Souls of the Black Leaf Forest
by A. Craig Newman
An excerpt from “Souls of the Black Leaf Forest”, available on Smashwords, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Scribd
Low morning light and a soupy fog kept Chauncey Pritcher in almost total darkness. He shambled through the woods, sporadically stumbling and bracing himself against a tree to stay on his feet and on the path. A few feet ahead of him, a white puppy playfully galloped. The dog's pure white coloring made it almost impossible to see in the fog. Only the glint of its light blue eyes as it looked back to Chauncey every few steps distinguished it from the misty surroundings.
"I'm going to Atlanta, friend," he said to his escort. "Can you take me there?"
The puppy barked and continued its gallop.
"I'm going to Atlanta," he mumbled to himself. He stopped in his tracks and looked up towards the sky he could not see. "Why? Why am I going to Atlanta?" Chauncey felt pressure on his leg and looked down. The puppy was rubbing against his feet. "Do you know?"
The dog let out a small whine.
"Shit. I can’t see anything." He strained to see as far as he could in the dim light and spotted a fallen tree. Chauncey walked to the log and sat down. The dog sat before him, panting happily. "Bear with me, friend. I'm quite tired. I must have walked very far today. I started in… I started from……" The pain in Chauncey's head drowned out the memory. "Do you know from whence I travel?"
The puppy let out a high-pitched bark but remained seated.
Chauncey rubbed his forehead and felt it was wet. "Damp weather," he mumbled more to himself than to his escort. "If only I could drink some of it. I'm so thirsty."
The puppy sprang to its feet, barking enthusiastically. As it dashed down the path, Chauncey followed, not wanting to lose sight of the only other living thing this dense forest and denser fog seemed to contain. The puppy wound its way along the path, and then dashed off into the woods, weaving between the trees. In a brief time, Chauncey stood on the banks of a clear, glassy lake. The puppy stood nearby, panting and tail-wagging.
"'Ask and ye shall receive,' eh, friend? Now, can you tell me why I go to Atlanta?" Chauncey scooped a handful of water to his lips and drank deep. Sweet, cool water caressed his tongue and washed away his thirst. Overcome with relief, Chauncey dunked his head into the water and let it flow over his neck. As he pulled out of the lake, he watched the water ripple, distorting the reflection. The blood red water aged his face and grayed his hair. Dull, sunken eyes and cheeks covered in black splotches. Chauncey knew this face.
"My father is sick. My father needs me in Atlanta." With renewed energy, Chauncey stood up and prepared to find his way back to the road to Atlanta.
A single bark caught Chauncey's ear. The woods were silent, and he was totally alone with his escort.
An older dog – still pure white and still a puppy, maybe a few months old – now sat where the young pup was only moments ago. One ear flopped down while the other stood straight. The dog leapt, turned, and panted, its oversized feet flopping and splashing in the shore's waters. It paused briefly, seeming to look at Chauncey, and then boldly leapt past him, retracing the path to the road.
"What happened? Where did you come from?" the traveler asked as he followed the animal.
His guide barked twice but kept galloping ungainly.
"The fog is lifting some," Chauncey mumbled. "I could barely see the ground earlier."
The couple moved through the woods and back to the road. The trees had thick trunks with a few black leaves on the branches. With only white mist, gray gravel, and black trees passing with each step, nothing distracted Chauncey's mind as he marched along. Time passed, measured by footsteps.
"Something isn't right, friend," Chauncey said after a time of silent reflection. "I walk along with nothing. No food, no water, and no way of knowing where exactly I am. This would be a fool's journey. So, why would I be out here like this?"
Chauncey's puppy guide tripped over its feet trying to stop suddenly. The pup hopped to his feet and bounded off the road, winding a new path through the trunks. Following his guide, Chauncey arrived back at the lake. Thirsty again, he stooped and took another drink, and then stared at his reflection. In place of his pale, ashen face, he saw the image of a woman with hazel eyes and long hair as black as a stormy midnight sky. She wore a dark riding habit and carried a satchel. She opened the bag and withdrew an apple.
"Marla, my wife. She was with me. I must have left her. Oh, no!"
