Forest of Forget-me-Not

FOREST OF FORGET-ME-NOT

A tale by Chibouk the Stray

She awoke to the patter of rain on her forehead. With her eyes closed she listened. The crisp snap of droplets rolling off leaves. The waving waltz of grass in the wind. The creaking of bark and twig. It took her great effort to open her eyes, so heavy and reluctant, but finally she made them comply.

She saw she was in a forest.

She did not remember entering.

The wind cooled the rain on her cheeks, but she did not feel cold. A coat was loosely draped over her shoulders. It was too big for her and it smelled like tobacco and figs, but it was warm and woollen, and she welcomed its embrace. The sky overhead was a sliver of silver, the clouds mostly obscured by a canopy of leaves. As she glanced down she saw a man was watching her, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He stood but a few paces away and studied her with dark, sunken eyes. She should’ve felt alarmed, but there was something about his hunched position and his gentle smile that told her he was not a marauder.

‘I’m glad you are awake, Eleanor Nettleheart,’ the man said. Although he spoke slowly and his voice sounded dark and rough, there was a sincerity to his words.

‘This must be your coat,’ Eleanor said, unmoving. ‘Aren’t you cold? Mister…’

‘Ashenburough. Theodore Ashenburough, botanist and potion master. And no, I welcome the cold.’

‘You’re a wizard?’

‘As are you,’ Theodore said, after which he rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms, letting out an elongated yawn. ‘Though you prefer the moniker wood witch, for reasons that are beyond me.’

Eleanor blinked in surprise. ‘’How can it be that you know who I am, yet I don’t know you at all?’

As Theodore’s smile widened Eleanor saw the lines and folds on his face. The man was advanced in years, and he looked tired.

No, not tired. Exhausted.

‘The answer to your question,’ he said, ‘pertains to the woods we find ourselves in. But before we get into any of that, will you join me for a walk? I made a hearty vegetable soup, though what’s left of the fire I dare not say.’

The man stepped forward and extended his wrinkled hand. After a pause Eleanor took it and allowed herself to be hoisted up, puzzled yet intrigued by the stranger who knew her.

‘Come, we won’t take long. This way.’

Eleanor allowed the man to lead her through the shrubbery, tracing a faded path between patches of flowers that grew blue and purple petals. She could make out the path consisted of his footsteps. Wait – there were other prints in the soil, now soft and moist, that were too small to be from his feet. She looked at her shoes and realised they were an exact fit.

‘Here we are,’ Theodore said, brushing some branches away to reveal a cosy clearing. A pot hung over a dying fire and Eleanor could see steam escape from under the lid. Theodore walked over to a fallen tree trunk and sat down, inviting her to do the same. Silently she accepted, subconsciously clasping his coat a little tighter.

‘How do you know me, Theodore Ashenborough?’ she asked.

‘Theo, please. First, soup. You must be hungry.’ Theo grabbed two clay bowls from behind the trunk, inspected them and blew in one to shoo away a spider. Then he took off his backpack and rummaged through for some spoons and a ladle, after which he approached the smoulder and looked inside the pot. He grimaced at first, before raising his brow and finally nodding as he scooped a royal amount of soup in each bowl.

‘There. Not as good as mum used to make it, but then mum never had to deal with rain in the kitchen.’

Before Eleanor could respond Theo offered her a hot, steamy bowl, and when she took it and smelled the fresh roots and herbs she realised the man had been correct: she was hungry. Softly she stirred and blew the soup, then brought a spoonful to her mouth. It was surprisingly thick and flavourful – wait what was that crunchy thing that sought to get stuck in her teeth? Scowling she picked the culprit away and examined it between her fingers.

‘Pinecone.’

Theo laughed and scratched his head. ‘I guess I missed one or two. Pinecone soup is rather healthy. Or so sayeth mum.’

For the first time since she woke up Eleanor smiled, and despite the odd addition of pinecones this was a delightful little veggie soup. When she saw Theodore spitting out a bit of cone as well she laughed. Before too long the bowls were empty.

