King of the Woods, or Trivial Pursuit

Part 40 - The Shape of the Fire

This time, Ray's body was that of a young boy, perhaps seven years old, but lean for his age and long-limbed. He wore rough-spun clothes in shades of green and brown. Leaves, twigs, acorns, and pinecones littered the ground beneath his bare feet, but there was not a single tree in sight. A score of other children danced and swayed their arms in the wind.

A young girl with plaited hair and a shawl of moss ran past him singing. A boy held yellow flowers in his outstretched hand; bumblebees buzzed between his fingers, but he did not flinch. Another girl with knobby knees shrieked as a squirrel ran up her leg. It zipped around her back, perched on her shoulder, and pulled an acorn from behind her ear.

"Come, children," said a man with a powerful voice. It took Ray a moment to recognize Roosevelt without his scars.

The children ran to Roosevelt, and Ray followed; he was only a passenger—a witness. The thought troubled him. "Hey. Roosevelt," he said. As with Linnaeus, he received no response.

"I will eat you up!" Laughing, Roosevelt lifted one of the boy's shirts and blew on his stomach.

Something crackled in the distance. Something growled.

"What's this?" Roosevelt said. A horizontal slash of orange paint marred the boy's stomach. Curious, the other children lifted their shirts. All bore the mark, including Ray.

"I know what this is!" Ray shouted to anyone, or anything, that would listen. "I already know what's going to happen!"

"Behind me." Roosevelt stood ten feet tall. Ray took it for a trick of the child's perspective, but how could twenty or more children stand in one man's shade?

The growl grew louder, accompanied by sputtering engines.

"Come!" Roosevelt said. "Try your teeth on my hide! I'll make jelly of your bones!" The sound of chainsaws receded. The children, and Ray, cheered. But the sky turned orange, and the air grew hot, and the terrible thing drew near, heralded by ammonia, rotting meat, and burning tires.

"I don't need to see this!" Ray said. "I already know!"

Ray had only smelled the King's wards before. Thanks to the Golden Bough, he saw clearly and wished that he could not. The creature was a violation. Crouching on its haunches, it measured two meters tall and at least as wide; shelves of grey lichen armored its shoulders and upper back. Its abdomen was bilious yellow and pierced by writhing, thorny vines; translucent liquid wept from the wounds, giving the creature's skin an amphibious sheen. But long, fur-trimmed limbs and powerful hands marked it as a primate. Its cheek flaps made its head look like a sideways egg, and its jaw hung open, unable to fully contain its misshapen teeth. Once, some part of it had been an orangutan. Its eyes had shone with intelligence, until its creators put them out and forced blazing embers in their place.

He recalled a fragment of a poem by Theodore Roethke:

Mother me out of here. What more with the bones allow?

Will the sea give the wind suck? A toad folds into a stone.

These flowers are all fangs. Comfort me, fury.

Wake me, witch, we'll do the dance of rotten sticks.

Ray named the mad creature after the mad poem: "The Shape of the Fire."

Roosevelt's bravado melted before it, giving way to panic, then resignation. He removed a heavy, silver coin from his pocket, marked with an owl, and squeezed it in his palm. "Run, children. I cannot defeat this foe."