Turning to leave, Chauncey faced his companion, who was now a snow white, bright blue eyed, full grown German shepherd. The disorienting substitution made Chauncey's head throb. His ready feet weakened. He stumbled onto the seat of his pants.
"Why…. It doesn't matter. I've got to get to Marla." Chauncey stood slowly and staggered into the forest. The fog had lifted. The crunching sound of snapping twigs and crushing foliage caught his attention. The dog ran past Pritcher and turned back, snarling and barking and blocking Chauncey's attempts to pass.
"Get out of my way! I can't go without Marla."
The dog snapped at Pritcher's legs, causing him to take steps backwards. He tripped over a root and fell back to the waterline. After looking for a stick or rock nearby to use as a weapon and finding none, Chauncey resorted to pleading.
"Please, let me by! I need to get back to her!"
The barking continued with renewed energy.
"Oh, why won't you let me be?"
Suddenly, the dog shed its threatening stance, sitting on its haunches, and perking its ears.
"Why so calm? I asked why and you grew silent. Is there a why? A reason?"
The dog smiled and started panting.
"There is a reason. Well, my friend, as you don't talk, I'm afraid we're at a bit of an impasse. How can I find out the reason?"
His companion barked and wagged its tail. It trotted over to the water and began to drink.
Chauncey carefully considered the actions and his past trips to the shoreline. Then, he took another drink and stared into the water.
The ripples faded and he looked upon a scene of him and his wife traveling on horseback through the black forest. They approached two men in black robes – a tall thin man astride a black horse, the shorter, stouter figure holding the horse's bridle. The men drew pistols and cocked the hammers.
Chauncey and his wife raised their hands in surrender. The standing robber walked to Marla and snatched the satchel from her shoulder. With a sneer, he grabbed one of Marla's outstretched arms and pulled her from her mount. She landed in the dirt by the road with a heavy thud. He stood over the fallen woman with his gun drawn.
In the image, Chauncey looked into the eyes of the second thief who kept both pistols trained on him. Chauncey tensed, causing his horse to start. The bandit pulled the triggers and both hammers fell with loud explosions.
The vision faded and Chauncey stared into his reflection again. Blood dripped from his nose and rippled the water anew. He saw the bleeding holes below his left eye and over his right. Pritcher's face was a study in gore, splintered bone peeking out of the wounds and bruising radiating from them. He touched his wounds, feeling with his fingertips what his eyes saw in the reflection.
"You're dead, son," a voice said behind him. Chauncey turned to where the dog had been standing and saw a man. He wore a nightshirt and a beatific smile. The face he saw was an older version of his own.
"Dad!" Chauncey tried to stand to hug his father, but dizziness kept him on the ground. "Dad, what happened to me?"
"You saw it, son."
His father waited patiently while the son sat and thought. "He shot me. With both guns. I didn't survive."
"No, you didn't."
"I'm dead."
"Yes."
After a moment of silence, a question darkened Chauncey's brow. "If I’m dead, how is it we’re talking?"
"For that, you have to drink."
"Why don't you tell me?"
The father shook his head. "I'm here to guide you, but I can only tell you what is, not what was. Anything from your previous life is what was. To know those things, you must drink. Knowledge waters the thirsty soul."
Chauncey stooped before the lake and drank again. His reflection aged before his eyes until he was looking into his father's face. The eyes stared blank from his sickbed, his mouth agape. The town doctor, a young, fat man, pulled the sheet over this face and turned to the nurse, handing her a letter addressed to Chauncey. The scene faded.
Chauncey wiped his face, but what felt like tears was blood from his wounds.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," he said to his father.
"You didn't know I was dying."
"I was told you were only ill."
Pritcher's father nodded.
"The doctor’s letter saying you had died," he said, pointing towards the water. "I never read that one."
"I know."
"Why didn't I see that letter?"
"Chauncey, it doesn't matter,” the elder Pritcher said. “We need to learn to set such concerns behind us."
The son looked into his father's eyes with steadfast resolve. "My father died without me. I could have been there. I should have been there. I want to know why I wasn't."
"How can the answer to that question bring you any peace? We are together now. Let us let go of those other worries and enjoy our time together now."