‘Your mum has a curious taste in soups,’ she said.

‘And it has grown curiouser still,’ Theo answered, ‘though that may be the senescence, bless.’

Eleanor let out a content sigh and stared at the thin wisps of smoke that slithered up from the firewood. Some time passed before she spoke. ‘That was lovely, Theo, you seem like a nice man. Which is why I hate to impose, but…’

‘But I haven’t answered your question. Yes, I believed the answer would be easier to stomach on a full, eh, stomach.’

Concern crept into Eleanor like a chill up her spine. She saw that Theodore had noticed her unease, as he flashed her a smile that faded a little too quickly.

Theo cleared his throat. ‘In the left pocket of your vest you keep a leather-bound notebook. Would you kindly take it out?’

Slowly Eleanor did what Theo asked.

‘The bookmark should be somewhere in the middle, between a page with spells and a page with a tally.’

With growing suspicion Eleanor opened her notebook by pulling the bookmark to the side. Theo spoke the truth: on the left there was a list of spells, some of which had been crossed through. The page on the right showed a row of stripes, the first four being hashed through, as a means of keeping score. How could Theo know about this? Had he searched her? No, it was clear she had written the lines and spells herself, using her trusty, stubby pencil (which she had felt in her pocket when fishing out the notebook). But how Theo knew about the spells was not nearly as troubling as the type of spells she had written down. Ascendele had been crossed through, which meant she (or they) had tried to fly. Exitas was mentioned in a couple of spells, implying she had wanted to escape from something. But what really irked her was the first spell in the list, crossed through multiple times in vivid frustration:

ET MEMINISSE ME

She kept staring at the phrase, as if hoping that by doing so the words would take effect, for the spell had been meant to make her remember. The irony was that she did not remember writing the spell at all, nor did she remember the other spells or the tally. She flicked back one page and found her notes on how to catch crimson-gold jewel beetles. She did remember writing that down, about two weeks ago, when she was out to acquire the critters for her bug collection.

‘How many stripes do you count?’ Theo asked. It almost caught her off guard.

‘Seven. Eight, eight stripes.’

‘Kindly take out that stubby steed of yours and add one more.’

Eleanor bit her lip. Theo even knew her pencil’s pet name. With a tremble in her hands she went for her pocket.

‘Why can’t I remember us meeting?’ she asked, trying to ignore the quiver in her voice.

‘Good, you are catching on.’

‘I really am not. It’s just – well, the spells…’

Theo yawned and gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘They paint a rather sombre picture, don’t they.’

‘It feels more like a puzzle of which most pieces are missing.’

‘A fitting metaphor. And I am sorry, I truly am, but the few pieces that I have will not alleviate your worries.’

Eleanor looked at the old man who sat beside her. He must’ve seen the strain on her face, for he once again presented her with that gentle – that stupidsmile. Had it not been for his tired visage she would’ve slapped it off his face.

‘Apparently it was a matter of mistrust at first,’ Theo began, ‘with a lot of blaming and debating on the topic of who hexed who. Being strangers didn’t quite help the matter along. We didn’t get very far, those first few rounds.’

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat. What did he mean by “first few rounds”?

‘Eventually one of us found out that we would lose all memory of each other, as well as of these woods, whenever sleep took us. That is when we started the tally and when we decided to take turns to rest.’

Eleanor clasped the coat tighter and brought her fist to her chest. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe, and as she drew in large gulps of air she turned to the fire once more, fixating on the battle of the final brave specks of wood that hissed and spat against the arrows of rain in a stubborn, admirable defiance. Their end was signalled by drums of war that came at the courtesy of distant thunder.

When she looked up she saw Theo was staring into the fire too.

‘So every time one of us sleeps…’ she began.

‘The other must tell this tale.’ He finished.

‘And before we decided to do that? You mentioned we bickered and fought, but how can you know if sleep made us forget?’

