Eyes of the Forest Page 4

  Bob was an imperfect vessel, but he was still the vessel. “Your words are so much better than you are. You write about heroes when you’re nothing but a coward. Do you want me to let you go? Then you have to write.”

  “But I can’t,” Bob whined. “Don’t you see, Derrick? That’s why I came up with this dumb idea in the first place. I have writer’s block!”

  “That’s just a trick your mind is playing on you.”

  “What do you think I write with, Derrick?” Bob tapped his temple. “With my mind. So if it decides to stop cooperating, I can’t do anything about it.”

  Derrick felt like Queen Jeyne when people didn’t take her seriously. They soon learned their mistake. “Oh, I think there are ways to change your mind. Your mind lives inside your body. In fact, it needs your body to exist.”

  “What do mean?” As Bob shrank back, Derrick felt himself expand. He had found the old man’s weakness, and now was the time to exploit it. He’d say anything that would make him write. And hopefully words would be enough.

  “Of course, we won’t hurt your fingers. We won’t hurt your eyes. We won’t hurt your head because we need that brain of yours. In fact, I’m sorry I hit you in the head. I got carried away.”

  “What are you saying?” The old man’s voice shook.

  “I’m saying that while your mind might need your body, it doesn’t necessarily need your whole body to write. For example, you don’t need your knees or your feet or your ankles to write. You don’t need your legs.”

  “Oh my God.” Bob went very, very still.

  Derrick saw himself reflected in Bob’s shiny eyes. Tall, dark hair, sharp features. He looked far more like one of the heroes in Swords and Shadows than Bob did.

  Or maybe he looked more like one of the villains.

  But weren’t the villains always the most interesting characters?

  BOB

  A Mask and Gloves

  “I’ll write!” Bob babbled. “I promise!” He made for the treadmill desk.

  Derrick’s lips thinned. He didn’t look convinced. And while the old Bob might have discounted him, today’s Bob had woken up to a bloody pillow and a dent on his head. All courtesy of a teenager.

  Bob stepped on the treadmill and picked up a piece of paper, trying to calm his racing heart. Talk about a plot twist. Although Bob had created many teenage and even prepubescent characters who were capable of treachery and betrayal, he’d always considered it artistic license.

  All the other times he’d interacted with Derrick, the kid had been obsequious. Fawning. He was clearly a far better actor than Bob would have guessed. It must be thanks to his years LARPing in the Mysts of Cascadia.

  Because it had to be acting, right? Derrick wouldn’t really hurt Bob, would he? He just wanted him to write.

  Better start writing Eyes of the Forest. Or else!

  Bob set aside the threatening note.

  His fan mail had given him the idea. Thanks to the TV show, these days the amount was overwhelming. After an incident with a suspicious white powder that turned out to be talcum, he’d been forced to hire a service to go through it all. Now someone wearing a mask and gloves opened every letter and package before dumping it all in a box and sending it on to Joanne, who then gave it to him.

  The box he’d received a couple of months earlier had been typical. Three marriage proposals. A vial of a dark red liquid that appeared to be blood. (Although would the service have allowed it through if it really was?) Four appeals for money. A request he fly to Arkansas to be the surprise guest at a fan’s sixtieth birthday party. A dried rose. An urn filled with a dead fan’s ashes, accompanied by the request he either eat them or spread them on his grounds. Three baby announcements for children named after characters. A heart-shaped hand-carved wooden box that, to his relief, contained nothing. An ornately framed photo of a woman who harbored the delusion she looked exactly liked Jancy. A handmade white plush unicorn, complete with feathery wings. A mounted plexiglass circle proclaiming Bob had won an award he’d never heard of. A photo of a fresh tattoo of Margarit’s name. (Spelled Margrit.)

  And among the praise and gifts and appeals had been a postcard with no return address. “Someone should chain you to a typewriter and force you to write Eyes of the Forest.” It was a routine disgruntled comment, the kind the service didn’t even bother to flag.

