horn burst through the ceiling above his head, barely missing him. He pulled back a little farther as the horn retreated, then barged down upon him again. Light filtered down in beams as the horns pummeled the ground. Then the flat, toad-like face appeared at the entrance, long fangs dripping and sharp teeth, already dripping blood, snapping and yapping at him.

He was defenseless. His axe was lost in a tree back where he’d first engaged the vicious beast. The gun had been left behind, crunched under the mighty clawed paws of the monster.

He could feel hot breath.

The stench of rot and decayed flesh rolled over him.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the despair of true fear. He’d die here, lost in the past, fighting a ghost of an old friend - devoured by a vengeful demon.

He pulled his feet back as the fanged mouth attempted to clamp around his ankle. Sharp teeth grazed the leather of his boots. A lolling tongue ranged out. He felt something heavy graze against the side of his boot - something sticky.

Before he could pull it back, the tongue looped around the heel of his boot like a tentacle, then slowly began to pull him out toward the cave’s mouth. He attempted to find purchase on anything, but it was not use, the creature was slowly but surely dragging him back. Sharp teeth closed around the edge of his shoe, and he suddenly felt a sharp jerk.

His body whipped from the cavern, coming to a sudden stop against a tree. It wasn’t the first tree he’d ever been thrown into, but it was probably the most painful. Something cracked inside, and he coughed.

The thundering of the ground.

“Here he comes again,” he winced, breathing around a cracked rip, still holding the pulsing wound in his shoulder. The horn pierced deep into his side and he was thrown up and into a snarl of trees. Blood sprayed across the canopy, and his body screamed as branches snapped and burst under his weight before collapsing under the goring horns and devilish rage of the monster below.

Paul struck against another tree, bouncing his way back to the ground. He skipped off the spined back of the monster, feeling his body ragdoll as it fell free and cracked painfully against the unforgiving earth.

He pushed himself up on his good arm, only to be bowled over again. His body struck another tree before falling heavily to the ground once more.

“Enough…” he grunted, a half-command, half-request.

The beast stops, huffing at the ground in anger.

“I-I don’t know what you want. But it’s enough.”

He rose to his feet, clenching a bloodied hand over a wounded shoulder, holding his broken ribs with the other. He stared through red vision at the monstrous bull monster. The hodag…

“What did I do?” He asked. “I rescued you from the snow on that Blue Winter. I raised you. You were my family. What did I do?”

The fiery eyes followed him as he swayed.

“Finish it, then.” He spat. “If you’re going to tear me apart, then you might as well make a good fight of it!”

The hodag’s mouth split into a toothy approximation of an evil grin. Its eyes narrowed. Then it charged once more. Horns lowered, back spikes bristling, the beast released a sibilant hiss-like scream.

Then exploded.

There wasn’t the spray of blood and guts. There wasn’t even a staggering effect as it toppled sideways. The beast just exploded, vanishing into a cloud as if it had never existed - the skin vaporizing and the bone toppling heavily to the ground, then dissolving before Paul could process what had happened.

He clutched his bleeding shoulder and attempted to stay standing.

“Paul Bunyan, in the flesh.”

He heard the voice, but there was no one. The pile of ash where the bones had been began to blow away in the wind. He waited for another long moment. A small animal shifted at the edge of his vision, but when he looked, it was gone.

“So, you know a thing or two about surviving things that would kill an ordinary man. I’m intrigued.”

A feminine voice - but no one was there. Was she like Syth? Did she speak directly into the mind?

Then he heard a slight “whoop,” and the voice came from behind a nearby tree. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”

“How long’s a while?”

“Time’s tricky when you’re immortal, don’t you think?”

Despite himself, Paul had to smile. He’d lived in this new timeline for almost fifty years - a lifetime, after living a few lifetimes normally. How old was he now? 300?

“It doesn’t get easier to keep track of time,” she continued. “Trust me. And when you start leaping between dimensions, it gets even harder.”

“Dimensions?”

“Different worlds. You call it the ‘fairy realm,’ or the ‘spirit realm.’ We have other names for those, and the others beyond.”

“There are worlds beyond?”

“When the barrier was erected around your world in order to protect it - you call it the fairy realm - what do you think it was being protected from?”

“I didn’t know it was being protected.”

“I’m sure it was said at some point, but I don’t blame you for forgetting. You’ve probably forgotten more than most have learned.”

