Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

Several details vied for notice when Crispin blearily opened his eyes. The first was the dull pounding in his head and the dreadful ache in his shoulder and leg. Secondly, wooden walls, not trees enclosed him. And, thirdly, a peculiar being seated upon a crude chair of lashed cane, eyed him with avid interest from across the room. As they considered each other, Crispin noted, with a touch of annoyance, that his uniform jacket was draped across its knobby knees and thin fingers, as though separate entities, seemed to be plucking purposefully at the buttons. With a melodious chirp, the creature slipped lightly from the chair and approached, his step a curious mingling of skip and hop.

As viewed through his blurred vision, made worse by the inadequate lighting, the creature appeared to be a child but as the figure drew closer Crispin concluded it was really a man, small of stature, with long delicately boned hands and limbs, a slightly barreled chest, and tapered waist. Thick, glossy black hair crowned the rounded head while feathery, snowy white muttonchops puffed out from the sides. Miniscule ears lay flat against the skull, and were set far back from the face; a high forehead sloped down into a narrow pointed nose under which were set thin lips and practically no chin. He was of an indeterminate age but eyes like glittering jet beads gleamed with intellect, curiosity, and childish enthusiasm beneath downy black brows.

Only his eyes and nose visible above the mattress, the little man cocked his head and peered intently at Crispin. Attempting to speak, the words caught in Crispin’s parched throat, setting off a bout of coughing. This display, oddly enough, seemed to please the little man who smiled brightly, gave a sharp nod and after voicing a satisfied “Soooo…” bounced away and disappeared from sight.

Crispin lay spent in a fog of bewilderment and pain. His body ached, and it was miserably cold - his nose stung from its frigid bite - and despite the collection of blankets heaped over him his feet were going numb. He drew his legs up, a move he instantly regretted as an intense pain shot up his right thigh. Exhaling raggedly he cautiously relaxed the limb. Reluctant to uncover his arms he inched beneath the covers until his nose was protected and only his eyes were left exposed. If not precisely cozy he was at least more comfortable than before and closing his eyes sought to collect his thoughts. Where and what this place was and how he'd gotten to be there was an absolute mystery.

He remembered setting out from Candlewicket at dawn, either this morning or more probably yesterday, depending on how long he'd been unconscious. He'd been riding to Castle White. An urgent reconnaissance report had come in, warning that King Relish and his army had entered Bean Town, a mere fifty miles from Candlewicket, so Captain BeNimble had ordered him to ride to the imperial palace to beseech Prince Wendell for reinforcements with which to stave off the advancing trolls.

To make better time he'd detoured through the Disenchanted Forest and had made a terrible discovery there. A white gelding, minus rider, dressed in the livery of the House of White had come galloping up. Catching the runaway, he’d gone in search of its master. Spotting the legs of a man protruding from the wild growth by the side of the road he’d dismounted to lend aid. Resting upon its back the body had appeared unmarked until he’d spied a narrow hole such as an arrow might make, directly above the man’s heart. The seeping blood had slowed, already darkening to rust. He had been stunned to recognize the face of the dead man. It was King Wendell's most trusted advisor, Viscount Lansky.

Securing the nobleman’s body across the gelding’s saddlebow he'd raced from the Disenchanted Forest to Castle White but had been ambushed by a troll scout several miles from his destination. A fierce fight had ensued during which he'd been knocked off his feet. Straddling over him, the troll had raised its sword to plunge it into his heart but, with a desperate heave upwards, he'd been able to pierce the troll's instead and it had pitched forward, collapsing in a dead heap on top of him. Somehow he'd managed to gain his feet. Wounded and disoriented, he'd staggered only a little way when dizziness had overcome him and he'd leaned against a tree trunk for support. When his wits had cleared he'd found that the course he was on was leading away from the road and into the forest. He'd retraced his steps only to find no road behind him, just dense brush and trees. Surmising he'd progressed further into the forest than first realized, he'd stumbled on certain that the road would soon appear. But no road had emerged, just endless foliage wherever he turned. Still, he'd persisted.

The way would have proved difficult for a healthy man, as the terrain was hazardous with fallen branches, rock and slippery lichen. When sunlight managed to filter through the dense forest canopy it did so only feebly, so what had been midday out upon the road was gray twilight inside the forest. Deprived of the sun’s warmth, the air was chill and his teeth had begun to chatter from shock and exposure. With his sense of direction totally fouled and his body undermined by loss of blood he'd succumbed at last, fainting dead away.

And, that was where his memory petered out. He could summon up nothing else except a nebulous dreamlike recollection of falling. The measured tread of footsteps ascending stairs recalled him to the present and drew his eyes to the door.

His sight was gradually adapting to the gloom so it was easier discerning the woman who entered. She was of medium height, motherly in shape. Her face retained the memory of a beautiful youth, but richly fringed eyes were now contoured by sorrow and the corners of the once ripe mouth were drawn down. Hair of either chestnut or deep red, its true color muted by the poor light, was coiled thick and high upon her head. The strange little visitor from earlier skip-hopped at her side bearing a water jug and mug.

