Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad
Feb 20, 2020 10:51:55 GMT -5
via mobile
The Anarchist, Holden Ross, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Feb 20, 2020 10:51:55 GMT -5
Once upon a time, a father stepped out of his house, roamed across the field, and walked into the woods. Woods of beasts and cold and dark. Woods he would never intrude were it not for the sake of the day. His son’s sake. For it was his birthday.
The Father and the Boy lived alone in that house back across the field. It had been just the two of them since…well, it was just the two of them. They eked out a life there, alone, hardscrabble and bare as it was. It was not an easy life, but he shielded his son from that as much as he could. He was still young and would find out those sorts of things soon enough. For now, though, the Father had gone looking for something, anything, to give his son as a present. He didn’t have much, and the last few birthdays had gone unacknowledged, but this year would be different.
And so the Father peered into the underbrush. He looked up into the trees. He lifted rocks and nudged over rotten logs. Nothing, nothing, nothing worthy of his son. Yet another failure. But then he pushed through a tangle of sumac and chokeberry and found himself in a clearing of sorts. And there in the clearing stood what little remained of a structure.
A house.
A gingerbread house.
A pile of gingerbread, crumbled frosting, gum drops covered in moss. Ribbon candy turned blue and green with encrusted lichen. Toadstool spores scattered across even the hardiest of sweets. A confectionary ruin the likes of which he’d never even heard tale of.
What in these woods would cause a witch to flee so? To abandon her home to the elements like this?
Well…there was no witch here now. And the Father did not see, did not hear, did not sense anything foreboding around him. So he proceeded to kick his way through the rubble. Were there to be something for him to take back, it would have to be here, would it not? He kicked and shuffled and stomped, and soon enough, yes, there was a flash of something! The Father dropped to his knees and cleared away shattered cookie shingles. He reached down and grasped something hard and cold and lifted out…a whistle. Silver, with just a few spots of age, but covered in marks that looked like tree branches. He tried to rub them off with his thumb but found they had been etched into the whistle with something sharp. Fair enough. He would give his Boy a particularly odd whistle for his birthday.
Out of the woods as fast as he could go, back across that field of what would hopefully one day be covered again in wheat, and into the house. Where the Boy sat at the kitchen table playing with a set of blocks his Father had carved for him. Whittled quite crudely, to be precise, but the Boy didn’t know any better. He narrated his work as he built, whispering things about castles and moats and dead-eyed archers patrolling the ramparts. The Boy stopped and looked up with a grin as his Father stepped across the threshold, his hands behind his back.
“Now, I know I haven’t done much for your special day,” he said, glancing around at a room devoid of balloons or streamers or cake. “But I have something for you.”
The Boy scooted back his chair and covered the distance with a hop, skip, and a jump. He bounced on the balls of his feet and the Father revealed the whistle. He handed it over.
“Happy birthday, Boy.”
The Boy’s grin turned to full-blown smile as he took it and turned it over in his hands. He ran his fingers over the markings much like his Father had done. Then raised it to his lips and blew.
No sound.
Something stirred in the woods.
Father had become quite skilled at hiding his numerous frustrations over the years, and he put that into practice right that moment. Why must there always be a problem? Boy gave the whistle a curious look and shook it. He blew it again.
No sound.
Something moved through the woods.
Now, Boy was young, but he was an old soul and recognized his Father did the best he could. The mill was hard and dusty and exhausting work and didn’t leave him energy for much else. So he said something about knowing just what to do with his gift, walked back to the table, and balanced the whistle atop his blocks as some kind of capstone. Father tousled Boy’s hair and went about his business. Boy did the same.
That night Father sat on the edge of Boy’s bed and told him a story about a soldier forced to wear a disgusting bearskin coat but who still managed to marry the pretty daughter despite the devil’s best efforts. Both Father and Boy liked stories where the arrogant got their comeuppance in the end. Father knew it was just a tale, but even so, and even though he was wistful for a better time, he stood and went to his own room in lifted spirits.
As soon as he heard his Father’s snores, Boy pulled the whistle out from under his pillow and gave it one more blow there in the dark. Still nothing. He shrugged in resignation and put it back under the pillow, then laid his head down to sleep.
A step in the cellar. A clatter on the roof. A creak on the stairs. A shuffle in the closet.
Boy may have been a young lad, but he had the wherewithal to be aware when something was…there. When something took up space near him. He turned slowly in the bed.
It was just him and papa. He had to be brave.
Boy sat up.
The Shape stood by the window. The light from the snow moon settled on him. Lit up his wild curls. Shone on the glory of his ginger beard. Reflected in his eyes, shining blue as a clear cold February sky at midday. The chilling moral of every folktale shared here in Hangtown.