And then she stepped around the corner. Her crimson hair was pulled up into a tight bun, revealing a slender, pale neck. Dark eyes contrasted beautifully with her pale cheeks, which split into a wide, inviting smile. She wore simple traveling clothes, worn by constant use - a vest, a light cream-colored shirt, and a pair of rawhide breeches, patched here and there. The only valuable item she seemed to have was a small glistening medallion, which hung from her belt, secured there by a delicate chain that Paul expected was stronger than it seemed.

She carried no sort of weapon, yet strode with a confidence that hinted at her utter confidence in her own safety.

“Who are you?”

“Me? I’m called many things. You may call me Kit.”

“Kit?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“I assumed that. Where are you from? What did you do to that monster?”

She stepped up to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hold on.”

He moved to grab her hand.

“Sorry, it’s an expression. Wait a moment.”

She placed a hand against his.

“Move it, please.”

He obeyed, drawing a bloodied hand away from his shoulder. She probed her finger into the hole. 

“He got you good. What did you do to him?”

“I don’t completely remember,” Paul responded, staring down at the ash pile that had been the hodag - the angry spirit of Babe, his ox. The spirit was gone now. Paul wondered if that was the same shart of spirit that had inhabited and then abandoned the Tree Walker. If so, would he have to wait until he got back to his normal time in order to reconcile with his old friend? “I’ve thought long about it, and I truly can’t remember what I did.”

“Apparently some desecration,” the woman responded. “Spirits don’t tend to seek such violent vengeance over minor slights.”

Paul nodded, but had no words. “I truly don’t know…”

He felt an itch rise in his shoulder. His hand flicked and tensed.

“What did you do?”

“Flex the shoulder.”

Paul rolled his shoulder. It tensed and pulled, but the wound was healed. “How did you?”

“You heal faster than most men. I just sped it up.”

“How?”

She shrugged with a smirk. “Lift your shirt.” She knelt and ran two fingers down his chest, pausing when he winced. “Broken ribs, slight internal bleeding. I can’t do much.” Her hand closed into a fist and she pressed her knuckles against his abdomen and pushed gently. Her hand felt warm against his exposed skin, and seemed to get warmer.

He felt the flow move in and through his stomach, and the pain lessened.

“H-how?”

“You’ve seen weird things,” she responded. “Not the least of which is the reanimated corpse of your old friend. Just know that out there exists a group of beings that can heal.”

“And you’re one of them.” He stated.

She nodded. “Yes. Though in this world my powers are considerably weaker.”

“Why?”

“When you protect a world from invaders with powers, you limit the good with the bad. Technically, you haven’t broken any barriers yet.” She paused, then tapped him lightly on the forearm, “though you bear the marks of having done so…” she stared more closely at him. “Interesting…”

She turned to leave.

“Tell me who you are - what you are?”

She turned. “I told you. I’m Kit.”

“Sure. But how did you do that? How’d you do any of this?”

She smiled and held out her hand. The fingers were long and slender, and as they curved back toward the palm, he noticed a slight flicker beginning to glow in the middle of her palm. Then she snapped her fingers. A flame burst up on the surface of her skin.

“So… you control fire?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She grinned. “And I do a few other things, too.”

And then she vanished.

The whistling of the wind and the final remnants of ash were all that remained - the only tell-tale hints that she had even been there.

Eugene peered from around the tree. “A-are you all right?”

Paul blinked several times.

“Y-you’re, you’re b-bleeding.”

Paul gazed at his hands in disbelief. “Not anymore… but yes…” he paused. “Did you seen anything? Anyone?”

Eugene shook his head. “I heard something rush by in the underbrush. But I didn’t see anything. S-sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Paul replied. “It’s just been a weird day and I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Eugene stood silent for a while. “Are you okay?”

Paul nodded. “I’ll be able to make it back on my own. Head back to town. I’m fine.”

The man stood there for a moment longer.

“I’m fine,” Paul insisted. “Go. Keep them out of this forest for a little longer.”

“Ea-easier s-said than d-done.”

“I know. But you’ll come up with something.”

And with that, Eugene left. Paul looked down at the pile of ash. “What did I do?” He asked it. It had been over a hundred years earlier that Babe had died. “Dakotas… here I come…”

1895 - Black Hills of South Dakota

Paul’s shoulder still ached, even though the deeper wounds had healed. He imagined he’d feel the changes in weather from here on out. It had been two years since that strange woman had saved him from Babe’s vengeful spirit, and now he stood before a pile of stones, nestled deep in the Black Hills.

He folded his arms and thought back over the events.

To this day, he couldn’t say for sure what had killed his friend, but one morning the great blue oxen’s noble form ceased to move. His broad side racked with ragged breaths, and his eyes were glazed with a rime that reminded Paul of the morning frost over a water bucket.