Without a word the woman sat down upon the edge of the bed and, sliding an arm beneath Crispin’s neck, raised his head and propped it against her shoulder. The little man filled the mug and passed it to her. She placed it against Crispin's lips and he drank greedily. The water was icy, tasting faintly of cranberries, and slid sweetly down his parched throat. He swallowed deeply relishing its restorative wetness although its temperature set off a paroxysm of shivering. The mug was quickly drained and Crispin asked for more, his voice raspy and alien to own his ears.

When he'd drunk his fill, the woman plumped and reclined the pillow against the headboard and, after helping him up into a comfortable sitting position, settled down upon the chair the little man had pulled up to the bedside. Teeth chattering, Crispin grinned apologetically and drew the covers tight under his chin eliciting a sympathetic smile from his benefactress. After a stumbling start and a few more sips of lubricating water, he was finally able to croakily express his gratitude for her hospitality and aid. She accepted his thanks with a graceful nod and, in a honeyed voice that was oddly youthful and seductive, introduced herself as Elena and her companion as Filch, explaining that it had been he who had found Crispin in the forest and overseen his transport to her cottage. Crispin thanked the little man, who commenced to bob up and down with pleasure.

After giving his name and how he'd come to be injured, Crispin asked where he was. She replied that he was within the Bewildering Wilderness, a triangular swath of enchanted forest situated between the Disenchanted Forest to the north, Snow White Memorial Prison to the west and King Wendell's palace to the east. To allow him time to digest the information she excused herself and left the room.

Crispin frowned as he considered the woman’s words. A childhood memory came to mind, of days when the weather was inclement and his granny would lift the boredom by regaling him and his siblings with stories. One such tale had involved a cursed forest that swallowed unwary trespassers. If memory served him she had referred to it as "The Wilderness". Remembering his disorientation in the forest he shifted uneasily upon the bed - could the story have been true? He was mulling over the likelihood when Elena reentered.

She carried a bundle of cloth bound round with cord, which she untied and unwrapped upon the bed. A man's woolen tunic and trousers lay folded atop a sheepskin jacket. They were for his use, Elena explained, as she had taken note of his obvious discomfort from the cold. Gratefully he accepted the gifts and with assistance shrugged hastily into the coat. His wounded shoulder protested as the arm was forced into a sleeve but he barely noticed for the bulky fleece immediately began to warm his shivering torso. Sighing with relief he asked if he might also have a candle to help alleviate the gloom. Crispin noted that as he made the request Filch, who was squatting beside Elena, shot a furtive glance up at his mistress.

If she noticed the look Elena chose to ignore it, for without hesitation she ruefully explained that due to the age and combustible nature of the cottage only her kitchen- house offered a hearth and candles. She assured Crispin he’d be able to partake of its light and warmth as soon as his thigh had healed significantly to allow him to negotiate the stairs. In the meantime, there was something she could do to lessen the strain on his eyes a bit. So saying, she rose and crossed behind the bed. Unable to turn Crispin heard the protest of a hinge as a shutter released. With the window open the room brightened considerably but only to the extent that it might upon a vastly overcast day. Returning to Crispin’s side Elena informed him that although it was full morning the sunlight could not breach the thick tree canopy so during the day it never got much brighter or warmer and, the temperature dropped even further at night.

Anyway, she said with a tight smile, he would, in time, grow use to it just as she had done and come to discover he scarcely missed the light and warmth. At his skeptical look she patted his good shoulder and bade him to rest while she fetched him something to eat.

As Elena descended the stairs her thoughts raced. She had been honest with Crispin; he just hadn't had time to realize what her words might imply, but he would and, when the inevitable demand for clarification came, she would have to be prepared. She had entered the Wilderness freely, with complete knowledge of the consequences, so could fully appreciate how someone who had stumbled innocently in would react upon being apprised they would never be leaving.

Left alone, Crispin found it impossible to relax. Elena’s words had caused a prickle of alarm. He had no intention of staying around long enough to become accustomed to the odd environment. He had a mission to complete. The fate of Candlewicket and the populace of its surrounding environs depended upon it.

Determinedly he tossed back the covers. A test to ascertain what restrictions his wounds had set would give a fair indication of how long he might expect to be bedridden. Despite the frigid cold, sweat popped out across his brow as he awkwardly maneuvered his injured leg over the bedside. He was bracing to attempt to stand when a handsome youth stepped through the doorway bearing a tray.

About seventeen years of age, the boy was tall with a lithe, graceful build. Shoulder- length hair, neat, silky and of a remarkable marmalade hue, was gathered back at the nape of his neck. If the boy was surprised to see the invalid balanced clumsily on the edge of the bed, his exotic features hid it well. Only the calculating, upwardly tilted eyes, the color of green licorice dappled with gold, divulged that he viewed the situation in any way interesting.

Approaching the bed, his tread soundless and light, the boy came to a halt within a hairsbreadth of Crispin's legs. He stood eyeing Crispin impassively until the man, much to his chagrin, was compelled by the cool gaze to ease his legs up and beneath the covers and prop back against the headboard. Deftly the boy placed the tray upon his knees. The thick soup and creamy milk contained within the earthenware bowl and mug barely rippled.

Having made his delivery, the boy turned on his heel and headed for the door. He was brought up short upon the threshold when Crispin asked his name. Looking back over his shoulder the boy eyeballed him haughtily then walked out into the hall.