The Forest Bull (4 page)

The Forest

To call Europe a continent is to agree, in principle, that there is a clear distinction between the East and West, as the land itself runs in an unbroken bulk from the Atlantic to Pacific oceans. From the salty pans of the southern French coast to the enormity of the undulating Pacific, the stones of the Eurasian continent are ancient and varied. Following the land eastward, the grip of European culture attenuates with distance. Massive plains and forests curl sinuously around the ancient spines of mountains thrust upwards from the basins and plains in a series of rigid divisions, defining and delineating the cultures of humans for millennia. Mountains give way to passes and valleys only to sweep forward in vast flatlands that have harbored every human habitation from the primitive to the sublime. At various locations, the hand of man rose and fell with the ages, sometimes lingering on in hidden cave grottos or lake bottoms well past their natural existence. Antiquities were commonplace, with seemingly every spadeful of earth revealing bits and bobs of human influence. For every forgotten stone foundation, steeple, or slumping barn, there was a subterranean equivalent, where commerce, spirituality, or greed had driven human hands to prize ore from shafts and deposits wherever possible. Talus and scree announced the search for this bounty in grittily splintered piles, some covered with the dust of centuries, others fresh with the disruption of current use. Profit could be heard across the continent in the form of trucks carting masses of ore.  Underneath the land, vast amounts of wealth inspired the same lust as the more obvious gifts on the surface. It simply required a different means of acquisition, and mankind was only too willing to break mountains in search of wealth.

But just as the earth
had been probed, settled, and trodden upon, there were pockets of inaccessibility. Select craggy mountain passes soared above the timberline in a haze of ice and fog, impassable to everyone except the few who used them long ago to traverse the continent. These paths, dangerous and secretive, eventually fell into disfavor and were then covered by the drifts of time as other forms of travel superseded their practicality. Rarer still, tracts of immense primary forest survived in varying states of existence. Virulent nationalism protected some of these hidden groves as parks, bulwarks standing against the advance of modernity on a crowded landscape. The imbalance between social classes created others in the form of game reserves intended to keep the starving masses away from the lush bounties the land had to offer. In the geographic middle of one such fragment of time-lost woods, a small lodge, its stones green with age, rested in a cathedral of enormous oaks. Desperate maple, ash and spruce jostled for position under the roaming canopy of the oaks, which had been the undisputed masters since they began to spread upward and outward. Birch shed their bark in strips as they angled towards the panes of light of the diluted sun, low and timid on the horizon.

Wit
hin this rich tangle sat the home, with walls of flat stone blending seamlessly into wooden arches. A slate roof of dramatic pitch rested on sturdy timbers. Narrow, high windows interrupted the rocky outline of the main walls in glassine strips, bordered with dark wood inlaid into mortar that wept with age. The close bulk of the forest threatened the huddling Alpine outpost with dancing shadows.

At the main entrance,
a tall woman with striking cheekbones swung open a sturdy wooden door, panels shaded with a patina of age and shyly reflecting the day’s last light. A thick grey sweater clung to her muscular frame, hanging over dark green pants that were tucked into the boots of a hunter, made shiny from years of care. Her plaited blonde hair swung in rhythm as she hurried in long strides to a slate enclosure, where firewood lay in obedient rows. Selecting several, she stacked them in a leather thong, cinching it tight and hoisting it over her broad shoulder in one smooth motion. Pausing, she held her hand angled above her eyes, squinting into the forest at a raucous birdcall, and then turned briskly as if summoned. In seconds, she had returned to the interior of the lodge as the door swung soundlessly shut behind her. Above the door, a small bull’s head carved from dark wood watched over, the painted accents faded to the barest of hints at the original splendor. The bull, laughing, stared sightlessly to the west with one horn chipped and splitting. Age had taken a point from the horn, but the humorous twist to the mouth endured.