By nightfall, the noble friend had died, and to prevent contamination, Paul had quickly burned the body and buried the ashes. Wanting to do him as much honor as possible, Paul visited with a local tribesman for the proper rituals and rites. These he attempted to follow as meticulously as possible.

“So what happened, old friend?”

The scorch marks from fifty years earlier were still there. He doubted the plant life would ever grow back. The stones, untouched by age or overgrown, still piled where the bones had been laid. A small tree - a sapling when he had planted it, had grown up. He gazed at it.

“Why do you look so familiar?” He asked. “It’s been so long…”

He knelt by the grave. The spirit was absent from this place. He couldn’t sense his old friend at all. Where had he gone? 

His mind traveled back to this same place, over a hundred years earlier, when another version of himself had settled on burying Babe here…

1840 - Black Hills

Paul leaned over the massive flank of his ox. “Ol’ boy… you’ve worked well. Rest…” he placed his head against the broad blue side and sobbed into the cooling fur.

Overhead, a dull snow began to fall.

It had been two years since the rebellions… two years of attempting to return to normal life… and now, Babe was dead. He sat near the body.

A man he didn’t recognize stepped up beside him, placing a black glove on his shoulder. “Need to dispose of the body… can’t bring infection to the camp.” Paul looked up at the man’s face. He smiled sadly. “Local might help with the ritual. Put the beast’s spirit to rest.”

Paul nodded. Babe deserved that.

The snow fell heavier now - large gray flakes in the settling night. 

“What’s your name, son?”

Paul looked up. The man’s collar was pulled up high against the snow, and a broad hat was pulled low over his face.

“Name’s Joe.” He replied. He’d planned to abandon his old life soon anyway… might as well begin early with this stranger.

“Well, Joe. You lost a good friend. Let me help you bury him right. You chose a powerful place for his tomb. He should be honored.”

Paul smiled. “I don’t believe in any of that stuff.”

“When you’ve lived as long as I have,” replied the man, “you learn there are things out there to be believed in, even when they don’t make sense.”

With that, the man pushed back his hat, ran fingers through his graying hair, and then pulled his hat and scarf tightly down around his face.

“Follow this trail down to the village and someone will guide you to the chief. He’ll know the proper rituals to honor your friend. You can tell him I sent you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Say you met an old man in the mountains. He’ll know who I am.”

And so Paul did, and when he returned, the rituals were practices, the spices were burnt, and the body was cremated. All that remained were the old oxen’s bones, which were swiftly interred in a cairn - upon which Paul planted a tree.

1895 And now, fifty real-world years and several lifetimes later, Paul stood at the tomb once more, the foggy memories of that night rolling over him. He sobbed again, unable to remember or bear the truth of it. Something he had done had disrupted Babe’s rest, stirring up his old friend in a vengeful rage.

“What have I done?”

“That’s the question I want the answer to.”

Paul looked up. The woman was there again. “It’s been two years,” he replied… “where have you been?”

“Two years when you’re our age is nothing. It’s as if we met yesterday.”

Despite his grief, he had to smile at the truth of it. Here he was, nearly two hundred fifty years old… he thought… and he was trifling that he hadn’t seen someone for two years. A smile broke across his face and he sat back in the snow.

“True,” he said, the tension releasing slightly. “How’d you find me?”

“Paul Bunyan lost Babe the big blue ox. He buried him in the Black Hills. Sound familiar?”

“Yes, my legends precedes me.”

“That it does,” she replied. “And it fades. Is this the truth of it? Is this where Babe is actually buried?”

Paul nodded.

She stared at the grave. “Unassuming for so important a friend.”

“This is how I was told to leave it.”

She looked around. “Do you sense it?”

“Sense what?”

She raised a single finger. Her nails were sharp, painted gold. Several rings adorned them. Shimmering bangles clattered around her wrists. These were the only signs of her status, otherwise she appeared to be a common traveler. She jingled her rings and gave the bangles a shake, then traced a single finger straight down, leaving a shimmering trail in the air.

“This is a place of power - perhaps the remnants of an old portal, or a portal to be. It’s hard to tell with the barrier in place.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Paul responded. “What do you mean? This isn’t a fairy circle. It’s not a crossroad. It’s a tomb.”

She nodded. “Yes… a tomb built over a place of power.”

“You keep using these words,” he spat, waving an arm in the air, exasperated. “I don’t know what they mean! I don’t know what a ‘place of power’ is. I don’t understand how there’s ‘sacred space,’ or ‘fairy realms,’ or ‘spirit realms.’ I don’t understand how there are little spirits that open the way for people in exchange for candy, or souls, or heads…!”

