2. Strangers

Hagen was glad to be out of that forest, walking along an open country road. What a disappointment this trip had been! What would he say in answer to the inevitable snide questions? They’d think him a gullible fool who believed in fairy tales. He needed to come up with something better. He thought of making up stories about encountering monsters, ghosts, or even a mermaid, but the stream seemed a bit too shallow for that. And besides, weren’t mermaids supposed to live in the sea? With these thoughts, combined with premeditated retorts to his friends and pangs of hunger, Hagen stumbled into a shabby old tavern and bought a beer to go along with his remaining slice of bread. He settled into a remote corner, sipping idly from his cup. Gradually, he became aware of a rather strange conversation going on at a nearby table. Four somber-looking figures were sitting there, whom he had failed to notice at first because they were all dressed in black, with dark hoods lowered over their faces. They had lots of different food before them and were engaged in a lively discussion. Hagen listened with interest, simultaneously stealing glimpses at the roasted pork ribs, mashed potatoes, and red wine standing like blood in clear goblets that seemed far too ornate to belong to this tavern.
Through eavesdropping, he learned they had arrived here recently and were unfamiliar with the land. Their dark cloaks gave them a dismal, forbidding air, and if not for the frequent vulgarities exchanged by the men, he’d have assumed they were monks or some occult scholars. One of them was especially strange: he was the eldest of the group and had only one eye, the other covered by a black patch, like a pirate’s; the rest addressed him as master.
“It was a fire, I tell you,” Hagen heard him say. “Someone burned the place down to the ground.”
“So where would the princess live then, in the forest?”
“It’s not the princess, fool,” another voice interrupted. “It’s her ghost, and she’s stuck there for burning it down.”
“No, that’s not right. She had dealings with a human, so her fairy-folk damned her.”
“What kind of dealings?” someone asked. “Financial?”
“Sleeping with some whoreson, more like.”
"What's with the Princess, anyway?" one of the hooded figures said, sipping on his wine. His face had been disfigured by smallpox. “I could give her a good time.” He smirked, wiping his mouth.
The Master gave him a scornful look with his good right eye. He exchanged a glance with the ghoul next to him, a gnarly, short-snouted man with close set, beady black eyes that darted about quickly and angrily. He resembled a boar, and, Hagen thought to himself, was probably just as dangerous. A cruel, uneven scar ran along his left cheek, strikingly pale against his flushed face.
"But what of Gieronimo and his men?" the boar inquired in a quiet, croaking voice that sent a chill through Hagen.
"Perhaps they’d taken the treasure with them," suggested another one of the travelers. He was quite drunk and had a long, hanging banana-like nose and watery blue eyes that wandered randomly without ever settling on anything.
“Not a chance, Richard," objected the Master. “All of their horses were later found running loose about the countryside, but not a trace of them remained. Too bad, as Gieronimo was an excellent guide."
"Well, perhaps they'd set the horses loose on purpose, to trick us into thinking they'd fallen to some harm," persisted the boar.
“I doubt it,” objected the Master. “Gieronimo may have been a good guide, but what good is getting there if you don’t know how to summon it? I told him to wait for me, but the greedy mite went for it anyway and dragged seven others along with him into oblivion. Such a waste, and now we’ve no one left to guide us through the forest.”
"Excuse me," Hagen interrupted, leaning over his table, "but I overheard your conversation, and could not help but wonder if it is the Black Briar Forest you were talking about?"
The four men turned their heads in unison and Hagen shrank back in his seat.
“Why yes, I was speaking of it just now. Why do you ask, young man?”
“Might I ask, what danger is there? I’ve just returned from this very forest and haven’t seen a thing.”
This produced a strange effect as if a lightning bolt had zapped the Master and his companions.
“You’ve been there by yourself, and returned?” inquired the Master.
“Yes, sir.”
“Little worm’s lying, chief, so let me educate him,” said the boar-man, rising from the table.
“Sit down, Alistair.”
“I’m not lying!” Hagen exclaimed, getting up.
“Then prove it,” snapped back Alistair.
“I have no proof to offer, other than my word. I did find this acorn in the woods.”
He took it out of his pocket and placed it on the table in front of the boar.
“What, that’s your proof? Well, in that case, I’ve got an acorn too,” Alistair said with a smirk and made an obscene gesture using his thumb and forefinger.
All the men laughed with the exception of the Master, who picked up the acorn and studied it with genuine interest. He looked darkly over the table and said:
“The lad’s not lying, so shut yer traps.”
The others immediately quieted.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Hagen.”
“So it is. I’ve got an offer for you, Hagen.”
Hagen studied the Master’s face carefully.
“What kind of an offer?” he inquired.
