069 - The Sleeping Forest

Slow . .

It is and always was, the shape to grow to fit to be . . .

Up through the mounds of earth grew tiny saplings, around them swirling a thick soup of white mist. Green shoots, bright supple trees, pale and silver and a dozen shades of brown, all growing at once, taller, thicker, straight and strong. Their roots deep in the earth, their bark smooth and seeping sap.

Between the trees ran a black water stream, black water over smooth moss covered stones, slick leaves thick on the ground, a floor of slimy rotting green between the mass of roots, all tangled all knotted up. Above, only the twinkle, only the hint of light between the canopy of branches and leaves, the air cold and damp, the smell of rot and decay, of wood and sap, of earth and dirt . .

. . .

Magnus opened his eyes. He was sitting on a flat stone by the black water stream. Around, in all directions were countless trees, white mist thick between their trunks making it impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the nearest trees.

Only the sound of running water and creaking wood, Magnus took a deep breath and got to his feet, every bone and joint crackling and popping, filth covering his skin and clothes.

He splashed some stream water on his face . . strange . . there is something in the river? Putting his face right down to the surface of the stream he saw a glittering rock in the river bed, a faint outline of an animal. And another! The stone next to it, the image of a boar! And the one next to that!

In all Magnus counted a dozen faint impressions of animals on shiny rocks at the bottom of the black waters. Looking at them he couldn't help but feel a certain connection, as if he were looking at a part of himself . .

On the river bed lay a large white stone, on it the outline of a Griffon. Magnus could make out its beak, its talons and wings. He stared wide eyed . . it looked almost alive beneath the waters, as if it would break away from the stone and take flight!

". . . sister . . . where am . . . who . . . where . . "

A raspy voice called out haltingly, Magnus spun around. Nothing, no-one.

". . go back home . . sis . ."

From there! The voice came from a nearby tree. Something on the side of the trunk . . as he approached he saw it. On the bark of the tree was a face, its eyes closed, sap leaking from an open mouth.

". . . don't cry . . . brother is here . ."

Sung Soo. Unmistakably so, its mouth moving and croaking out the words, calling out again and again, his face a living mask made of wood coming out of the bark.

Magnus reached out and touched Soo's face, the second his fingers made contact a rush of memories filled his mind, this time not overbearing and dominating, but in an ordered fashion. Images of a massive palace, of family and friends, of all kinds of marvellous devices and books paraded themselves before Magnus.

With a thought Magnus found he could search through the memories, pick out any one, and experience it fully. All the knowledge, all the skills and abilities Soo had practiced over his life, they now made themselves entirely available for him to experience. All that once was Sung Soo now belonged to Magnus.

"Sung Min . . Sung Hu, Ji Min . . those are Soo's family, not mine! My father . ." Magnus removed his hand from Soo's face on the tree. "Mother . . Malene Lund! My father, Jorn Lund, my sister Christa, brother Egil, ha! Ah hah ah!" Tears of relief streamed down Magnus faces. "Ma, Pa! I remember! Ah!"

It felt like the murky fog clouding his mind had been blown away by a mighty gale, even memories Magnus had long forgotten resurfaced. The years of peace, of his father working the forge while brother helped out . . years of exploring the many nooks and alleys of Kloster alongside Rolf, of helping with the hunt and being chased out of the castle by the lords guards . .

Of the black skins. Of Festus and the giants . . the last five years . . Magnus had been eleven years old when the black skins first came to Kloster. Have I forgotten that much? No . . it wasn't that. I never want to think about it . . never wanted to.

It wasn't that bad, the black skins that is. At first they only came in small numbers, snatching cattle or ruining an outhouse . . but even then, anyone who'd tried to stand against them would be torn apart.

Lord Tygis had introduced the Alchemist alongside one of his giants, a guardsman volunteer. All of Kloster had watched him lumber down the streets, down to the beaches, and snatch a black skin out of the air crushing it with his bare hands.

Strength! Power! That was the first time Magnus could remember that he desperately wanted something, wanted to be as big and strong as a giant.

Life had fallen into a natural rhythm in Kloster; it was only proper that people would want to defend their home. When offered the opportunity for strength, who amongst the townsfolk could refuse? He'd seen his brother and sister become giant, fight for years down on the beaches and throughout Kloster, pummeling the black skins.

Magnus and Rolf were too young for the trials. As the years went by and the conflict carried on they both were tested and were too weak, their cores being far from the level the Alchemist sought.

Egil and Christa both perished on the sands, proud and defiant to the last! There was no shame in their deaths . . no shame . . only . . knowing now of the truth behind the whole thing . .the whole sordid experiment, both the black skins and giants being play things of the Alchemists . .

. . the canopy of leaves above his head trembled as a chill wind swept through the forest, even the branches and trunk shook. Magnus' eyes blazed with newfound fury.

Devour! Consume! It doesn't matter who! Steal everything! Take everything you can! If there is one thing I am going to do with my power it is going to be to drag down Festus, to take all the Alchemists and force their faces into the mud!

Below Sung Soo's face on the tree trunk was a second face, far fainter, cracked and worn smooth. Magnus stared at it for a time . . Lars. Lars Anker, son of Gertrude and Peter Anker. They made a living guiding people into the Empire Swamp. A host of half remembered memories entered Magnus when he touched Lars' face, snatches of sentences, moments of warmth, of loneliness . .

There were dozens of trees in the grove around the black water stream. A reflection of my self, that's what Kujata said, right? The faces on the bark, the stones in the river . .