He paused.

“Here’s the truth of it…” she whispered, clenching her fist. “there are things here none of us understand. Even Andren at the height of his power didn’t really understand what it was he was wielding. The echo of a god, the breath of creation. Who knows?”

Paul buried his head in his hands. “I just want to know the answer to the question. What did I do?”

A soft hand settled on his shoulder.

“Something you didn’t mean to, I’m sure,” she replied gently. “But it happened, and we must fix it.”

“But I’ve been to the future, I’ve seen his spirit lingering on - fifty years from now. Nothing I do now can prevent that, so what do I do, just wait here until then?”

The arm slid around his broad neck and he felt her softness envelope him. “We work to prevent this from happening again. There is someone who means to do this world harm. We have fifty years to figure it out and stop him. Mourn as much as you like. I’ll be waiting when you’re done.” She planted a light kiss on his ear that sent his mind reeling.

The pressure and warmth lifted. And she was gone.

Paul sat at the grave for the remainder of that night. Creaks and groans, scrapes in nearby trees. He watched as the tree over Babe’s grave seemed to shiver with the cold. It was at that point, with his mind playing tricks on him, that he used his axe to push his stiff body upright and began his descent down into the plains below. So much would happen in these mountains over the next fifty years, and he didn’t care to see any of it. He’d already experienced too much of this land the first time around. He’d be ready when he snapped back into his own timeline.

“Wonder what Syth is up to?” He asked himself, regretting that he couldn’t go visit his old friend. It had been several decades since he’d seen him last, and it would be several decades more before they’d meet.

That gave him a crazy idea.

1940 - Pine Barrens, NJ

Paul stood in an abandoned village. It had been burned to the ground.

Syth dropped from above. “Back so soon?”

“You have no idea,” Paul responded. Since he left it at that, Syth didn’t pry. “Do you regret what you did here?”

Syth looked around at the destruction. “No.”

“All those people you killed?”

“They were dead anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

Syth stared stoically at the surroundings. The land had begun to retake the ruins. “If you’ve come to guilt me into apologizing for doing what needed doing, you might as well save your breath. You’ll learn there are sacrifices that must be made.”

Paul shook his head. “I’ve always tried to do as little damage as possible…”

“And so have I, but there are times where as little as possible is still a lot of damage,” Syth responded. “One day, you’ll see that.”

Paul nodded. “I will. The world will.”

“Why’d you come back so soon? I thought you’d had enough of this forest.”

“I need to request something strange from you.”

“What?”

“I have a friend… she can detect what she called ‘places of power.’ She wants to examine this location, but will not do so if you can see her.”

“Why?”

“It’s… complicated,” Paul responded. “Let’s just say you’ll understand in about another two decades.”

Syth chuckled. “You’re the weirdest thing to enter my forest, Paul.”

He chuckled back. “I know. But that as well will change.”

Syth nodded, tucked his wings, then leapt up into the canopy and vanished.

“He’s gone.”

“You know I couldn’t see him at all, right?”

“He has that effect on most people. I thought maybe you’d be immune.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t really looking for him, but I did glance your way and saw you talking to no one. Maybe if I focused.”

“Speaking of focus. Here. This is the town. Tell me, is one of your places of power here?”

She looked around them, then strode back toward where the graves had been. “Somewhere here.” She said. She traced her hand up and through the air, bangles clanking, rings glistening. “Powerful… yet… different.”

Paul nodded.

“What are you thinking?”

He took her hand and pointed toward the shattered remains of the old church. “In there.”

The walked into the ruins. By some miracle, the rotten staircase had only partially collapsed, and the tunnel leading down to where the giant spider had died still stood.

“Someone dug this recently.”

She gazed over at him. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Look at this work. This isn’t the tunnel that was there.”

“Why?”

“Look.”

She gasped. Before them, shimmering like a rip in a page, was a portal.

“This isn’t possible.”

Paul attempted to calm his breathing, but she made no effort at all.

She stepped up to the edge of the portal. “It’s dark.”

“Dark? It’s shimmering like the ocean.”

“Dark… as in… it’s tainted.”

Paul stared at the shimmering portal. “How could this be tainted?”

He stepped closer. She clamped a hand on his arm. “Wait. Enter that realm and I don’t know where you’ll come out. I imagine you won’t stray far from earth, what with the barrier still there, but we can’t risk it.”

He felt his mind clear slightly. “I have to go.”