  But it had sparked the idea. If someone forced him to write, then surely he would.

  On paper, this cabin was perfect. It belonged to Derrick’s family. There was no cable. No Wi-Fi. No mail service. No close neighbors. And it was winter, so all the summer hikers and bikers would be gone.

  It had started out as a fantasy, but the more Bob thought about it, the more real it got. It was, he realized, a genius idea. Once at the cabin, he would have no choice but to write. And so it had all been arranged—Derrick to pretend to fake kidnap him (but not in front of witnesses, lest anyone call the police), the isolated cabin, the old-fashioned typewriter.

  Bob had told Derrick not to let him go, no matter what he said. While they’d designated a safe word, he’d planned to never use it.

  It had seemed a perfect plan. But clearly Bob hadn’t thought about it enough. And he hadn’t anticipated them adding their own wrinkles. Like chaining him to a treadmill instead of a desk. And the food was supposed to be cold pizza, regular Coke, beef jerky, and a variety of flavors of Doritos, Takis, and Kettle Chips.

  Now under Derrick’s watchful gaze, Bob lined up the edges of the paper with the typewriter. With a clicking sound he turned the knob to move it down and around the roller. He hadn’t used a typewriter in decades, but the muscle memory returned without conscious thought.

  Derrick was still staring at him, arms crossed. “You need to start the treadmill. Press that green button.”

  Bob made a face. “I can’t write with you watching me. I need to put myself in the scene, and I can’t do that when you’re just standing there staring at me.”

  And there was no way he was going to be able to figure out how to free himself if he was being observed.

  BRIDGET

  Show Some Respect

  Despite standing in line seven hours, Bridget had barely managed to snag a seat. For Haldon she’d decided to endure the panicky, trapped feeling being in a crowd sometimes gave her. Many people in the audience were dressed in elaborate costumes, which added to the feeling of unreality. The lady ahead of her was wearing a plastic unicorn horn and wings covered with real feathers. She kept shifting, which meant that in order to see Haldon, Bridget had to constantly alter her own position as well. But she didn’t care. She was hearing Haldon himself talk about the book that would soon take her out of her life, make her forget the hole that could never be filled.

  After he finished his reading, he took questions from the audience.

  The fourth one came from a man dressed like a friar. “Will we ever see more of Nandy Bluestone?” Some of the people around Bridget looked puzzled, but she knew exactly who he was talking about. Nandy Bluestone, a saucy tavern wench, had last been seen flirting with the king in book two. The implication was that even more had transpired between them.

  “No comment.” Haldon’s smile was teasing. “But as I wrote, Nandy does have good childbearing hips…”

  “No you didn’t,” Bridget heard herself saying. Too loudly. The room fell silent. Heads turned.

  Above his trademark silk scarf, Haldon’s features bunched as he focused on her. “What did you say?” He looked angry. But what he’d said had been wrong.

  “It’s in Darkest Heart. You said Nandy Bluestone has narrow hips.”

  People muttered to each other. The woman ahead of her turned around. The feathers on one wing scratched Bridget’s cheek. She waved a finger. “Do you know who you’re talking to, child? That is the author himself. Show some respect!”

  Bridget’s eyes burned with tears. All she’d wanted to do was meet the man who’d made her mom’s slow death and her own lonely
life bearable, even joyful. And instead she’d made him mad.

  Bridget got to her feet. She had to leave. As soon as possible.

  A voice boomed over the murmurs of the crowd. It was Haldon. “Can you show me?” From the stacks on the table next to him, he picked up Darkest Heart and held it out.

  Feeling all eyes on her, Bridget walked toward him. Up close, his signature violet scarf was spotted and his eyes tired. But she didn’t read any anger in them. As Bridget took the book, he said, “While she’s looking, I’ll answer a couple more questions.”