Chauncey paused briefly, and then drank from the lake and asked again, "Why didn't I see that letter?"
The father stepped back as the son stared into the water. Chauncey saw his home shimmer into view. The sight of his farmhouse made him smile. Marla stood at the door and a messenger was walking away. Chauncey watched Marla read the letter about his father's death. After a moment's pause, she walked to the fireplace and tossed the letter into the fire.
Chauncey recoiled from the vision as if the water had reached for him. "Why would she do that? Why would she burn that letter?"
His father remained silent.
"That was a week ago. You would have already been buried." Chauncey shook as his mind whirled. "If I had received that letter, I would have left right away. I would have…
"That's it. She wanted me to wait…."
Chauncey let the thought trail off. He looked at the birds that were now in the sky and listened to the crickets chirping, but none of it registered.
Chauncey sprang to his hands and knees and scrambled for the water. His father dove after him, catching him by the shoulders and stopping his advancement.
"There's nothing to be gained from what you seek to learn, son. Why torture yourself with knowledge that can only add to your grief? She is the problem of another lifetime, boy. Let her go. Let the wonder go. Let the anger go. None of it does you any good now. Release it all and come with me to Paradise."
"Not until I know."
"Know what? That she was faithless? How can that knowledge help you now? That she was faithful? Equally meaningless in your current life. What if she shed no tears or will never find rest once you are in the ground? What will you do? Let it go! Let Providence deal with her."
The father's grip slipped. Chauncey wrestled free. He cupped a handful of water to his mouth. "I want to know why my wife burned the letter. Why did she want me to go on the trip?"
Chauncey drank. Then he saw. Chauncey's body lay next to his horse on a bed of black leaves. His eyes stared vacantly through the blood that poured from his wounds. The shooter dismounted and stood over the dead man. The second bandit stooped over Chauncey, rifled through his pockets, and lifted a watch and a wallet full of bills. He walked over to his partner and handed him the wallet, while slipping the watch into his own pocket.
"We'll be around for the rest, Marla."
She stood next to her co-conspirators. "Fine, but you're not done yet."
The shooter swung hard, smacking Marla across the mouth. She fell to the ground, blood dripping from her lip. Slowly, she regained her feet and stared at the tall man. The widow shook her head and offered the unblemished side of her mouth. In a flash, his hand shot out, cracking her across the offered flesh. Marla fell backwards and lay still, dazed from the blows. Both men looked down and smiled this time. With an approving nod, the killer mounted his horse. His accomplice joined him, and they galloped off. After a time, Marla stood and walked over to the corpse that had been Chauncey Pritcher. She spat blood on the dead man and walked away, leading her horse. After a few steps, she developed a limp. She practiced her unsteady gait, experimenting with severities until she found the level that seemed right. Marla mastered her phony malady as she continued the walk back to town.
Chauncey backed away from the water slowly. His father watched from a distance as his son broke down in uncontrollable sobs. The younger Pritcher leaned against a tree, sat on the ground, and rocked while he sobbed. Tears and blood ran down both cheeks. He hung his head, the epitome of a broken man.
His father walked closer to the quiet grief. Sadness chilled the air until an icy mist started to form. White hot anger built in Chauncey causing the trunk to singe and smoke.
"Son, – I beg of you – abandon the thoughts your mind has taken. They will only lead to perdition."
Chauncey rose to his feet. Everywhere his left hand touched, fire sparked. Everywhere his right hand fell, ice formed. Seeming to be in a daze, he walked into the woods. His father walked beside him.
"Chauncey, come with me."
"I am going home."
"You can't do that. If you don't come with me to Paradise now, you're choosing damnation. You'll be trapped in these woods until your day of reckoning when you will be judged and punished."
Chauncey leveled his stare at his father. This was a new stare. His new eyes were white and pale blue and always on the verge of tears. At the center of each eye was a red-hot point, a glowing flame in an otherwise cold soul. The elder stepped away as he watched the remains of the old Chauncey burn away, lost in emotions he refused to rein.
"I was damned, judged, and punished when I married Marla. God has no threat for me now."
