The Gray House

The jokes about the Forest became commonplace for him after about a week at the Roach Motel. He had learned to ignore them. He had learned to ignore many things. The mushrooms that seemed to sprout in the dark corners overnight. The local rats, whistling as they ran by. The wondrously multicolored feathers that the somber guesthouse kids played with. “Who knows when you might end up in the Forest?”

He closed his eyes and tried to end up there. The smell of the strange mushrooms, when they pried them off the walls, enveloped him. Was that how the Forest smelled? Black Forest. Blackwood.

“If you are here, please come,” he said.

“That’s not the way to call it,” someone said.

He opened his eyes and sprang up in panic.

It was pitch-dark. No streetlight, no illuminated windows of the house. Only the leaves, rustling and whispering. And also coolness. The air felt different, no city could have air like this, no town or village. The fear that took hold of him turned it chilly. How could he have wished to end up here? He hugged the backpack, thinking only of the coat that he’d so stupidly left back in the Roach Motel. So warm. To take the compass and leave the coat. What an idiot. What good would knowing which way was north do him now?

He rummaged in the backpack, even though he knew that there was no coat there, no flashlight, not even a book of matches. He was doing it just to give himself something to do, to push away the panic. His fingers stumbled on the compass. He took it out, brought it closer to his eyes, and realized that he could see it. Not just the glowing needle, all of it, every last mark. He flipped open the notepad. In a way that was different than under sunlight, he could still somehow see the writing and, what’s more, read it. The Forest glowed. Not for everyone, only for those who could see in the dark. It appeared that he could.

A giggle nearby spooked him. He turned around and then, unexpectedly for himself, tumbled into the grass and came back up three paces from where he had been standing, under the eaves of the nearest tree. He did it smoothly and instantaneously, in one fluid motion. Unconsciously. As soon as he leaned against the tree he forgot everything. It wasn’t just a warm safe place, more like an embrace. The tree embraced him like only a tree could, soothing, protecting, sharing its strength with him. He forgot to think about the invisible danger, giving himself fully to this feeling of oneness. As he pressed his face against the scratchy bark, he started crying.

“Welcome home,” someone said.

That someone came out from behind the next tree and stopped. He was wearing a T-shirt with Yellowstone Park written on it and smiling. Or maybe scowling. And he wasn’t entirely human. His eyes glinted green in the dark, like a dog’s.

“Hello, Blind,” Noble said, recalling everything he had not been able to remember for the past six months. “How did you find me?”

Blind laughed.

“I didn’t. It was you who found me, you forgetful Jumper.”

GINGER’S TALE

She lived there too. In Blackwood. But she wasn’t staying at the Roach Motel all the time, oh no, you could keep that filthy hovel. Only forgetful Jumpers and total losers lived there, and she was neither, thank you very much. Blackwood was a dump, for sure, but it was clearly close to the border, otherwise she’d never have even shown her face there.

She needed a guide. Someone to tag after. Someone who’d help her cut the loose ends and go over completely, the proper way. She knew it was possible, and she also knew she couldn’t do it by herself. She wasn’t a complete flop, but she wasn’t quite at that level either.

She worked at the eatery. At least she had enough food, and it was fairly decent. She washed dishes because she could swear at the dishes all day long and they wouldn’t mind. Objects are better than people that way. So she washed dishes, and the rest of the time she prowled around looking for a guide. Except she didn’t quite know what he was supposed to look like. Unfortunately.

Which was how she stumbled upon the Grayfaces.

That’s what everybody called them. Total creeps. They bleached their hair, wore mascara, and painted leaf-like patterns on their cheeks. The patterns were supposed to be green. Or maybe blue. Whatever, their creations looked like filth from a distance, so the name stuck. They dressed in the whitest shirts, black leather jackets, and blue jeans, horribly expensive, with buckles of their belts made, as some said, of platinum, but at the same time went around barefoot, and their feet were always dirty. They called themselves Forest Folk. Imagine that, those goblins and the Forest!