IN THE HEART OF THE HEART OF THE EASTERN GREEN FOREST

By Helen E. Davis

The dark path races through the silver forest, twisting and writhing among silver trees, past silver branches and leaves which reach out and whip the night-riders on their night-horses. This is a path that no mortal should follow, a path that aims deep into the heart of the Silver Forest, which is itself the heart of the Eastern Green Forest. Those who follow the dark path are either fey or doomed, and those carried down it are to be pitied.

Moon-spun covers the night-riders as armor; firelight gleams as the blade of their swords. They sing to the stars and snuff them out, they dress themselves in stormclouds. When the night-horses ride the dark path, sparks from their hooves trace webs of lighting across the sky, and the wind of their passing tears at the land.

Some mortals dare to walk the dark path, even in darkness. Perhaps they know not who or where they are, or perhaps they think themselves wise enough to claim the treasure which, it is said, lies on the ground in the moonlight. Some come boldly, seeking the remedy for the illness which is life. And some come in tears, babes and maidens and slaves of pleasure, to serve the Silver-eyed.

The night-horses ride into sight. Over the back of one lies a boy who is almost – but not quite – a man. Hands and feet bound, he can only stare into the darkness beneath him and wonder why he was taken so roughly from his bed. The night-riders will not answer the questions he shouts at them. It is like cursing shadows, he thinks, and shivers because it may be true.

It is true.

The horses stop. One second they are running, the next they are standing. There is no jolt; they have just stopped.

Cold hands pull the boy from the night-horse and stand him up. He opens his eyes wide, but finds he cannot open them wide enough to take in all that sees. In the heart of the heart of the forest, webs of moonlight and starlight form rooms and hallways, windows and doors, all colored with moonbows. Men and women with silver eyes and moon-milk skin, their clothing woven of dreams and fantasies, sit on hummocks and dine on translucent fruits. One, his head encircled by a crown of fire, steps forward and casually waves his hand.

The night-riders and the night-horses dissolve and blow away in the breeze. The boy's bindings disappear.

"Ave maria," the boy whispers, starting the prayer his mother taught him to say every night. The silver-eyed man smiles, and the coldness of that smile drives the words from his mind. He cannot finish the prayer.

"Your god cannot reach you here," the man says. "You are in my kingdom, now. You did not come of your own, and you will not leave of your own."

"Why am I here?" the boy cries.

"Because I wanted you. And what I want, I take. What is your name?"

The boys stays silent. He will not give that part of himself so easily.

"It matters not," the man says. "You shall have the name I give you. From now on, and to all people, you shall be known as Taynair."

The other silver-eyed repeat the name, and the boy feels it fall on him like a cloak that shrinks and tightens until it presses into his skin and becomes a part of his self. He struggles to remember his true name, burying it deep within his flesh. As long as he holds onto it, he knows, he can return to the world beyond.

The silver-eyed man sweeps his arms wide and says, "Taynair, welcome. I am Oberon, lord and master of the Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest, though my kingdom reaches as far as my will, wherever there are dreams. As my guest you shall have the finest clothes, the sweetest foods, and the sweetest of the maidens here. You shall be dressed properly, and given the very best to eat and drink." Oberon claps his hand.

A servant appears, eyes old and very sad, holding a robe of cocoa leaves and poppy blossoms sewn together with twilight and trimmed with the sparkle from a brook.

"I don't need that," the boy says. "I have my own clothes."

"Do you?" Oberon waves his hand, and the mortal cloth disappears. In its place is the robe, whispering promises as it floats around his body. "And now that you are dressed, we shall dine."

Oberon's cold, dry hand catches the boy's arm, and pulls him down a webbed hallway. Each tree they pass is hung with treasures. This one holds swords, and nothing but, and the blades gleam with fire or moonlight or darkness. That one carries jewelry: strings of pearls and rubies the size of a thumb, emerald rings and sapphire tiaras, and a diamond-studded crown. The next is covered with fine garments, slippers and hats. Another is filled with mirrors, of every shape and size, catching and reflecting the empty hall in which only a boy walks. A boy with a sun darkened face and silver-flecked green eyes, with a mop of brown hair speckled with silver. Twigs and leaves from the silver trees are tangled in his hair. He reaches up to pull them out.

"No." Oberon catches his hand, and pulls it back. "Leave them. I like them there."

"I don't." But the boy finds he cannot lift his hand.

Beyond more trees they enter a hall so large that it holds a waterfall and a river, and a stand of trees along one side. Pale flowers glisten on the banks, and moss covers the rocks to either side. A silver-eyed maiden, dressed only in hope woven with unopened buds, steps forward and holds out a garland. "A gift from Spara to Taynair," she says, and smiles.

It is the cold smile of forgotten spring. He takes the garland without comment.