Chauncey's father faded into mist. Pritcher found himself standing alone on the road to Atlanta. He turned and walked towards his home. This time, he walked alone.
Low morning light and a soupy fog kept Chauncey Pritcher in almost total darkness. He shambled through the woods, sporadically stumbling and bracing himself against a tree to stay on his feet and on the path. A few feet ahead of him, a white puppy playfully galloped. The dog's pure white coloring made it almost impossible to see in the fog. Only the glint of its light blue eyes as it looked back to Chauncey every few steps distinguished it from the misty surroundings.
"I'm going to Atlanta, friend," he said to his escort. "Can you take me there?"
The puppy barked and continued its gallop.
"I'm going to Atlanta," he mumbled to himself. He stopped in his tracks and looked up towards the sky he could not see. "Why? Why am I going to Atlanta?" Chauncey felt pressure on his leg and looked down. The puppy was rubbing against his feet. "Do you know?"
The dog let out a small whine.
"Shit. I can’t see anything." He strained to see as far as he could in the dim light and spotted a fallen tree. Chauncey walked to the log and sat down. The dog sat before him, panting happily. "Bear with me, friend. I'm quite tired. I must have walked very far today. I started in… I started from……" The pain in Chauncey's head drowned out the memory. "Do you know from whence I travel?"
The puppy let out a high-pitched bark but remained seated.
Chauncey rubbed his forehead and felt it was wet. "Damp weather," he mumbled more to himself than to his escort. "If only I could drink some of it. I'm so thirsty."
The puppy sprang to its feet, barking enthusiastically. As it dashed down the path, Chauncey followed, not wanting to lose sight of the only other living thing this dense forest and denser fog seemed to contain. The puppy wound its way along the path, and then dashed off into the woods, weaving between the trees. In a brief time, Chauncey stood on the banks of a clear, glassy lake. The puppy stood nearby, panting and tail-wagging.
"'Ask and ye shall receive,' eh, friend? Now, can you tell me why I go to Atlanta?" Chauncey scooped a handful of water to his lips and drank deep. Sweet, cool water caressed his tongue and washed away his thirst. Overcome with relief, Chauncey dunked his head into the water and let it flow over his neck. As he pulled out of the lake, he watched the water ripple, distorting the reflection. The blood red water aged his face and grayed his hair. Dull, sunken eyes and cheeks covered in black splotches. Chauncey knew this face.
"My father is sick. My father needs me in Atlanta." With renewed energy, Chauncey stood up and prepared to find his way back to the road to Atlanta.
A single bark caught Chauncey's ear. The woods were silent, and he was totally alone with his escort.
An older dog – still pure white and still a puppy, maybe a few months old – now sat where the young pup was only moments ago. One ear flopped down while the other stood straight. The dog leapt, turned, and panted, its oversized feet flopping and splashing in the shore's waters. It paused briefly, seeming to look at Chauncey, and then boldly leapt past him, retracing the path to the road.
"What happened? Where did you come from?" the traveler asked as he followed the animal.
His guide barked twice but kept galloping ungainly.
"The fog is lifting some," Chauncey mumbled. "I could barely see the ground earlier."
The couple moved through the woods and back to the road. The trees had thick trunks with a few black leaves on the branches. With only white mist, gray gravel, and black trees passing with each step, nothing distracted Chauncey's mind as he marched along. Time passed, measured by footsteps.
"Something isn't right, friend," Chauncey said after a time of silent reflection. "I walk along with nothing. No food, no water, and no way of knowing where exactly I am. This would be a fool's journey. So, why would I be out here like this?"
Chauncey's puppy guide tripped over its feet trying to stop suddenly. The pup hopped to his feet and bounded off the road, winding a new path through the trunks. Following his guide, Chauncey arrived back at the lake. Thirsty again, he stooped and took another drink, and then stared at his reflection. In place of his pale, ashen face, he saw the image of a woman with hazel eyes and long hair as black as a stormy midnight sky. She wore a dark riding habit and carried a satchel. She opened the bag and withdrew an apple.
"Marla, my wife. She was with me. I must have left her. Oh, no!"
