Lester of Two Evils

Ben

It was cold, and the narrow path through the forest kept vanishing, forcing Lester to stop repeatedly to peer into the darkness until he could pick it up again. Usually, Lester felt more at home in the woods than anywhere else. Among the trees and streams, the hurried pace of his everyday life fell away; his worries and fears distant, eclipsed by the peaceful harmony of the natural world. However, as he ran through shadows cast by the silvery moonlight, everything was somehow different. His bare feet slid on fallen leaves, and branches slapped him, pulling at his skin and clothes. It was as if the forest itself was actively trying to prevent him from reaching the glow in the distance.

Lester's route was haphazard. He detoured around dense groves of trees and underbrush, too thick to pass through, but was always careful to keep the light in view. Muscles aching, his lungs burned as clouds of breath puffed out in front of him. Still, he refused to stop.

At last, he came crashing through a thorny thicket and stepped out into a clearing. A whoosh of wind whipped back Lester's hair, and the scratches on his face and arms stung under its icy touch.

Ahead, a raging bonfire snapped and crackled, spitting a stream of orange sparks into the black sky. Lester attempted to move closer, hoping to warm himself by the fire, but his legs had become inexplicably heavy. It was as if he were suddenly standing waist-deep in the middle of an invisible river. With each step, he could feel its powerful current pressing against him.

Pushing on, Lester leaned forward, digging his toes into the dirt. Little by little, he clawed his way closer to the flames. If he slipped, he'd be born back to the edge of the woods and forced to start again. Doubtful he'd have enough strength for a second try, he plodded carefully onward.

Progress was slow and grueling, but there was a shift as he drew close enough for the heat to begin warming his face. Like crossing an actual river, the nearer he got to the opposite shore, the easier it became. Until, by the time he arrived, the pressure was gone completely, and he stood exhausted.

"You're late."

Lester startled. "Dad?"

His father's face, bathed in flickering orange, stared at him from the other side of the bonfire. "I've been waiting for you."

"What are you doing here?" Lester asked, squinting through the shimmering heat.

"Come closer. I will show you."

"I can't. It's too hot," Lester said, gesturing between them.

"Don't be foolish. It can't hurt you." Then, as if to prove his point, Lester's father reached forward.

"Dad! Don't!" Lester cried.

Ignoring him, Mr. North plunged his hands into the flames.

"See," he said, splaying his fingers. "There's no reason to be afraid. Now you try."

Lester looked into the fire, and his stomach twisted. "I don't want to."

"It's not as though you have a choice, son."

"But, I'm not thirteen," Lester insisted.

"Don't be difficult!" His father's familiar stern tone was gone, replaced by something deep, guttural, and inhuman. "You will do as you're told!"

Against his will, Lester's arms suddenly began to rise. He watched in horror as they moved forward, pulled on by unseen puppet strings. Closing his eyes, Lester braced himself for the pain — but it didn't come.

Looking down, Lester marveled as the fire, which seemed to hold no heat at all, flowed around his fingers. Fascinated, he swept his arm along as though dragging it through the water beside a drifting canoe. The orange flames followed his movements. The colors and intersecting patterns were hypnotic, reminding him of his brother's lava-lamp.