“I know you,” said the Boy.
The Shape nodded.
“How did you get here?”
“You called me.” A voice like a creek breaking through the ice.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. With that.”
The whistle.
Boy turned it over in his hands. “Huh.”
The floorboards rasped beneath the Shape. “How do you know me?”
“From stories. From television.”
Do I frighten you?
“Ah ha. So what do you think?”
Do you want me to?
“I think next Sunday won’t be easy.”
Next Sunday. The pay per view – Mass Destruction the Tenth. Would Boy witness the whole dread ordeal?
Holden Ross. The Human Wrecking Ball. No doubt he wanted to bring a mass destruction of his own making. As Ross made his way through a seemingly indifferent universe, he was going to finally step into the ring against the very personification of the blind and purposeless natural forces to which everyone was subject. A new test for Holden Ross, whether he cared naught for number or proportion, or the furious architecture of the doom that awaited him.
“Yep, it’ll be a tough fight. Even if you are the Wrestler of the Decade.”
A long low exhale like a sigh from The Shape. “It’s true. I’ve been around for a while, haven’t I?”
The Boy tilted his head. Considered his visitor. “How old are you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He frowned. Shrugged.
“You can’t wrestle forever, you know.”
“Who said I’ve been around forever?”
The snores in the next room sputtered to a stop. The world froze. Listening. Anticipating. A cloud moved over the moon. Anthracite shadows filled the house. Then, the light returned. The snores resumed. The Shape remained.
Ross didn’t have to partner with anyone this week. Meaning he would have to stand on his own merits at this PPV. There would be no Seromine. No David Hunter. There was no title between them, no contenderships on the line. Holden claimed he wanted to move beyond the Underground. This should be as good a test as any as to whether he could work within the prescribed limits of a standard match. As such, there was no reason for anything other than a straight up fight.
God help anyone who thought otherwise.
The Boy traced the etchings on the whistle with a fingernail.
“So this…”
“Yes.”
He glanced up at The Shape.
“Anytime I…”
“Yes. But only on the rarest occasions. Under the direst of circumstances. Otherwise, very bad things might happen. “
The Boy averted his eyes. First to the doorway, then back down to the whistle.
“Yes, sir.”
A nod. “Good. Now go to sleep.”
A shuffle in the closet. A creak on the stairs. A clatter on the roof. A step in the cellar. Across the field. Deep into the woods where he dropped down to wait.
The Father and the Boy lived alone in that house back across the field. It had been just the two of them since…well, it was just the two of them. They eked out a life there, alone, hardscrabble and bare as it was. It was not an easy life, but he shielded his son from that as much as he could. He was still young and would find out those sorts of things soon enough. For now, though, the Father had gone looking for something, anything, to give his son as a present. He didn’t have much, and the last few birthdays had gone unacknowledged, but this year would be different.
And so the Father peered into the underbrush. He looked up into the trees. He lifted rocks and nudged over rotten logs. Nothing, nothing, nothing worthy of his son. Yet another failure. But then he pushed through a tangle of sumac and chokeberry and found himself in a clearing of sorts. And there in the clearing stood what little remained of a structure.
A house.
A gingerbread house.
A pile of gingerbread, crumbled frosting, gum drops covered in moss. Ribbon candy turned blue and green with encrusted lichen. Toadstool spores scattered across even the hardiest of sweets. A confectionary ruin the likes of which he’d never even heard tale of.
What in these woods would cause a witch to flee so? To abandon her home to the elements like this?
Well…there was no witch here now. And the Father did not see, did not hear, did not sense anything foreboding around him. So he proceeded to kick his way through the rubble. Were there to be something for him to take back, it would have to be here, would it not? He kicked and shuffled and stomped, and soon enough, yes, there was a flash of something! The Father dropped to his knees and cleared away shattered cookie shingles. He reached down and grasped something hard and cold and lifted out…a whistle. Silver, with just a few spots of age, but covered in marks that looked like tree branches. He tried to rub them off with his thumb but found they had been etched into the whistle with something sharp. Fair enough. He would give his Boy a particularly odd whistle for his birthday.
Out of the woods as fast as he could go, back across that field of what would hopefully one day be covered again in wheat, and into the house. Where the Boy sat at the kitchen table playing with a set of blocks his Father had carved for him. Whittled quite crudely, to be precise, but the Boy didn’t know any better. He narrated his work as he built, whispering things about castles and moats and dead-eyed archers patrolling the ramparts. The Boy stopped and looked up with a grin as his Father stepped across the threshold, his hands behind his back.
