If You Go Down in the Woods Today

The forest was quiet.

That wasn’t exactly true. Sir Hester Shillyshally was holding court whilst his men laughed along with his latest tale of derring do. Flintlock, sitting separately from the group, had his own opinion on the validity of the noble's heroics but kept them to himself. It didn’t pay to criticise those who were paying you, after all.

But, whilst his retainers themselves were noisy, Flintlock could pick up no sounds from the forest itself. The marksman strained his ears as he checked over his rifle but there was nothing. No birds in the canopy. No critters in the undergrowth. Nothing.

The party had taken a break whilst their tracker, Seakan Hyde, scouted out the area. So far it had been a fool’s errand. Talk of hidden treasures in the forest had been nothing but a fanciful notion. Flintlock was sure of that. Yet the noble had taken the bait, bought some map from a stranger he’d met in a tavern, and then actually recruited a troupe to go hunting for these long lost secrets.

Flintlock paused his meticulous maintenance regime to take stock of their surroundings. Blocks of stone were arranged in such a way as to suggest that a structure had once stood there. The corners were mostly intact, giving a rough outline of where the perimeter might have been once upon a time but it took an awful lot of imagination to full in the gaps and even more to try and figure out what the structure might have been. Flintlock was sure that the ruins would have been considered precious by some of the boffins sitting safe and secure in their seats of learning but it wasn’t exactly what he would call treasure. He was pretty sure that Sir Shillyshally thought likewise.

There was another loud guffaw from the huddle of men gathered around the campfire. They’d all spurned Flintlock’s advice to not light a fire. To post guards. To stay on the alert.

“What should we have to fear in this forest?” had been Sir Shillyshally’s reply when the marksman had made known his concerns. “Crumples and snarks? No, whatever’s in this forest should be scared of us!”

The men had cheered loudly at this pointless display of bravado. The fire had been lit. No sentries had been posted. The men had feasted loudly.

Flintlock had opted to heed his own advice and not follow suit. He was huddled in the lea of one of the standing corner sections of the ruined building. From his position he had clear views of all four access points to the overgrown interior. Unfortunately, he also had a clear view of his temporary companions.

“Flinty, come join us!” called one of the men.

He was a short fellow with a hooked nose. Flintlock had dubbed him Hooknose. Most had been given an epithet of some sort. It was easier than trying to learn everyone’s real name. He doubted he would be associating with any of them again after the conclusion of this endeavour.

“Yeah, come on, Fiinty, don’t be such a square!”

Flintlock shifted his gaze to the next speaker, a short, fat man in a frock coat, tricorn hat and eyepatch. Flintlock had dubbed him One-eye, though which eye was supposed to be out of action varied and he had seen the eyepatch, which dug into the man’s fleshy jowls in a seemingly painful fashion, change sides multiple times, sometimes in the course of one day.

Flintlock raised a hand to wave off their insulting invitations. He could have responded, but what would have been the point? They’d made up their mind about him as a collective and to engage would only invite further ridicule. Besides which, he didn’t want to add his voice to the commotion they were already generating.

“Stop trying to be so professional!” a third sneered, and it was all Flintlock could do not to react to this one. “We’re all trying to have fun here and there you are pretending you’re some big shot shooter.”

The man was handsome. Anyone could see that. His long hair fell in sleek tresses about a chiselled face that sported immaculately groomed facial hair. His blue eyes actually sparkled in the firelight and his shiny white teeth shone. Handsome he was and so Handsome Flintlock had dubbed him.

“Give up on the act, Flinty!” Handsome continued. “No-one’s buying it!”

It wasn’t the fact that he was handsome that bothered Flintlock. It was the fact that he seemed to think that being handsome somehow made him better than others. As if his natural looks, that he had put in no effort to achieve, somehow translated into being good at absolutely anything else. If there was anything that no-one should be buying it was the man’s ability to do anything but stand there looking pretty.

“Such a sour face!” the man continued to goad, taking Flintlock’s silence to be barely controlled rage. He was only partially correct. It took a lot to properly stoke the marksman’s ire. “You should try smiling for once! It works wonders for me!”

This didn’t get a reaction from the gathered men as some of the more recent comments, Flintlock noticed, and he wondered if the others shared his disdain of the man.

A rustle in the bushes away to Flintlock’s right had his musket to his shoulder in an instant. Eyes narrowed, his finger caressed the trigger, ready to fire. Breathing slowed, steadying the impact it was having on the lengthy barrel of his firearm.

The bushes parted to reveal a short man clad in dark layers that flowed about his slight form. He moved in a sort of persistent crouch that, however ridiculous it looked, nevertheless managed to ensure that his feet moved as silently as possible across the forest floor.

“It’s only Hyde!” Handsome guffawed. “Seriously, Flinty, you need to relax!”