Turning to leave, Chauncey faced his companion, who was now a snow white, bright blue eyed, full grown German shepherd. The disorienting substitution made Chauncey's head throb. His ready feet weakened. He stumbled onto the seat of his pants.
"Why…. It doesn't matter. I've got to get to Marla." Chauncey stood slowly and staggered into the forest. The fog had lifted. The crunching sound of snapping twigs and crushing foliage caught his attention. The dog ran past Pritcher and turned back, snarling and barking and blocking Chauncey's attempts to pass.
"Get out of my way! I can't go without Marla."
The dog snapped at Pritcher's legs, causing him to take steps backwards. He tripped over a root and fell back to the waterline. After looking for a stick or rock nearby to use as a weapon and finding none, Chauncey resorted to pleading.
"Please, let me by! I need to get back to her!"
The barking continued with renewed energy.
"Oh, why won't you let me be?"
Suddenly, the dog shed its threatening stance, sitting on its haunches, and perking its ears.
"Why so calm? I asked why and you grew silent. Is there a why? A reason?"
The dog smiled and started panting.
"There is a reason. Well, my friend, as you don't talk, I'm afraid we're at a bit of an impasse. How can I find out the reason?"
His companion barked and wagged its tail. It trotted over to the water and began to drink.
Chauncey carefully considered the actions and his past trips to the shoreline. Then, he took another drink and stared into the water.
The ripples faded and he looked upon a scene of him and his wife traveling on horseback through the black forest. They approached two men in black robes – a tall thin man astride a black horse, the shorter, stouter figure holding the horse's bridle. The men drew pistols and cocked the hammers.
Chauncey and his wife raised their hands in surrender. The standing robber walked to Marla and snatched the satchel from her shoulder. With a sneer, he grabbed one of Marla's outstretched arms and pulled her from her mount. She landed in the dirt by the road with a heavy thud. He stood over the fallen woman with his gun drawn.
In the image, Chauncey looked into the eyes of the second thief who kept both pistols trained on him. Chauncey tensed, causing his horse to start. The bandit pulled the triggers and both hammers fell with loud explosions.
The vision faded and Chauncey stared into his reflection again. Blood dripped from his nose and rippled the water anew. He saw the bleeding holes below his left eye and over his right. Pritcher's face was a study in gore, splintered bone peeking out of the wounds and bruising radiating from them. He touched his wounds, feeling with his fingertips what his eyes saw in the reflection.
"You're dead, son," a voice said behind him. Chauncey turned to where the dog had been standing and saw a man. He wore a nightshirt and a beatific smile. The face he saw was an older version of his own.
"Dad!" Chauncey tried to stand to hug his father, but dizziness kept him on the ground. "Dad, what happened to me?"
"You saw it, son."
His father waited patiently while the son sat and thought. "He shot me. With both guns. I didn't survive."
"No, you didn't."
"I'm dead."
"Yes."
After a moment of silence, a question darkened Chauncey's brow. "If I’m dead, how is it we’re talking?"
"For that, you have to drink."
"Why don't you tell me?"
The father shook his head. "I'm here to guide you, but I can only tell you what is, not what was. Anything from your previous life is what was. To know those things, you must drink. Knowledge waters the thirsty soul."
Chauncey stooped before the lake and drank again. His reflection aged before his eyes until he was looking into his father's face. The eyes stared blank from his sickbed, his mouth agape. The town doctor, a young, fat man, pulled the sheet over this face and turned to the nurse, handing her a letter addressed to Chauncey. The scene faded.
Chauncey wiped his face, but what felt like tears was blood from his wounds.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," he said to his father.
"You didn't know I was dying."
"I was told you were only ill."
Pritcher's father nodded.
"The doctor’s letter saying you had died," he said, pointing towards the water. "I never read that one."
"I know."
"Why didn't I see that letter?"
"Chauncey, it doesn't matter,” the elder Pritcher said. “We need to learn to set such concerns behind us."
The son looked into his father's eyes with steadfast resolve. "My father died without me. I could have been there. I should have been there. I want to know why I wasn't."
"How can the answer to that question bring you any peace? We are together now. Let us let go of those other worries and enjoy our time together now."
Chauncey paused briefly, and then drank from the lake and asked again, "Why didn't I see that letter?"