“Why?”

“I know what he’s planning.”

“Who?”

“An old friend.” He turned, taking her hands in his. “I’ll be away for a while. But I need to do this.” He planted a kiss on her cheek. “I love you. I’ll find you again. On the other side.”

She paused for a moment, hand lightly reaching up to her cheek. He vanished into the portal.

“You’re not going alone,” she responded. She stepped forward, but realized, too late, that it was sealing off behind him. “Wait! That wasn’t charged! Paul!”

He was gone.

She reached to her belt, where she always kept the amulet. She paused…

It was gone.

He had taken it.

She smiled. “Clever…”

With that, she turned and vanished.

On the surface, Syth dropped down into the clearing. Paul was gone, and so was whoever it was he had brought with him. Something drew his attention. He looked toward the forest just in time to see a small fox vanishing into the trees. Confused, he looked around. Nothing else… he was alone, save for a single spider lowering itself from a shattered beam - a single spider he promptly smashed.

Unknown

Paul stepped through the portal and the world instantly vanished behind him. He turned back in time to see her shouting, then he was cut off. The bridge had collapsed, the door had shut.

He was utterly alone.

Except for those haunted creatures in the trees, staring down at him.

He breathed heavily. “Again…”

Then he lifted the amulet, held it in the air, and tried to mimic what he’d seen her do over and over through the years of their travels together. Apparently it worked. A swooping whoosh, the blast of humidity, and he stepped through, leaving the jabbering creatures behind.

1945 - Pine Barren

Paul watched from afar as a burst of aurora shuddered from the Barrens. He knew that somewhere, deep in those trees, there was a battle. A rumble of distant thunder - what he knew to be a single stick of dynamite shoved down into an ancient tree - echoed. The Tree Walker was dead.

“Your spirit is free again, old Babe.”

He felt the presence, the burst of energy flash. Then silence. “I know where you’ve gone.”

1946 - Black Hills

It had been several months of travel to find this place again. He’d traveled the length and breadth of the country the last few decades, but it was still slow going to get up into these regions. He stood once more before the grave.

As he suspected, the trees that had spread over the area were gone, just small bits of stumps remaining where the trees had grown down into the soil of the tomb. He stood over the rubble. “Babe, I’ve come to talk. I know you’re still down there.”

The air shimmered.

He looked around. No one else was around. He dropped his axe near the grave, then stepped through the dark portal.

And he instantly arrived in a broad green field flanked by flames. Black plumes rose to the sky, obscuring anything beyond. And there, several hundred yards away, stood Babe, gigantic as the day he died. And he continued to grow.

“You desecrated my tomb,” a voice rumbled through the air. “You laid me to rest and then made sure I never could.”

Paul gaped up at the massive ox.

Flames licked down his sides, the skin burning free then regrowing, and endless cycle of consuming and regrowing.

“I did nothing but love and serve with you, and you condemned me to this! And when I sought my revenge, you burned me and drove me back to this place. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

The voice echoed in his head, swirled, and repeated.

He heard the airy word “done” fade away, and the ox snorted.

The ox charged. The earth quaked around them both. Fire cascaded and exploded, sending rifts of flame around them. Paul attempted to stop the monstrosity, but as with the hodag so many years earlier, he felt himself sailing bodily through the air. He struck the wall of fire, bouncing off of it as if it were solid.  He landed with a thud, smoke billowing of his form.

The ox bellowed and attacked again.

Again, he sailed through the air, clattering off of wall after wall, hitting the ground.

He felt his body begin to grow. He matched Babe’s size.

He gripped each mighty horn and heaved, lowering Babe to a knee. But the ox roared and grew again, outstripping Paul once more. Paul roared in return, and matched the growth beat for beat.

“You burned me. Now I’ll burn you.”

Flames erupted around the two. Paul could feel them licking at his skin, but they didn’t burn him. Babe, however, began to decay and regrow in front of Paul. His rage was renewing him.

Paul slammed Babe’s head to the ground. The mighty ox’s horns became black and steel, and then glowed orange-hot. Paul released his grip and the growth continued. The firewall continued to rise, so that with every inch, every foot, every mile of growth, they seemed no bigger. Every bit was matched until there was no difference between them than when they had started.

But Paul could feel the strain. He could feel the pain in his limbs. He couldn’t last much longer in this form.

He reared back and beat a strong fist into Babe’s skull.

The ox bellowed, and headbutted him in return. Flames roared up around his back. He could feel the jacket and shirt flaring and scorched.

He beat a mighty fist into the ox’s muscled neck.