Florida

The metronome of club music began to leak into my car as I parked on a discreet side street a solid block from the front entrance. Risa and Wally had left some time earlier, opting to go in as a pair simply because the club was large enough to provide instant anonymity once they were through the gauntlet of hired muscle out front. They anticipated no problems getting in without delay. Neither did I, given my willingness to hand out cash as needed to facilitate a speedier welcome; standing with the unwashed, albeit beautiful masses was not conducive to my plans. After a casual, quiet word with the doorman, I was fifty dollars poorer but richer in time and sanity. I detest waiting, unless I’m fishing. Then, the Zen of the activity infuses me with rare patience, something that the club atmosphere caused my mind to purge in an instant.

Every nightclub, when distilled, is the same. The Roman dog and pony show is populated by the same players; only the location and music changes. Some women co
me to dance. Some come to gloat or to reinforce their stature within their social circles. There are decisive women who fully intend on getting laid even as they leave their homes, just as there are women who allow alcohol, drugs, or  opportunity to propel them into a liaison that they may or may not regret. Men come for the women. The camaraderie and bonding with friends are just window dressing for the real show. Rarely, there are men among them whose purpose does not revolve around finding a woman, although, in this club, I couldn’t sense a single one of this rare species. The grandiose display between the sexes was in full swing, surrounding me and forcing even the most tin-eared fool to realize that the atmosphere had a purpose. Looking at the strutting crowd, that intent was easy to discern.

I pushed through the crowd to the left end of the main bar. The décor was dark
and minimalist, although, to the credit of the owners, the furniture was of high quality and looked comfortable. Low circular tables of black glass sat inside concentric rings of curved couches that reeked of colognes; even from here I could detect the residual glitter from women’s makeup that spattered the cushions in a gaudy accent. Bottle service areas attracted those who could pay, as well as those who could not but had something to offer. It’s a complex, cynical form of social whoring that everyone understood but no one would verbalize, at least not early in the night.

I caught the bartender as she was mixing
and said simply, “Bourbon. Please.”

She looked up, a pretty woman under the he
avy makeup and tan of someone used to late nights and late mornings. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled back severely into a ponytail and a single, trailing curl that shined red in the lights along the bar.

“Sure. Ice?”
she asked. I liked her instantly, as she was an economy of words and motion.

I had my drink in a minute, the small glass resting comfortably against my palm.  I felt like I could operate now, so I began to scan for Wally’s face first. I knew Risa wou
ld be next to her but invisible among the taller crowd. I found them quickly, dancing together on the main floor not twenty feet away, clearly having fun without reserve. Wally danced with abandon, smiling genuinely and laughing as she threw her head left to right in rhythm with the music. Risa was far shorter but moved with a sinuous athleticism that was watery and erotic. Both were being watched by men and women, alike, but I knew that their fun could only mean one thing. There was an immortal here, and they had identified it. Since they were dancing, it meant that they thought I needed to be here to kill it. One of us is strong, two are powerful and crafty.  The three of us together are something entirely different. I sensed nothing, smelled nothing; there was no fear or menace anywhere, and that meant that they had found something new.

             
Or something very, very old.

Bern, Switzerland

The mark of an excellent banker is discretion. The mark of a Swiss banker is a marriage of that same quality with an intense desire to maintain the privacy of special clients. In a room of muted earth tones, one such customer opened a steel safe deposit box, which had been placed carefully on a black wood table that gleamed from polishing. A substantial lid flipped back without a sound, revealing a green velvet lining. The box was completely empty. Without a word, the customer replaced the lid and pushed the single hasp lock back into its original position with a
snick
, leaving the box on the table before rising and leaving the private room. Herr Krieger, the manager, waited discreetly outside, and he inquired as to whether his prized customer had completed the day’s business. The mellow voice was neither excited nor reserved but perfectly mannered.

“My business is finished for today
. Thank you for your service. I shall require the continued use of the box for the foreseeable future. I’ve authorized an additional signatory for the account; please see that it is recorded promptly. She will be fully authorized in all of my monetary concerns henceforth.”

Herr Kreiger was delighted at this news
but exhibited the enthusiasm of a man who was paid to be unobtrusive. In a moment, his client was gone, and, as he re-entered the room and replaced the steel box, his thoughts moved to the next appointment in his busy schedule.