The father stepped back as the son stared into the water. Chauncey saw his home shimmer into view. The sight of his farmhouse made him smile. Marla stood at the door and a messenger was walking away. Chauncey watched Marla read the letter about his father's death. After a moment's pause, she walked to the fireplace and tossed the letter into the fire.
Chauncey recoiled from the vision as if the water had reached for him. "Why would she do that? Why would she burn that letter?"
His father remained silent.
"That was a week ago. You would have already been buried." Chauncey shook as his mind whirled. "If I had received that letter, I would have left right away. I would have…
"That's it. She wanted me to wait…."
Chauncey let the thought trail off. He looked at the birds that were now in the sky and listened to the crickets chirping, but none of it registered.
Chauncey sprang to his hands and knees and scrambled for the water. His father dove after him, catching him by the shoulders and stopping his advancement.
"There's nothing to be gained from what you seek to learn, son. Why torture yourself with knowledge that can only add to your grief? She is the problem of another lifetime, boy. Let her go. Let the wonder go. Let the anger go. None of it does you any good now. Release it all and come with me to Paradise."
"Not until I know."
"Know what? That she was faithless? How can that knowledge help you now? That she was faithful? Equally meaningless in your current life. What if she shed no tears or will never find rest once you are in the ground? What will you do? Let it go! Let Providence deal with her."
The father's grip slipped. Chauncey wrestled free. He cupped a handful of water to his mouth. "I want to know why my wife burned the letter. Why did she want me to go on the trip?"
Chauncey drank. Then he saw. Chauncey's body lay next to his horse on a bed of black leaves. His eyes stared vacantly through the blood that poured from his wounds. The shooter dismounted and stood over the dead man. The second bandit stooped over Chauncey, rifled through his pockets, and lifted a watch and a wallet full of bills. He walked over to his partner and handed him the wallet, while slipping the watch into his own pocket.
"We'll be around for the rest, Marla."
She stood next to her co-conspirators. "Fine, but you're not done yet."
The shooter swung hard, smacking Marla across the mouth. She fell to the ground, blood dripping from her lip. Slowly, she regained her feet and stared at the tall man. The widow shook her head and offered the unblemished side of her mouth. In a flash, his hand shot out, cracking her across the offered flesh. Marla fell backwards and lay still, dazed from the blows. Both men looked down and smiled this time. With an approving nod, the killer mounted his horse. His accomplice joined him, and they galloped off. After a time, Marla stood and walked over to the corpse that had been Chauncey Pritcher. She spat blood on the dead man and walked away, leading her horse. After a few steps, she developed a limp. She practiced her unsteady gait, experimenting with severities until she found the level that seemed right. Marla mastered her phony malady as she continued the walk back to town.
Chauncey backed away from the water slowly. His father watched from a distance as his son broke down in uncontrollable sobs. The younger Pritcher leaned against a tree, sat on the ground, and rocked while he sobbed. Tears and blood ran down both cheeks. He hung his head, the epitome of a broken man.
His father walked closer to the quiet grief. Sadness chilled the air until an icy mist started to form. White hot anger built in Chauncey causing the trunk to singe and smoke.
"Son, – I beg of you – abandon the thoughts your mind has taken. They will only lead to perdition."
Chauncey rose to his feet. Everywhere his left hand touched, fire sparked. Everywhere his right hand fell, ice formed. Seeming to be in a daze, he walked into the woods. His father walked beside him.
"Chauncey, come with me."
"I am going home."
"You can't do that. If you don't come with me to Paradise now, you're choosing damnation. You'll be trapped in these woods until your day of reckoning when you will be judged and punished."
Chauncey leveled his stare at his father. This was a new stare. His new eyes were white and pale blue and always on the verge of tears. At the center of each eye was a red-hot point, a glowing flame in an otherwise cold soul. The elder stepped away as he watched the remains of the old Chauncey burn away, lost in emotions he refused to rein.
"I was damned, judged, and punished when I married Marla. God has no threat for me now."
Chauncey's father faded into mist. Pritcher found himself standing alone on the road to Atlanta. He turned and walked towards his home. This time, he walked alone.