The men parted at the tracker’s approach to reveal the form of the financier of this whole enterprise. Sir Hester Shillyshally struck what he probably thought was a noble pose. One black-booted foot was placed upon a handy slab of masonry, allowing one arm to rest casually on an elevated knee. He was wearing off-white attire consisting of a fitted jacket and ballooning slacks that were tucked into his boots. A firm hat of the same off-white colour rested atop his head and a thin moustache adorned his upper lip. The man looked like someone who had seen an image of an explorer in a book once, possibly as a child, and had copied it in the most minute detail.

“Tally ho, Hyde!” the man barked. “Found anything, what?”

Seakan’s every movement was furtive and he glanced nervously around at his audience before he answered.

“I found something.” His words came out in a hoarse whisper, as if they were as nervous as their speaker. “A shrine.”

Excited mutterings broke out amongst the assembled party. Flintlock didn’t blame them. It was the first positive news they’d had since they set out on this venture.

“Capital!” Shillyshally exclaimed over the hubbub. “Lead the way!”

And that that was that. No questions as to the mysterious shrine’s location or the dangers that might surround it. No concerns over the distance to it or the difficulties they might encounter on the way. Just a hurried smothering of the fire followed by a mindless charge into the woodlands in the wake of their tracker. It summed up the way the expedition had progressed since its formation, it really did.

Flintlock knew the limits of what he could control. There was little he could do about the others but that didn’t mean he had to abandon his professionalism. As the rest crashed heedlessly through the undergrowth, he cautiously brought up the rear, scanning his surroundings for any indication of an ambush.

In truth, their destination was not far. He heard the river first, gurgling happily to itself. And then the trees thinned out, then cleared altogether. At least, they did at ground level. Above, the canopy overlapped and intertwined so that, with the trunks all around and the leaves overhead, the party found themselves entering an arboreal cave with very little light infiltrating the space. And, on the far side, was the shrine that Seakan had happened upon.

It followed the same design as the clearing, if so structured a description could be applied to something so entirely formed from nature. Smaller trees grew in a tight arc, their trunks wrapping about one another and their leaves intertwining to form a deep, dark alcove into which no light entered. Shrubberies grew all about its base and flowers of all colours wove through the trunks. At the apex of the entranceway, where the branches converged, a mighty stag skull had been affixed. Mystic runes had been etched into the bone and dreamcatchers hung from its huge antlers, twisting in the faint breeze.

And yet, for all the grandeur of the shrine itself, it was its contents, nestled amongst a mass of twisting roots, that drew the eye.

“Moonstones,” Sir Shillyshally breathed.

There was a multitude, two score at least by Flintlock’s reckoning, protected from the sun by the shrine’s embrace and the dense canopy overhead. The glow they gave off gently illuminated the interior of the shrine and lit the stag's head from below, giving it an eerie cast.

“Did you take any?” the noble asked.

“On my oath, no,” Seakan swore.

Flintlock wondered how much said oath was worth. There were certainly enough moonstones that one or two missing wouldn’t be noticeable.

“Alright,” Shillyshally said, seemingly accepting the tracker at his word. “There’s plenty here to go around. But take care. Sunlight will undo them. Get them secure and under cover before you step out with them.”

The troupe needed no second bidding. They knew the wealth laid out before them and Flintlock was certain that more than a few of them were wondering how much they could get away with keeping for themselves once they got back to civilisation.

Flintlock did not rush forward with the rest. He was uneasy. The river continued to gurgle. The wind sighed through what minor gaps existed between the trees. But otherwise, behind the jubilous cries of the men as they stripped the shrine of its treasure, there was no noise.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Flintlock’s head snapped around at the feminine voice. There, in the clearing, a woman stood. She was lithe and poised, like an animal. Green strips of cloth clothed her form and long, fiery red hair cascaded about features that Flintlock could best describe as vulpine.

The men had stopped their pillaging at her call. It took a moment for them to comprehend the situation but when they did they broke out into raucous laughter.

“Get lost, treehugger,” sneered Hooknose, resuming his concealing of a particularly sizeable stone.

“Put them back,” the woman insisted, “and I promise to let you live.”

This brought about another round of laughter. Handsome put down the stone he had been covering and exited the shrine, advancing on the woman.

“Looks like moonstones aren’t the only treasure I’ll be getting from this venture,” he growled.

Flintlock, looking on from the position he had held at the tree line, was willing the woman to run. But she remained there, watching the big man approach. Then she spoke in a flat voice in a kind of chant.

“When people stray from the path of the good.”

“Quit your mumbo jumbo,” Handsome laughed.

“And desecrate shrines to the gods of the wood.”

“No gods here,” Handsome sneered. “Only me.”

“If remorse you fail to show.”

“Regrets are for the weak, darling.”

“Fear the wrath of the Wendigo.”

Handsome shook his head. “I fear nothing.”