No effect.

A horn gored him in the side. He cried out, pulling the horn free, then snapped it free of Babe’s head. He spun it, driving it point-first into Babe’s eye.

A pained roar split the darkness.

Paul wrenched the horn free. “Stop this, Babe!”

“You did this to me! I begged you to stop. I fought you back, but you kept… doing… it!”

The other horn sought purchase, and Paul felt it gore deep into his gut. His body ragdolled back and forth before being thrown away, toppling through the air and striking another part of the flaming wall.

He clenched a fist over the gaping wound. trying to stanch the bleeding.

“Babe. I never…”

“You did!”

“You never told me to stop! I didn’t know I was doing anything!”

“You lie!”

Flames raged. Paul felt his beard crackling in the heat. His eyes welled with tears - the pain, the smoke, the grief. Then a simple phrase Syth had told him so many years early rang back through his memory. “You can’t just beat every opponent with your axe.”

“Stop this!”

The might ox swelled to grotesque proportions, the wall of fire expanding in turn. Paul remained his current size, holding a bleeding stomach, nursing the burns raging across his form.

His mighty ox Babe loomed above him.

Paul coughed and gave up on his strength, shrinking even more, until the hoof was a skyscraper in an unto itself. The fires were long distance, and the ground was crushed to a fiery pulp under that mighty hoof.

Paul stumbled to the ground and coughed blood.

“I didn’t know.”

“You knew!” rumbled the accusation. “You knew every step of the way. How could you not?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Liar! You did the exact things I said not to do.”

Paul fell to the ground, blood gushing from his wounds. He felt and saw pulses behind his eyes. Babe loomed high overhead. “Babe… I was wrong… I-I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t fix things!”

“Let go, Babe…” he coughed, blood on the tongue, its acrid metallic zing the only flavor he could taste. “I did you wrong. I didn’t even know…” he whispered. He stared up at the beast, its flesh rippling with flames. “My dear friend… I didn’t know…”

The flames closed in on him.

Babe’s hoof shrank until it was a boulder rather than a building, then continued to shrink. The firewall was several yards wide now. Babe was almost as small as Paul.

Almost a mantra. “I didn’t… know…”

A huge hoof raised over Paul’s head. “Now, you do.”

And then everything vanished.

1948 - Black Hills

The flames stopped. The woman lowered her hand and turned to Syth. “I cannot enter there. You must.”

“What do you mean?” Syth stopped mid-attack. She was completely at rest, not a single inch of her body belied the hostility with which she had bristled before.

“This portal will not sustain for one like me, not without my medallion. Go in and rescue him. He is trapped, and must be rescued by one like you.”

“One like me?”

“A guardian. I am not one. Go!”

Syth stepped through, casting a suspicious look at the woman.

Unknown

Paul lay on the ground, blood pooling from his body.

Syth rushed over. “Paul!”

A pile of bones lay nearby, scorched and charred, but obvious those of some sort of bovine. Its horns were long and broad. One lay, severed, on the ground.

The ground was coated with ash and soot and mud, pools of blood and other fluids coated everything.

Paul groaned. His skin was patchy and ashen. The wound on his stomach was stretched and red. Black lines were tracing out from it. Not knowing what else to do, Syth swept the large man up in his arms and rushed back to the portal. Something glimmered on Paul’s waist.

Syth reached for it.

“No… wait…” Paul groaned. “L-let me s-see him one last time.”

“Who?”

“Babe…”

Paul coughed and staggered forward. “I-I’ve been wrestling with him for an eternity… I-I d-don’t want to leave him like this…”

Syth threw Paul’s arm over his own shoulder. “We need to get you help.”

“H-him… He…”

Paul stumbled forward, his front still slick with blood. Syth lowered him to the ground. He reached out, his hands gently touching the charred skull. “F-forgive me…”

A moment passed, then the weak glow of an aurora.

“F-forgive… m-me…” Paul staggered. “M-my friend. I w-was wrong.”

He coughed, and a speckle of blood stained the blackened skull.

“We have to get you help.”

“No…”

Paul grasped the broad skull, wrapping it in a mournful hug.

“P-please…”

The aurora seemed to flash more brightly around them.

Paul lay there a while longer. Syth thought he may have died.

Then the bones stirred, and the sinew and flesh and fat slowly knitted itself back together. A thin layer of blue fur, like a reverse video of a cup of dye being poured out, laced up from belly to back. And before them both, hale and strong as the years before his death, stood the form of Babe, the Blue Ox.

The ox stared down at the bleeding form plastered on his snout.