“One of a kind, to guide us into the forest.”
Hagen didn’t like the sound of that. “No,” he said.
“Are you afraid?”
“No, sir. It’s just that I must get back home in time as I’d promised to be back in no more than a week.”
“Well, we’ve got plenty of time, I promise it won’t take long.”
Hagen mulled over it.
“I’ll pay you well,” the Master prodded.
“How can I trust you?” he asked, simply.
Alistair grunted.
“Silly boy, you can’t trust anyone in this world.”
“Shut up Alistair,” said the Master.
He turned back to Hagen, his single black eye glinting in the dim light.
“Tell me, why did you go there alone?” he asked.
“No one believed it was worth their time, so I went by myself. Where I’m from, we don’t believe in fairy tales.”
The Master grinned:
“That’s good. Fairytales are for children. But this is not a fairy tale.” He lowered his voice. “The palace is real, but it can only be summoned by magic.”
“On a full moon?” Hagen asked, half wanting to believe what the Master had said, and half not.
“Not necessarily. I don’t think you’ve heard of me, but I’m rather well-known for my skills.”
“You’re a magician?”
The Master chuckled.
“No, I’m a sorcerer. I don’t pull rabbits out of hats, if that’s what you mean, although I probably can.”
“More fairytales.”
“Practical one, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Well then, here’s the down payment.”
He placed a small bag before Hagen, which jingled as it touched the table.
Hagen studied the little sack.
“Hurry up and get it off the table. Money grows legs the longer it lies.”
Hagen carefully took the bag and slipped it inside the inner pocket of his coat.
“Tomorrow then, meet us here at daybreak. I trust you’ll keep this strictly between us.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“Is there really a princess there?”
The Master's face turned wry. "Sure," he said, “there is a princess.”
With this the Master and his companions left. Somehow, the ornate wine glasses disappeared along with them, although Hagen didn’t see them take anything.
He sat stunned for a while, then got up and made his way out. A short way from the tavern was a barn that looked empty. Hagen snuck inside, hoping no one would come by to check on it. Sitting down on a disheveled pile of hay, he took out the small bag and opened it: there were coins inside which seemed to be made of real silver. He slid the sack into one of his boots and went to sleep in the hay wearing them.
It was freezing cold in the morning, but by the time Hagen had made his way back to the tavern, the sun began peering through. His companions were already waiting for him outside. The Master was sitting on a horse, and his three companions were on foot.
They began the long walk to the woods, Hagen walking ahead of them. Many thoughts ran through his mind—that his company couldn’t be trusted, yet here he was, leading them alone into the forest. It was so stupid! his practical mind told him. But his impractical mind, the one that dwelled on the legend of the palace, proved to be the stronger in this match.
As they neared the edge of the woods the Master dismounted and let the horse run free. To Hagen’s questioning look, he said:
“No use, the horses can’t stand this place. Well, lead the way!”
They followed him silently, almost obediently, Hagen thought, like scared children. What were they so afraid of? They moved slowly, carefully, following in his steps—trying to set their feet exactly where he’d just stepped. Osmond, the one with the ruined face, often ran into Richard, the banana-nose, as Hagen mentally called him. They cursed and hissed quietly.
All the while they walked, they could hear a persistent Toca-Toca-Toca-Toc somewhere deep among the trees, kind of like a woodpecker, or little hammers. Hagen wondered why the forest had been silent before when he was here alone, and now seemed to have awakened. He did not like the sound of that Toca-Toc one bit.
Before long, they reached the clearing. The Master stepped up to a big oak tree, studying it with inexplicable interest.
"In all my years,” he said, “I have never thought I'd see this tree with my own eye."
“Why’s that, sir?” Hagen asked. “It’s just a tree.”
“Not at all! Alistair, get the axe.”
Alistair promptly took out an axe and swung it at the trunk. Hagen watched him as one would watch a madman. Each time the axe hit it, pieces of bark flew off in different directions, but sometimes the sound was as if the axe were hitting solid stone. In no time, he’d stripped one side of the tree completely of its bark, revealing a polished, stony gray surface that bore strange inscriptions in a language unknown to Hagen.
“Can you read it, Master?” Osmond asked.
“Let me see,” the Master said, rubbing his chin. “Yes, yes, I can. This one’s familiar.”
He ran his fingers over the symbols.
“What’s it say?” Richard asked.
“Nothing, it’s music.”
All of a sudden, the Master began singing. It was a beautiful tune and he had a fitting voice for it.
Hagen listened to the strange song which made him sad. Why—he couldn’t say.
Abruptly, he stopped singing and said in a loud voice:
“Let there be night, Antarxis.”
Night fell instantly then, as if the noonday sun had been swallowed.