Beyond the Twilight Veil: a flash fiction anthology

The Manifold Road

He had been walking the forest path for what felt like an eternity. It stretched on an on, with no end in sight. The eaves of the trees blocked out the sky, only allowing tiny slivers of light to break through, and making sure nothing got out. The trees creaked as if blowing in the wind, yet there was not even a breeze, and insects trilled and frogs croaked, though no animal life could be seen. Just an endless expanse of trees. Flan gazed up at the tangled canopy of branches, wondering if he would ever see the sky again. Then again, had he ever seen it to begin with? He couldn't be sure anymore, he had been here so long. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, and wet soil squelched and caught his boots. His feet were soaked through, toes poking through holes in his woollen socks. After a time he reached a fork in the road. It was not the first, and Flan was certain it would not be the last. Three diverging paths here. Six at the last, four at the one before. It made no difference. No matter which path he chose, the result was always the same. A trudge along a single path, then a split. This time would be the same, he was sure of it. As with all the others, Flan closed his eyes, and pointed, letting his arm raise where it willed. The middle path. He started down the road, and as he crossed the threshold that marked the fork, the other two paths began to fade away behind a crush of fauna. Time to begin again. He wondered how long it would be until the next fork. He had lost all concept of time now, so it could be minutes, hours, or even days, and feel like anything else. As he walked, he began to feel more resistance, his progress slowing. Something was pulling at his leg. He looked down, and saw wooden tendrils wrapped around his ankle, roots protruding from the middle of the path. He pulled out his hatchet, hacked them away, and continued on. That had not happened before. Another fork, the left-most path this time. He plodded down the path again, feeling his movements grow sluggish stiff. The creaking of the trees intensified, all around him, in his ears, his head, his legs. Legs. He forced himself onward, the wooden creak of his knees grating against his ears with each step. Another crossroads. Furthest right. The creaking grew louder, and he began to sweat. Flan wiped his forehead, and felt something sticky as he pulled away. He stared at his hand in disbelief. A thick viscous substance clung to the back of his hand. It glowed a rich amber, gleaming with reflections on the thin beams of sunlight sneaking through cracks in the green soffit. He felt compelled, somewhy, to taste the substance. He licked it, taking just a small drop on his tongue. It was slightly sweet, like syrup. Flan was losing his mind. He had been here so long he was going mad. That was the only explanation. He needed to rest.

Flan sat for a while against the thick trunk of a willow tree, and dozed off. When he awoke he felt something pulling at his hair. He gave a jolt, and scrambled away from the tree, clumps of mossy green hair being yanked from his head. A swarm of tiny hands turned over the moss, eyelessly observing it. Flan crawled closer, reaching out with a hand, before pulling away. When the tree seemed satisfied, its arms retracted, setting the clumps of moss – or hair? – on its trunk, lining fragments of bark. Flan stared at the willow, then felt the top of his head, finding patches of hairless skin among a sheet of moss. The tree stared back, for all it could without a face, but Flan could feel it observing him.

'What are you?' he wondered aloud, 'what is happening to me?'

Then the tree's eyes opened, great dark orbs pushing out from the trunk. A mouth tore open underneath, bark cracking as it formed lips, and a nose pushed its way outwards. Flan screamed, and clambered to his feet, running away as fast as his wooden legs would take him.

He approached another fork in the road, and sprinted down the middle path without a thought, feeling himself slowing with each stride. He had to get away, had to find a way out of the forest. Perhaps he could turn back and return the way he had come? No, something told him he would find no luck in that. Besides, the willow with the face was that way, and Flan didn't want to see that again. He threw his hands up in defeat, and sighed a long, deep, sigh. Then he notice his arms. His skin was rough, and hard, gnarled and knotted. He brushed his hand over it, and felt nothing, but heard the scrape of wood against wood. His hair was longer, too, no longer moss but now the long, drooping leaves of a willow. He felt his feet sinking into the earth, now one single leg, roots spreading out in all directions. All around him he heard rustling, trees taking their places beside him, welcoming him in, as part of the wood.