Theo grabbed a notebook of his own from his bag. ‘I appeared to have scribbled a thing or two here about our encounters – though I won’t read it to you, as I fear my words weren’t exactly flattery. I also wrote of my surprise finding my thoughts readily expressed – and in my own handwriting at that. But the notion of memory loss came from you, I believe; I never did have the wit to come to a conclusion like that.’

‘And my spells…’

‘Failed attempts, alas. We have yet to find a solution to our recurring predicament. Until then we are trapped, you and I, meeting one another for the first time, over and over.’

The two wizards fell silent and once more looked at the fire. The battle was over – the rain had won. The notion filled Eleanor with great sorrow.

‘That reminds me,’ Theo said, rummaging in his pack. He drew forth a long and thin stick, polished and painted black and green. A tiny crystal was embedded at the thicker end, flashing like the rear end of a firefly. Gently the old man presented it to her.

‘You took my wand?’

‘Perish the thought! You entrusted it to me so I could try and break the heinous hex that traps us so. I failed in that regard, and so I must return the wand to its owner, and ask for your help. Will you help me, Eleanor Nettleheart?’

Eleanor took the wand and pressed it against her buxom, closing her eyes. She felt tears well up at the comfort of having her wand with her, even if she hadn’t thought of it until now. Then she stood up and pointed the stick at Theo, who stared at her with those kind, thoughtful eyes, and she let her tears roll.

‘What if this is a trick? What if you made this up, used my wand to manipulate me? To make me forget?’

His smile never dissipated as he looked her straight in the eyes. ‘If you truly believe that you may strike me down. I shan’t stop you.’

That smile. That damned smile and those kind, sullen eyes.

Eleanor lowered her arm. She felt her face contort in what would become an uncontrollable bawl, and having shed her tears already she did not want this man – this sweet and patient man – to witness her break down.

‘I need a muh-moment,’ she managed.

‘Of course. It’s a lot to take in. Just don’t take too long, please. There are still a few things I must share with you.’

Nodding Eleanor turned and walked away in what she hoped would not appear as a hasty retreat, passing through the patchwork of flowers and disappearing in the trees. When she believed Theo couldn’t see her anymore she dared to walk faster, until finally her heart could take no more and she ran, sobbing, through the woods, letting her tears join the rain. Finally she collapsed, unable to bear the weight of her emotions. She beat the ground and gave a loud wail, clawing her way to the nearest tree and grabbing it like a child clinging to her mother’s skirt. There she cried, letting the waves of anger and agony and despair wash over her, until at last the storm of feelings passed. In the quiet she sat and looked up at the rooftop of leaves that bowed to the gentle if constant intrusion that was the rain.

Eleanor drew in a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then released it, and noticed her heart was calm. It was time, she decided, to go back and help Theo with their plight. Unburdened by her fears she stood up and made her way back, her wand firmly pressed in the palm of her hand.

‘I am back, Theo,’ she said upon entering the clearing. ‘Sorry to have kept you wai…’

The man sat still, hands folded in what could’ve been a prayer. His chin was pressed to his chest. His eyes were closed. And despite her best efforts, Eleanor couldn’t help but shed another tear. Carefully she unclasped his coat and took it off her shoulders, before draping it over him like a blanket. She took some steps back and whisked her wand through the air, beginning to practice those spells she had not yet crossed from her list.

***

The hoot of an owl made Theo stir. The cadence of crickets signalled to him it was night.

Why were there crickets? Owls? The breath of the wind in his neck?

He opened his eyes to find himself hunched in front of a fire. A pot hung over it – his pot – though how it had gotten there was a mystery. The clearing was surrounded with flowers, which he recognised as the genus Myosotis, more commonly known as forget-me-nots.

Then he noticed the woman who sat at the fire, eyeing him with great intent. He did not know her, but when she realised he had seen her she smiled to him like an old friend.

‘Good to see you, Theodore Ashenborough. We have a lot to discuss.’