Zolantos,

Merciless Cripple,

was lost in a dark forest.

A dense host of trees

surrounded him,

swaying,

dwarfing him

a hundred times

with their height

and their age.

Shadows undulated

beneath the branches.

Faerie lights lingered,

curious,

in the brush.

A maze with no walls.

Zolantos turned in a circle.

All directions were available to him.

He forgot

he was in a dream.

Zolantos

moved through the forest.

It was not soundless;

animals shuffled in the brush,

birds called in fleeting rhythms,

and winds teased

the branches overhead.

What eyes watched him?

The forest was sacred,

horrifying in its magnitude,

boundless in its meanings.

He heard something

wooden wheels

rolling

in grumpy resignation.

Out of the woods

appeared

a short old man

leading a decrepit donkey,

who pulled a small cart

rattling with merchandise.

“How do you do, sir?”

the old man asked.

His voice was throaty, froggish.

“Good,” said Zolantos.

“How do you do?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain.

But do you need anything, sir?”

“I... I don’t have any money,”

said Zolantos,

not knowing if he did or not.

“Oh, you’re all paid up, sir,”

the old man told him.

“What?”

“Someone has already paid for you, sir.”

“Who? For what?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

“You just need to choose, sir,”

said the old merchant.

“Choose what?”

“Well, sir,” the merchant croaked,

going to the back of his cart.

He lifted a leather flap,

revealing

three items:

a feather quill with paper,

a knife,

and a plump red apple.

Zolantos looked down at them.

He asked,

“How can one choose

between things so disparate?”

“Be that as it may, sir,”

said the old man,

“You must choose.

You are already paid for

in full.”

“I choose the knife,” said Zolantos.

“Of course, sir,” said the toadish man.

“But...

wouldn’t you like to try

something different, sir?”

“I have to be able

to defend myself,”

Zolantos responded.

“Yes, sir,” agreed the merchant,

“But does the Scroll not say,

Mercy is the most beautiful name

of God?”

Yes, that is what the Scroll says,

thought Zolantos.

“I can choose nothing else,”

he told the merchant.

“Of course, sir.”

The merchant lifted the knife

in his gnarled fingers,

and handed it to Zolantos.

As Zolantos took the knife

into his hands,

he felt an intolerable

burning sensation

in his eye sockets.

They welled up with

star-hot liquid fire,

until flaming pink

tears

spilled down his cheeks,

searing his face

before falling

to the moist forest floor.

Zolantos looked to the

merchant

for answers.

The old man grimaced

with his wide lips.

“Laser tears,”

he explained.

“You’ve chosen this path before, sir.”

to be continued...