Oberon catches his arm and pulls him to a hollow beside the waterfall, where the rocks form natural chairs and tables. Reaching out, he fills a golden cup from the stream and hands it to the boy – the cup is now filled with dark wine. Then, signaling for all the silver-eyed to sit in the valley beneath him, the lord fo the forest calls out, "Let us feast! Let us have music! Let there be dancers!"

He claps his hands and the servant, men and women with dull, downcast eyes appear, laden with platters of aromatic foods. Heady spices fill the air, tempting the boy, and he feels a raw thirst claw his throat. But he knows that to eat or drink of the silver-eyed repast is to give his soul to the masters, so he shuts his lips tightly.

Again Oberon claps his hands, and the music appears, lofting through the air from unseen musicians. Crystal harps and woven grass pipes, ice cymbals and leather drums, they all sing of the beauty of the forest and the moon-bound night. Now come dancers, ghostly waifs of passion and desire, trailing streams of light as they flit above the moss. Male and female they seem to be, though their features shift with the passing breezes.

"All that come into the forest are mine," Oberon says smugly. "Even the souls of the dead stay to serve my pleasure."

A servant enters that hall, walking hunched like a crab. He falls to his face just beyond the doorway.

With a wave of Oberon's hand, the music and the dancers fade. "Why do you dare disturb us?" the Silver-eyed master says harshly. "You know the price."

"Quafal the Adventurer has returned," the servant sobs into the grass. "He bears that which you sent him to fetch."

Murmurs like the breeze whispering through the leaves fill the hall.

"Does he?" Oberon states, and still silence catches the room. "Send him in, to entertain us. And then you, for your impudence at disturbing our feast, must go down to the lake and give yourself to the soldiers there."

The man barely rises from the floor and scuttles back to the door, then runs down the hallway.

Oberon looks down at the boy. "We are lucky, indeed, to have such entertainment for you tonight."

Quafal the Adventurer strides in, proud of himself, vibrant and alive and filled with color. His skin is sun-darkened, his eyes are black, and his voice thunders through the room. "I have returned."

"Did you bring it?" Oberon asks, his voice a silver shadow.

"Indeed." Qualfal pulls a sword from his pack, battered, nicked, and stained by battle. "Saint Simone's sword, which he used against the seven demons who would pull down the church he built in the Royal City of Selice. For three days and three nights he fought them, without food, water, or rest. On the fourth, and at the end of his strength, he prayed to God that if he should be allowed to overcome these demons, and his church be allowed to stand as a beacon of faith for all time, then he would give all he had to the church and live homeless, voiceless, and penniless for the rest of his days, doing only those deeds that increased the glory of the God. He won, and he kept his vow, and for that reason his sword was enshrined in the nave of the church, to protect and inspire all for generations to come."

He raises the sword high. The Silver-eyed folk shrink back.

"At least, it was there until I took it last week. Two monks died to protect it, but in vain."

The boy looks on Qualfal with distaste. This man has robbed God, and brags of it.

Oberon, however, stands and walks to the sword. He holds his hand above it, and smiles. "This is indeed Saint Simone's sword. It will make a nice addition to my small collection. Come and put it on the tree for me, for none of us can touch it."

Qualfal does not move. "And what of my reward? You promised me eternal youth, did you not?" "I indeed swore in moonlight that you would age no more." His words slide like oil. "Fulfill your bargain, and I will fullfill mine."

They walk back to the hall of trees. Qualfal strides beside Oberon, and the boy finds himself walking with the rest of the Silver-eyed. Spara is beside him, and her cool fingers wrap around his hand. His skin is dark next to hers, and hot. Her eyes are cold, but intense, with the strength of a bitter winter wind.

He shivers.

They reach the tree of swords, hung with every type of blade, from tiny diamond daggers to shining steel scimitars. A single branch is empty, and as they approach it uncurls and reaches to Qualfal. "I should put it here?" he asks.

"Give it to Taynair," Oberon says, with a casual wave to the boy. "Let him put it on the tree."

"It is a sacrilege!" the boy cries out. "It has been stolen from God!"

Oberon frowns sharply, then smiles, but only with his mouth. "You did not steal it. You are merely putting it on the tree."

"Then do it yourself. Risk your own soul!"

And Oberon laughs, high, like ice breaking in the spring. "None of us has a soul to risk. But neither can we touch such metal for it will burn us. But you are of the world beyond, and may do this small task."

"I refuse," the boy says. "Unless you make me a promise."

"And what would you have me promise?"

"That you will send me to my father's house."

Oberon smiles. "What can your father give you that I cannot?" All the silver-eyed laugh at that, but the boy sees no joke.

"Grant me my wish," the boy states. "Or I'll not touch your blasphemed sword."

"Very well," Oberon says lightly. "Before the sun rises in the world of men, you shall be a prince in your father's hall."

"Do you swear this?"

Oberon laughs. "I swear. I swear by my name, by my crown, and by the moonlight and all it touches, that before the sun rises on the world of men this child, this boy I have named Taynair, shall sit in his father's hall and sit in his rightful place, a prince of land he shall inherit. Do you swear, by all the same, to accept this when it is given?"