He was upon her then and any chance the woman had of running had gone. He reached out a hand to take hold of her and Flintlock wondered for a moment if he would have to shoot his companion before he did something unspeakable. But then the woman was gone and in her place stood a beast from Flintlock’s worst nightmares.

It stood on all fours, sinewy legs culminating in clawed feet that dug grooves into the earth as it shifted with barely contained rage. And yet for all the terror that the lethal body instilled, it was the head that was truly horrifying. It was a massive stag’s skull. Mystic runes had been etched into the bone. Dreamcatchers hung from its huge antlers, or at least they did before the great head shook, sending the intricate webs flying.

Flintlock managed to tear his gaze from the apparition and glanced towards the apex of the shrine. He was not surprised to note that the stag’s skull had gone. In its place was the woman, watching with an expression of mischievous glee, her dangling legs swinging playfully. She caught Flintlock’s gaze and gifted him a playful wink. The connection lasted a moment before the Wendigo, as the woman’s rhyme had named it, roared and took back Flintlock’s attention.

Handsome had paused at the woman’s disappearance and only at the Wendigo’s bellow did he stir. But it was too late. Far too late. The beast was upon him in a moment, surging forward and rising in a flurry of slashing claws that brought the man down without retort.

Pandemonium broke out. Some men tried to flee. Others tried to attack. The Wendigo leapt amongst them like a wildcat, darting in and back on nimble limbs, surprisingly light on its feet for such a large creature, and then bursting forward to deal its own vicious brand of death.

It seemed to Flintlock, looking on in rapt fascination despite himself, that the more the Wendigo killed the more energy it had to go on doing so. It had an insatiable hunger that could not be assuaged and brought down man after man in a variety of bloody ways.

When the clearing was littered with dead bodies, the Wendigo paused. Then it turned its huge horned head in the direction of the shrine and began to prowl. Flintlock looked past its great bulk to see the trembling form of Sir Hester Shillyshally huddled amongst the moonstones. He had not fled with the rest, nor had he taken the time to find a particularly effective hiding place. Fear had rendered the man illogical.

Flintlock realised he had been holding his breath. He slowly exhaled, trying to make as little noise as possible, and raised his musket to his shoulder, determined to do what he could to prevent what was to come.

He was sure he had made no noise and yet, as soon as the firearm was aimed at the Wendigo’s exposed hindquarters, the great stag’s head whipped about and he found himself transfixed by the fiery eyes that blazed in the depths of the skull’s sockets. He tried to pull his gaze away but found that he was unable to. And then he was falling into those fires and his thoughts were consumed with the Wendigo’s own.

Shoot him.

“No,” Flintlock whimpered, though even as he forced the words past his lips his arms adjusted the musket’s trajectory to train on his hapless employer.

“No,” he said again, as his finger squeezed the trigger.

“No,” he muttered for a final time, as the firearm barked and Sir Shillyshally fell with a spray of blood.

Flintlock looked from the fallen noble to the Wendigo. It was not advancing as it had on the others and was instead regarding him with the fearsome stag’s skull head. Somehow the creature had made him do that unspeakable act. He had despised the noble, true enough, but not enough to murder him.

The thought of being made to act contrary to his morals ignited a sudden rage within him. He threw his empty musket to the ground and marched from the treeline, drawing his long hunting knife from its sheath on his belt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The woman’s warning, identical to the one uttered before the Wendigo had appeared, cut through Flintlock’s wrath and stopped him in his tracks. He glanced up at her, still sat atop the shrine and seemingly not in the slightest bit disturbed by the massacre she had just witnessed.

“It killed all my friends!”

The woman shook her head. “They weren’t your friends.”

“It made me kill Sir Shillyshally!”

“Think of it as using your body to do its work, if it helps. It killed the man; you did nothing.”

Flintlock glanced at the quite terrifying visage of the Wendigo. “What are you waiting for?” he yelled. “You killed the others! I know you’ll kill me, too!”

“You took nothing from the shrine,” the woman said when the Wendigo failed to attack. “It will defend itself if you unwisely choose to attack or, of course, if you try to take anything from the shrine, but otherwise it will leave you be.”

Flintlock shifted his gaze from the Wendigo to the woman. “I can go?”

The woman smiled. “Certainly. It would be better for all of us if you do. It always helps when one survives to tell the tale and prevent any…recurrences.”

Flintlock looked around the clearing at the fallen men. The woman’s words had done wonders to douse the fires of his anger. Now he was just one man with a knife facing down a terrifying beast that had just massacred a whole troupe of armed men. He could die here, too, but what good would that do? If he survived he could warn others, spare more lives being lost in this pointless enterprise. It wasn’t running away; it was fulfilling a noble cause.

He took one last look at the Wendigo and then at the woman. His pride had been given a valid reason to leave. The rest of his mind made him take it.

Slowly he backed away from the Wendigo, pausing only to scoop up his musket as he broke through treeline.

Then he turned and ran for his life.