Florida

I didn’t approach Wally or Risa in the club. It was ill-advised, given the unknowns. When my phone pinged a message, I knew that it was time to act.
Long hair. Brunette. Tall. Black skirt. W/ single male blue shirt. To front door. Meet outside.
I began shifting through the crowd, neither hurried nor allowing myself to be held up or have my view occluded.
There she is
. With the target in sight, my path to the door became less passive. I saw Wally’s head to my right, which meant that Risa was approaching the door behind me, as well. The target slid out the door with her selection from the herd, a male of medium height. From behind, he was predictably average and alone. His arm was possessively draped around her waist, and he walked with the blissful myopia of a man who was, in that moment, working well above his pay grade. They turned left outside only steps ahead of me, but the crowd had not thinned enough to allow discrete action. I couldn’t get a bead on what exactly was happening. The immortal had body language that was hardly predatory. She turned in profile to me, and I saw a woman in her thirties with fine features and skin bronzed by the sun. She was pretty in a blue-blooded way. I could imagine her in equestrian gear. In a moment of coquetry, she allowed her bland partner to kiss her lightly on the lips. It was brief and chaste, but for her teeth nipping playfully at his lip. I heard her low voice tell him she would see him in a few moments as the jangle of car keys in her hand signaled her peeling off to the dark of the parking lot.

Hold back
I motioned behind me. I sensed something different was at play here. Risa and Wally came forward to stand with me, silent but watching with the same curiosity. Our forgettable but charmed target staggered slightly, his balance decaying with each step as he wound his way into the darkening street.

“Is he
drained? Wounded?” Wally hissed, voicing our collective confusion. Contact with the immortal had been minimal, but the man was swooning and, after a series of choppy steps, crashed headlong into an alcove. His spastic fall left him on his knees. Risa rushed ahead but pulled up cautiously when he turned to face us, his face a rictus of pain in the sickly yellow of the street’s sodium lights. I took his elbow and helped him to his feet, but a spasm slammed him into a bent position as he coughed in agony, a deep-chested heave that took him onto his toes. The pace of his demise was hideous. With one massive wracking act, he vomited and slipped from my grasp, stone dead, and his body folding in defeat at the base of the building we stood near. I felt pain that this man would be forgotten by the world shortly, an innocent who would be totally erased with the fullness of time. It was enraging.

“What is that? What came out of him? Look.
Look
.”

We were all staring
even as Wally shone her keychain penlight at the wetness on the concrete. In the middle of the repulsive discharge lay three obscenely large acorns, glistening with his blood.

“Acorns?
Giant acorns? How did they get in him? Did she force him somehow?” Wally’s litany of questions was a running dialogue of her confusion.

Risa said quietly after a moment,
“She bit him. Or put something in his mouth. He was a medium for her--that’s why she said she would be back. She used him as a vessel. And she knew it would only be a matter of minutes before he had served his purpose.”

It made sense. It meant that she had been watching us but was gone. She had been careful.
Discreet.

“I know what she is.” We turned to Risa
as she spoke. “Acorns. In a human host. This is bedtime story shit, but darker. Far more dangerous, because she must keep seeding her marks. It’s a never-ending cycle. She’s a feeder, just not one that we hear much of. She’s a druid, I think? Remember, two years ago, when we were trading info with that nutjob from Ireland? He was tracking the genealogy of incredibly old family lines that had migrated here to the States, but we could never really grasp what he was describing. He kept calling them Keepers and Tenders. I think we’ve met our first. And, judging by how casual she was, old. Old and as wanton about death as anything we can imagine.”
              I thought about it for a minute, chewing on the idea of acorns, oaks, and ancient Celts who spread death through germinating seeds inside a victim. I thought we would start with the obvious. I held out my arms to link up for the walk back to the car, away from the body and the scene, but not before putting the enormous seeds into a napkin that lay on the street, then into my pocket. They were still grotesquely warm against my thigh.

“Let’s answer a question. Where do giant acorns come fr
om? Presumably, giant oaks. So . . . where are the giant oaks? And who tends them?”