He gave Paul a slight shake, knocking the large man free, then gave a snort.

Paul looked up, tears welling in his eyes. “My boy…” he muttered. “My beautiful boy…”

Babe lowered his broad head, horn still missing, and nudged Paul’s boot.

Syth understood the silent look, and helped Paul back to his feet. The man flopped back over Baby’s blue snout, leaving a stain of red where his stomach rested.

Then the ox lifted his head, taking Paul with him, and walked off into the darkness.

Syth knew his mission was complete. He plucked the broken span of horn from the ground, cradling it like a precious child, and stepped back through the portal to the strange woman to tell her what had happened.

1948 - Louisiana

The skittering began again. She looked up, her golden locks falling free of her hat and billowing around her shoulders - strands in the sunlight. But there were other strands - fibers. Faint, imperceptible. Then she felt something land on her skin and stick.

She brushed at it. Strong.

Sticky.

She rushed away, and felt the tug at her cheek as the strand broke free, leaving a small stinging line. She sped down the road and up into her house - an old mansion nestled in this part of the bayou. She’d always heard rumors - she’d always left treats at the crossroads, hadn’t messed with the strange lady with the large snake, hadn’t cursed any of the loa, even though she didn’t believe.

But something was skuttling along behind her now.

And the fibers. The strands were coming more now - in through the windows, through doorways… Something was surrounding the house.

She rushed through the sitting room and into the kitchen.

“Henry?”

No answer.

“Henry?”

Skuttling.

Scratching.

Creaking.

She paused in place. “Henry? Henry? Is that you?”

No response.

“Henry?”

She pushed open the door to the pantry. It stuck slightly. She pulled her hand back, freeing it from another of the sticky strands. She took a deep breath to hide her shaking, muttered to herself a silent prayer, and pushed open the door fully. Something heavy thudded inside.

“H-henry?”

She fumbled for the switch. An overhead bulb clicked on with a light hum. The room was cast in the orange-white hue of the dying bulb.

“If you’d replace it…” she scowled. She stepped into the room. The door creaked and slowly closed behind her.

She turned and saw the bundle lying on the floor. Some sort of sack - like grain shipments come in, or like Henry’s duffel bag when he came back from the war. She stepped over, confused.

Grey-white, about the size of a man.

She knelt and reached out to touch it. It was somewhat warm to the touch. A single strand pulled back against her finger as she removed it.

Then the bag began to squirm.

She jumped back, clattering into the shelf containing the canned goods.

One dropped to the floor, another stack toppled, spilling and rolling. She lost her footing on one, and, while trying to catch herself, stepped fully on another. It spun violently away, and with a sudden, violent lurch, her feet popped out from under her, sending her legs high and her back into the ground. She hit the floor, hard. Sparks flashed in her vision.

Everything went dark for a moment.

When she came to, she could feel the cloudiness in her mind from the blow. She blinked up at the light several times, then tried to raise a hand to push a shock of her blonde hair out of her eyes. She couldn’t move. Had she broken her neck? Was she paralyzed? Was she trapped in here?

She craned her neck and looked down.

She was in some sort of sack, too. It was sticky, and tight. She was being wrapped up in the stuff.

Then she saw it. It skuttled up from the darkness. 

A spider - the size of a large dog - was sitting on the other sack. It wasn’t a sack at all - it was a body… a body wrapped in webbing!

The spider lowered down onto the form. It writhed, cried out a muffled groan, then lay still.

Blinking back tears, she saw the creature turn and slowly creep across the floor to her.

Then it skuttled up onto her chest, it’s eyes staring unblinkingly, its mandibles moving slightly - a few inches from her face. Then two long, black, glistening fangs lowered from the underside of the beast’s horrendous mouth, and it dropped into the front of her chest.

She screamed, but there was no one left to hear her.

Except for Paul.

She didn’t know who this large silhouette was, or why he swung the axe with such rage. She didn’t understand how he tore the bindings off her or smashed a hole through the wall.

She couldn’t comprehend why or how… all she knew is he was here, and he was bodily lifting her paralyzed form from the ground. He was laying her down on the ground outside and returning to the ruined building, seemingly growing the whole time.

He laid into the monstrous spiders within, as if he had a vendetta against them - some feud to rival that of the Hatfields and McCoys. He ravaged the spiders within, splintering their nests and their bodies, wrenching the massive creatures to pieces until they were simply left twitching.

And he brought out her Henry.

“He won’t die today. Not if you get him help.”