“Now, I know I haven’t done much for your special day,” he said, glancing around at a room devoid of balloons or streamers or cake. “But I have something for you.”
The Boy scooted back his chair and covered the distance with a hop, skip, and a jump. He bounced on the balls of his feet and the Father revealed the whistle. He handed it over.
“Happy birthday, Boy.”
The Boy’s grin turned to full-blown smile as he took it and turned it over in his hands. He ran his fingers over the markings much like his Father had done. Then raised it to his lips and blew.
No sound.
Something stirred in the woods.
Father had become quite skilled at hiding his numerous frustrations over the years, and he put that into practice right that moment. Why must there always be a problem? Boy gave the whistle a curious look and shook it. He blew it again.
No sound.
Something moved through the woods.
Now, Boy was young, but he was an old soul and recognized his Father did the best he could. The mill was hard and dusty and exhausting work and didn’t leave him energy for much else. So he said something about knowing just what to do with his gift, walked back to the table, and balanced the whistle atop his blocks as some kind of capstone. Father tousled Boy’s hair and went about his business. Boy did the same.
That night Father sat on the edge of Boy’s bed and told him a story about a soldier forced to wear a disgusting bearskin coat but who still managed to marry the pretty daughter despite the devil’s best efforts. Both Father and Boy liked stories where the arrogant got their comeuppance in the end. Father knew it was just a tale, but even so, and even though he was wistful for a better time, he stood and went to his own room in lifted spirits.
As soon as he heard his Father’s snores, Boy pulled the whistle out from under his pillow and gave it one more blow there in the dark. Still nothing. He shrugged in resignation and put it back under the pillow, then laid his head down to sleep.
A step in the cellar. A clatter on the roof. A creak on the stairs. A shuffle in the closet.
Boy may have been a young lad, but he had the wherewithal to be aware when something was…there. When something took up space near him. He turned slowly in the bed.
It was just him and papa. He had to be brave.
Boy sat up.
The Shape stood by the window. The light from the snow moon settled on him. Lit up his wild curls. Shone on the glory of his ginger beard. Reflected in his eyes, shining blue as a clear cold February sky at midday. The chilling moral of every folktale shared here in Hangtown.
“I know you,” said the Boy.
The Shape nodded.
“How did you get here?”
“You called me.” A voice like a creek breaking through the ice.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. With that.”
The whistle.
Boy turned it over in his hands. “Huh.”
The floorboards rasped beneath the Shape. “How do you know me?”
“From stories. From television.”
Do I frighten you?
“Ah ha. So what do you think?”
Do you want me to?
“I think next Sunday won’t be easy.”
Next Sunday. The pay per view – Mass Destruction the Tenth. Would Boy witness the whole dread ordeal?
Holden Ross. The Human Wrecking Ball. No doubt he wanted to bring a mass destruction of his own making. As Ross made his way through a seemingly indifferent universe, he was going to finally step into the ring against the very personification of the blind and purposeless natural forces to which everyone was subject. A new test for Holden Ross, whether he cared naught for number or proportion, or the furious architecture of the doom that awaited him.
“Yep, it’ll be a tough fight. Even if you are the Wrestler of the Decade.”
A long low exhale like a sigh from The Shape. “It’s true. I’ve been around for a while, haven’t I?”
The Boy tilted his head. Considered his visitor. “How old are you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He frowned. Shrugged.
“You can’t wrestle forever, you know.”
“Who said I’ve been around forever?”
The snores in the next room sputtered to a stop. The world froze. Listening. Anticipating. A cloud moved over the moon. Anthracite shadows filled the house. Then, the light returned. The snores resumed. The Shape remained.
Ross didn’t have to partner with anyone this week. Meaning he would have to stand on his own merits at this PPV. There would be no Seromine. No David Hunter. There was no title between them, no contenderships on the line. Holden claimed he wanted to move beyond the Underground. This should be as good a test as any as to whether he could work within the prescribed limits of a standard match. As such, there was no reason for anything other than a straight up fight.
God help anyone who thought otherwise.
The Boy traced the etchings on the whistle with a fingernail.
“So this…”
“Yes.”
He glanced up at The Shape.
“Anytime I…”
“Yes. But only on the rarest occasions. Under the direst of circumstances. Otherwise, very bad things might happen. “
The Boy averted his eyes. First to the doorway, then back down to the whistle.
“Yes, sir.”
A nod. “Good. Now go to sleep.”
A shuffle in the closet. A creak on the stairs. A clatter on the roof. A step in the cellar. Across the field. Deep into the woods where he dropped down to wait.