  Bridget kept her back to the crowd. She didn’t know exactly where the reference was, but she had a visceral feeling as to where to begin. Starting about a third of the way through, she began skimming the text. Haldon was explaining the winged unicorns’ social structure when she spotted Nandy’s name.

  She lifted her head, and Haldon looked over at her. After she pointed at the passage, he took the book from her and read aloud.

  When Nandy Bluestone had served the king a haunch of venison, he decided the girl interested him far more than the meal. Nandy was slender as a willow branch, with narrow hips, hair as dark as a crow’s wing, and eyes that sparked with mischief. King Tristan, well in his cups, had pulled her onto his lap, saying he was sure she was more tender than the meat. She had not even pretended to protest.

  “I think we owe this young lady an apology.” Haldon put the book down and started to clap. The rest of the audience joined in. Bridget stared at the tips of her Vans, guessing her face was as red as her hair. She started to return to her seat, but Haldon put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Stay. I want to talk to you.”

  AJAY

  A Very Private Person

  “Wait.” Ajay interrupted Bridget’s story. “So you just remembered a single quote from this huge book?” It seemed impossible. “One of six huge books?”

  She smiled and shrugged. “It was only four at that point, since I hadn’t read the new one yet. And I had read all the other ones a bunch of times.”

  “Why did Haldon ask you to stay?” From his backpack, he pulled out another waxed cloth bag. This one held cherry tomatoes. He offered some to Bridget, but she waved her hand.

  “While he was signing, he asked me questions about the series. I answered every single one.”

  “That’s cool, but why did Haldon care?” Ajay popped a tomato in his mouth, relishing the tang of it. “It’s not like there was a trivia contest you could win.”

  She leaned closer, and his heart did a little hop. “Will you promise not to tell anyone?”

  Ajay pinched his finger and thumb together and then ran them across his lips, miming a zipper.

  She looked around to make sure no one was paying attention. “He offered me a job.”

  “A job?” He rocked back in surprise. “Doing what?”

  “Keeping track of all the details. Now every time he has a question about what a character looks like, or a family’s crest, or a geographic location, or who’s descended from whom, he emails me.”

  “But how do you figure out the answer?”

  “I read and reread the books and make searchable notes. It’s all in a database I made. So suppose Bob wanted to know what he said about drums in previous books. I could look that up in seconds, and it’s all cross-referenced. Like in the second book, he had a character playing a bodhran, which is this Celtic drum made from a goatskin. In the book it’s never even actually called a drum. The reader just picks that up from context. But in my database it’s listed under drum, as well as the word bodhran, and under musical instruments, and under entertainment. It also shows who played it, when, where, and for whom.”

  Ajay was impressed. “So you’re like the continuity supervisor, only for books instead of movies.”

  “What’s a continuity supervisor?”

  “Since they shoot movies out of order, the continuity supervisor makes sure that if a guy is wearing a hat in one scene, he’s still wearing it in the next.”

  She tilted her head, her hair swinging. The color was amazing. “How do you know about that?”

  “I saw it in the credits, so I googled it. I like those type of details.” He lowered his voice. “So did you sign one of those nondisclosure forms or something?”

  “It’s not like that.” She shook her head. “He’s a very private person. I respect that.” She took a deep breath. “In fact, you’re the only person I’ve told.”

  BOB

  The Quick Brown Fox

  The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, Bob typed. The keys made a scissoring, snapping sound, while his shackles jingled. His hope was the sound would be enough to make Derrick leave him in peace. Leave him long enough to figure his way out of this situation.

  Good writing rained trouble down on a character. In the best writing, the trouble was caused by the character’s own actions. Which pretty much summed up Bob’s current situation.

  The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. This time Bob’s pinky finger didn’t hit the Q key hard enough, and the metal arm fell back before it struck the paper. The antique typewriter’s black keys required a lot more force than the square white tiles on his little Apple wireless keyboard. At least with the typewriter it was clear how each tap became a letter. His computer keyboard used some wizardry called Bluetooth (a magical name if Bob had ever heard one) to transfer the faint scrabbles and twitches of his fingers into words on an unconnected screen.