And he returned to the house, sealing the door behind him. Then he came back to them, plucked them both up, and carried them to the nearest town. He explained in the most convincing way she’d ever imagined, that they’d both drunk of some bad moonshine and fallen out a bad way. With the cuts and bruises and scrapes, who would doubt him? And with the rumors of the dark things in the swamp - who would go alone and verify his story?

He was a large man… who would put a finger to his chest and demand an explanation.

And then he was gone.

She saw him a short while later, passing through town as if he’d never seen the place…

Then he’d entered the bayou. Had he forgotten something?

The rest was just a memory now.

Black Hills - 1948

Syth stepped through the portal, holding a severed horn. The grave stood empty, the ground barren and waste. A sparkling aurora shimmered high overhead. He felt… tired… yet at peace… for the first time in a long time.

“You helped him.” Came a familiar voice.

He turned. A small form sat at the edge of the clearing, silhouetted against the sparkling lights all around them. “Apparently.”

He placed the horn on the grave.

“You helped him save his old friend.”

“However that worked, yes. How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“He told you?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’m sure he’s traveling the country, recovering, looking for wrongs to right. Cole’s still out there.”

“Is he trying to kill us? What’s his end game?”

“I’m unsure. Paul’s told me some things through the years, but I don’t know. I guess only time will tell.”

Black Hills, 1949

Paul sat beside the grave of his old friend, the shimmering aurora flashing above his head.

“You’ve recovered.”

He smiled and looked up into the pale features of Kit. She leaned against the new growth of one of the trees. “These are coming in nicely.”

He nodded and stood, nursing a sore spot across his gut. “I think this will always tell me the weather.” He groaned.

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” she teased. “You just have to toughen up a bit. You were beaten up by a skeleton.”

He smiled and took her hand in his.

After a moment, he whispered “thank you.”

She smiled up at the sky, fingers intwining with his. “Thank Syth.”

“You brought him here.”

“True.” She responded. “I am pretty amazing.”

They watched the sky, the dancing, shimmering shapes frollicking about them.

“He’s at peace?”

“As far as I can tell.” He reached out and plucked the horn from the grave. “He made me pay for everything I’d done… but in the end, he understood and forgave me.” He set the horn back down. “Where’d Syth go?”

“Guess.”

Paul chuckled. “Yah, figured. You said he weakened away from his realm?”

She nodded. “And don’t think I didn’t hear about your little escapade in the swamps.”

“I saved some lives. You should be proud.”

“There are ripples to these things. If you’d been spotted.”

“I wasn’t,” he corrected, quickly. “No one saw me who shouldn’t have.”

“So you say. I hope it’s true.”

“I almost confronted him,” but stated mysteriously.

“Who?”

“Cole.”

“Yah, probably a good decision to leave that nest alone.”

“So, I have to ask…”

“Yes?”

“This portal. Is it still corrupted?”

She gazed at it - didn’t even lift her hand to check. “Yes.”

“I thought so.”

Paul breathed a deep sigh and slowly released it. Pain still stabbed at his side, and a sore weariness slowly bled down over his body. He felt as if he could become Kneelength and just lie down and sleep at a moment’s notice.

“I’m feeling old.”

“It’s not really fair to make you relive the same things twice,” she confided. “Makes birthdays a beast.”

“I stopped celebrating birthdays a century ago.”

“Before or after the jump?” She asked.

“The jump?”

“That’s what I’m calling that point where you relived half your life. If you hadn’t jumped, you never would have met me.”

He chuckled and planted a kill on her hair. “Glad you don’t have your ears out.”

“These?” small fox-like ears popped off the top of her head.

“Put those away.”

She giggled, her voice echoing around the tomb. Then the giggle stopped. “Paul…”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid I have to leave for a while.”

“Why?”

“Things are unraveling fast, and I’m afraid those who I work with will need to know.”

Paul slouched. “Barriers destabilizing?”

“Yes. Oh, and Paul.”

He looked up. She ran her hand along his leg. He gawked and looked down.

She smirked, then rushed her hand to his belt, snatched her medallion, and pulled it free. “Don’t touch my stuff.” 

He let out a hearty guffaw. “I didn’t need it anymore, anyway.”

She rose to full height, which was still only to about Paul’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I you, my love.”

“I’ll be back.” She replied. “I just don’t know when.”

“We’ll find each other.”

She smiled sadly. “We always will.”

She planted a gentle kiss on his cheek, took a step or two away from him, and vanished.

Paul watched the place where she had been, then gazed up at the aurora. “Sleep well, old friend.” He let a single tear slide down his cheek. “Til we meet again.”