"Yes," says the boy. It is what he has asked for, is it not?

He takes Saint Simone's sword from Qualfal. The cold metal burns his hands with its sacrilege, but he places it on the reaching branch. Twigs and leaves grow rapidly through and around the hilt, clutching it with a hand of wood.

The boy's hands sting with his sin. He rubs them against his robe, but that does not help. His skin reddens, and small blisters form.

"That will not trouble you for long," Oberon says. "Come, let us go down and reward this fine mortal for his bravery."

*****

They go down into the earth, into cool, dark caves lined with shattered stone. The Silver-eyed carry no torches, for they are their own lamps, blazing pillars of light that hurt the boy's eyes. In the dark corners beyond, formless spirits weave and cry. One floats past, sobbing, reminding the boy of the servant who disturbed the dinner. No one else takes notice.

The cave opens suddenly into a cavern, a room of glistening stone shapes. There is a dragon, his mouth open and tail curled around his legs, and beneath him a broken ship with sailors leaping into churning waves. There is a stand of trees laden with stone fruit, and beneath them grow flowers of every muted hue. Two knights are locked in battle in a field, and to the side a maiden weeps over the body of a slain unicorn. Water drips from one creation to the next, with simple plinks that echo like a symphony.

On the other side, giant teeth hang from the roof and stretch up from the floor. The Silver-eyed walk through the stone mouth and stand before a tongue of darkness. It's liquid, the boy notices, but not water. There is an oily sheen on the surface. Oberon gestures to Qualfal, and motions him to enter.

"What is this?"

"The cure for old age," Oberon says. "Bathe in this, and you will grow no older." In his greed, the adventurer does not heed the crafty smile on the Silver-eyed's face. He plunges in, gathers the water in his hands – and starts to scream. His skin blackens where the liquid touches it, and bleeds. His clothes dissolve and fall off, exposing more skin. He struggles to climb out of the pool.

Two soldiers with diamond swords wade in and hold him back. The foul fluid does not touch them.

Quafal's skin splits, exposing bone. He screams on, higher and tighter, until suddenly he gasps. The soldiers push what is left beneath the surface, and the only sound in the cavern is the drip of water and the boy's breath.

At long last a spirit rises from the pond, and Oberon speaks to it. "You serve me now, forever. I did not promise you eternal youth, but that you would never age. You cannot age without a body."

In a wordless cry of anguish, the spirit floats away. The Silver-eyed laugh. The boy thinks over his own bargain, but can see no hole in it. Oberon promised to send him home, did he not?

And now Oberon gestures to the pond. "The Pool of Purification: it strips away the mortal flesh, leaving the sprit untouched. Thus our servants can stay with us even after their frail bodies are of no use. We, of course, are not altered by it, for there is nothing mortal about us."

"It is an evil thing," the boy states.

"It is your fate." Oberon gestures to the soldiers, who grasp the boy's shoulders. The damp on their hands burns his skin.

"You swore to return me to my father's house!"

"And I am keeping my promise."

The soldiers drag the boy into the burning black pond, and he screams. First in anger, then in pain, as the fire tears at his skin, his flesh, his bones. It fills his head and his belly, and scrapes the inside of his ribs. His name is stripped away, and his memories fly away like unraveling yarn. Desperately he tries to mouth a prayer, but the words have dissolved. He screams again as the last bit of himself is wrenched away, then sinks into darkness.

***** Taynair wakes, robed in dark sleep.

Spara lies beside him, her hand clutching his against the full curve of her breast. Both hands are milk-white.

He is Taynair. His old name is gone, and with it all his memories of his life in the world of men. He knows that he once lived in a great manor house, and his mother was warm and kind, but he knows this only as one who has heard a story knows it. All he can remember is the Silver Forest, and the great black pond.

"You are awake?" says Oberon. He holds a circlet of fire in his hands. "It is almost dawn in the world of men, and I must fulfill my promise to you."

Taynair sits up. He looks down at his shimmering form, and at his pale, tapering fingers. He pulls his hair forward, and it is silver, with silver twigs fused in. His face is long beneath his fingers, and he knows that his eyes glow silver.

"You would send to my father like this?"

"You are with your father. Your mother came down the dark road as a maiden, and left as a woman. Her husband married her anyway, despite that you already grew in her belly. He thought to keep you, but you were mine, are mine, remain mine. And now that I have stripped your mortal shell away, you will take your rightful place here as my prince and my son."

"I refuse!" Taynair shouts.

"But you swore in moonlight to accept it, and all Silver-eyed must do as they have sworn!" He places the circlet on Taynair's head, and laughs.

Taynair closes his eyes and stops his ears, but he knows he must wear the circlet forever. He is trapped in an eternal prison, the webs of the Heart of Heart of the Eastern Green Forest, to be visited only by the foolish and the damned. Spara's fingers touch him, fingers not so cold now, but colder than ever.

---

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