MIRRORWOOD

FORWARD

           Grandmother always started with, “Once upon a time”, though it was surely a misleading way to begin such a tale.

         That phrase is meant for a small child’s bedtime story. A fable to lull little ones to sleep. And although what I am about to tell you is a fairy tale of sorts, it is certainly not meant to be told after dark. Some things should only be spoken in the afternoon, when beings of a more sinister nature are still kept at bay by the sunlight.

          Grandmother told it only a handful of times, when she was slipping into the forgetful haze that I ever feared would become a permanent state. Only then would such a woman let words slip between her lips that would surely be a kind of poison to her wayward young listener. She always began by lighting a fire, even during the summer months, and she ended abruptly, as the sun crept behind the hills and the moon’s watchful gaze set upon her little cottage in the woods. It was as if she knew the night had ears that would be displeased to hear its truths shared so openly.

           I’ll never forget the last time I sat in front of that hearth, staring expectantly up at the woman who had been a mother to me. She looked at me in a way that I couldn’t quite understand. Her gray eyes were hopeful, searching, and there was a moment in which they seemed to smile. It was as if they had found something assuring in my own eyes.  She went on, into the endless tale that was somehow new each time it was told. I never noticed the first few stars, appearing in a darkening sky. I didn’t hear the owl calling, announcing the approach of night fall, and I nearly missed the soft rap on the front door.

           By the time my trance was broken, Grandmother was already on her feet, moving towards the bedroom with a speed her ancient legs had not known for years. Then she was calling to me, sharply, and finally looking back at me with such desperation that I could do nothing but follow. It was then that I realized the cottage was wrapped in deep shadows. Day had slipped away inconspicuously, and was replaced by a night that had been listening at the keyhole.

                                                              CHAPTER ONE



“Not so far away, there is a hidden forest. It rests between bulging hills that lay like murdered giants. This place is rarely disturbed by outsiders, for it is well hidden by magic, as well as landscape. It is a place of beauty, and a place of terror. It is a land unlike any other, where faeries and unicorns roam by day, and in the night, dark creatures sulk in corners that are thankfully untouched by the face of the moon. Some things are better left unseen.”

            Grandmother was out of breath, panting. She fumbled down the hall, was met by a closed door, and lost that beautiful coherence. Her arms fluttered at her sides for a moment, like the wings of a bird against a window pane. She flailed briefly, and then shook her head to clear it, hitting the latch and continuing on with frightful determination.

            “Stop!” I cried, fearing that she would trip in the dark bedroom. “Please, stop! Let me…” 

            My cheek stung and I realized she had slapped me. I was silenced by pure shock, and in that fraction of quiet I heard it. Knocking. Soft and steady. Not quite at the front door any longer, but perhaps the kitchen window.  It was moving closer. I had no idea how many seconds or minutes had passed since we left our place in front of the fire, therefore I could not gauge how fast our visitor was moving. What I did know was that Grandmother was on the move again and I needed to follow. Quietly.

          The room smelled of dried roses and age. It was lit only by one short candle on the nightstand. Grandmother’s shadow was bigger than the woman, herself. It crept over the quilted bedspread and up the far wall, looming and leering. The tall dresser threw a shadow, one that shuddered and quaked in the most disturbing fashion. It was only when I caught from the corner of my eye that dresser tipping drunkenly, that I realized the old woman was trying to push it aside. She did not acknowledge my hands, taking the place of hers, against the rough pine, only moved on in her quest. As I worked to noiselessly slide the dresser against the bedroom door, Grandmother pressed her body against the wall.

        “Where are you, now? Where are you, my friend? Don’t hide from old Emmaline. Come now, come now.” She slid her body against the wall, eyes closed, almost chanting. “Come now, my friend. Where are you? It’s time.”

         This went on for what felt like an eternity. I stood with my back against the dresser, pressing so hard that the small round knobs dug into my back. When Grandmother began to pull at a loose board on the wall, I heard it again. The soft double rap was now coming from the hallway, I was sure. It was in our home, whatever it was. I wanted to speak out. I wanted to tell Grandmother “Hurry! Hurry!”, but the breath was caught in my throat, and my mouth was bone dry. She knew, without me saying a word. Her eyes widened and her hand dug between the barely pried boards. The space was small and I saw a drop of blood splash against the baseboard.

        I must have made a noise at that, because she threw me a glance, laying the index finger of her free hand, against her own trembling lips.