  How was he going to get out of here? In the past, he’d put his characters up a metaphorical tree and then waited for them to get themselves down. If it was too easy, he threw some (metaphorical) rocks at them.

  Bob had never thought about how frightening it must feel to be high above the ground, trying to duck rocks, with no good solutions.

  A bell rang inside the typewriter, making him start. It was a signal he was nearing the edge of the paper. Still mechanically lifting his feet to keep pace with the slowly moving treadmill, Bob swiped the silver bar of the carriage return to the right. Despite everything, he enjoyed the zipping sound it made.

  The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. This time there were no mistakes. The clacking of the keys joined the low growl of the motor and the jangle of the shackles. He could hear nothing else. Was Derrick now settled in the living room? Or was he just outside the door, listening?

  Bob reviewed his limited choices. If he somehow managed to sever the cable, he could try to break out before Derrick noticed he was gone. Except the window was painted shut. Even if he got outside, hiking back to civilization would be slow going, especially since he would have to avoid roads if he wanted to avoid Derrick. And it would be dark soon. Plus his ankles were chained together, and he didn’t have a coat or even shoes. If he was lucky, he would lose toes. If he wasn’t, he would lose his life.

  Neither option seemed ideal.

  Bob found it oddly soothing to be typing the same words, to be slowly walking to nowhere. He tapped the up arrow on the treadmill and the display changed from .8 to .9. So did that mean he was walking less than a mile an hour? He pushed the button a few more times until it read 1.3. The brisker pace seemed to let his thoughts move faster. It was also helping him warm up.

  The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

  Bob sniffed. He could smell himself. The rancid stench of terror was now overlaid with the healthier sweat of a man working out. These days, he didn’t go to the gym. Too many people wanted to get his advice about the book they were secretly writing (or more often, secretly only thinking about writing) or tell him they thought a particular actor on the TV show was ill-suited to the part. He had an exercise bike at home but never used it.

  He reached the end of the page, pulled it free, and rolled in a new one. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

  If only he wrote thrillers! Then he would already have figured out how to get out of here. An intimate familiarity with medieval weaponry was no help in this situation.

  D
errick must have a phone. Everyone did these days. Could he somehow distract him and pilfer it? Then he could call 911, and they would work their magic and figure out where he was besides some cabin near Mount Hood.

  Only how could he get the phone without Derrick noticing?

  That left physical confrontation. Bob had never been in a fight of any kind. And while Derrick was scrawny, he was far younger and more agile than Bob. Bob wasn’t young, mobile, or particularly strong. But he was stubborn, with more than his fair share of guile.

  Maybe he could hit Derrick with something. But what? The room didn’t offer a lot of choices. The fruit bowl wasn’t heavy enough. He was too squeamish to use the half-full chamber pot. That left the typewriter. He hit the treadmill’s stop button.

  He would invite Derrick to read what he’d written. Imagining the boy bending over the page, he hoisted the typewriter. The effort forced a grunt between his lips. It was heavier than he’d thought. He brought it down on Derrick’s imaginary head. Once he did it for real, he would search the unconscious boy for a phone, the key to the shackles, or both. With luck, he would also find the key to the car, so he could drive away and not have to worry about him regaining consciousness before the police showed up.

  He set the typewriter back in its original position, turned on the treadmill, and resumed typing. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Sweat gathered on the small of his back as he typed and walked and waited.

  Finally, he heard the hinges creak. Turning to look, Bob nearly lost his balance.

  “I’ve been productive,” he said jovially. “Want to see what I’ve come up with?”

  Derrick came closer. Bob hit the OFF button for the treadmill. In the sudden silence, his breathing sounded too loud, too fast. Would it give him away? Maybe Derrick would chalk it up to him being out of shape.

  The boy stopped a few feet away. Not close enough for Bob to bean. But perhaps, he feared, close enough to read what he’d typed.