Who had tried to burn down the Enchanted Forest? And why?

Many different types of people had tried to control the Enchanted Forest. Warriors, princes, witches, wicked sisters, lumberjacks and, one on occasion, some of the trees themselves. As such, the nearest township, afraid of what the blaze might portend, chose a noble firefighter and inspector of arsons, John Bailey, to go see what he could learn. As Inspector Bailey strapped on his coat and helmet and climbed into his engine, the rest of the firefighters, brave men and women all, breathed a sigh of relief that they had not been chosen.

Arriving in his engine at the scorched portion of the Forest, Bailey noted that even the smell of the forest’s ashes was beautiful, like a midnight perfume, but he also detected a hint of gasoline. He walked through the ash that crunched like frozen snow, until he saw a figure on the edge of the where the trees began again. Lithe and shadowed by branches, its outline could have been a part of the woods themselves.

“You there,” Bailey cried with as much authority as he could muster in this strange place. “Did you see what caused this?”

The figure stepped into the light. It was feminine in shape, but oak bark was its clothes and leaves its hair. From the thicket of its head grew antlers, shaped from the coarsest wood, multi-pronged and sharp, enshrouded in an ethereal moss.

“We have summoned you, John Bailey, because those from your kingdom have caused this.” It spoke in a voice of bird song and shadow.

Deciding it was best to ignore how the creature knew his name, Bailey asked, “Do you know who did this?”

The figure drew itself up, nearly as high as a stag. “We have called to them, but they refuse to answer for their crimes.”

“Men fear your justice,” Bailey replied honestly.

“Men fear justice.”

Bailey found he couldn’t argue with that. To be the distributor of justice was often a terrible thing. To be its recipient, almost always. Summoned by this strange creature or no, it was correct, and he was here to find those responsible. Under the uncanny gaze of the creature, he returned to investigating the burned ground. While the blackened soil revealed nothing to him, near its edge he found the ground disturbed. No woodsman, Bailey was still keen enough of eye to see the earth churned up there, grass reduced to mud under bootprints and tire tracks.

Reluctantly, Bailey returned to the direction of the Forest, to speak to its representative. He nearly fell backward into the mud, though, when he found the creature standing mere feet away, having vanished the distance between then.

Recovering quickly enough to keep his helmet from falling off his head, Bailey dropped his eyes to its feet, roots entwining with the mud. He could feel its gaze on him but could not meet it, feeling it strip away any importance that his uniform or position might hold. He tried to speak forcefully, but mumbled, “These tracks might lead to the fire-starter.” Bailey gestured to the prints in the mud and the direction they headed. “I will leave you now, and return when I find answers.”

Before he could move further away, the creature took Bailey’s closest hand in an appendage not dissimilar to his own, but made of shaped wood and leaves. It was smooth like a leaf, rough like bark, and cool as a forest shadow. So Bailey gasped when the creature pressed a digit into the back of his hand and it burned like fire. Even as he tried to pull away, Bailey felt himself fill with knowledge as a welt raised where the creature had touched him.

Bailey looked into the protective eyes of the what he knew now as the Dryad. “Worry not, Bailey. The Forest provides.” Then it released him.

As he shook his hand in pain, Bailey thought, “The Forest also eats its young,” but wisely said nothing. Instead, he tipped his helmet by its hard, wide brim and climbed into his engine to follow the muddy tracks. Before he got too far, he heard the shadowed figure say, “Bring them here, John Bailey, whoever has done this.”

Bailey paused, uncertain of who had started the fire or why, and knowing it was his duty to bring the accused before human courts. Slowly, fearing to anger the Dryad, he said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You must. Those responsible must face us, or their children and their children’s children will. The Forest’s memory is long and its soul unforgiving.” Bailey nodded, more reluctant than ever to execute his orders, but feeling honor bound to do so.

Bailey followed the muddy tire tracks for many miles before he heard a cacophony and smelled a great medley. At the top of a hill Bailey spotted the cause of this commotion. On the plain before him was a round tent so massive that it was encircled by smaller tents, as if they orbited a larger cousin. Each was otherwise identical, circular and striped and held upright by many poles surrounding the tallest in the center.

Between these tents, performers of all types, from contortionists to strongmen to fire-eaters, made their way through the crowds of townsfolk that milled between these wonders. This only ceased when a man in a tall hat would cry from the main tent, ponderously calling out through a black megaphone the new fascinations that awaited them in the big top.

From his far away perch Bailey could see the wonder and splendor that drew the crowd, but he could not see which of these many people might have been fool enough to start a fire in the Enchanted Forest. So he walked down into the fairgrounds.

The man in the tall hat was operating by some kind of schedule, almost like a clockwork, emerging from the big tent at regular intervals to pontificate on absurd claims that were surely lies. He promised that within the tent were mermaids, swordsman that couldn’t die, women who could fly, and men that could tame untamable beasts. He seemed a good place to start.

Bailey approached the man in the tall hat, realizing that his dress was a mirror of the tents, his clogs the same color as the nails that held them in the ground, his pants and vest the red and white stripes of the canvas, his very fine top hat the same black as the flag at the top.

Standing in front of the man, despite Bailey’s obvious uniform and the copper badge of authority, he was ignored. Continuing to call out to passersby, he was eventually forced to inhale for a breath. Bailey jumped into this minute gap. “Hello! May I ask you a few questions?”

The caller only paused long enough to take the bullhorn away from his mouth to say, “Sorry, son, business is brisk,” and went back to his calling. Bailey glared at the man for a time, but was pushed aside as more and more people poured into the main tent. Seeing no alternative, Bailey reached up and took the bullhorn from the caller, snatching it out of his grasp. The silence that followed, complete with the indignant stare of the caller, was extremely satisfying to Bailey. Until he realized the crowd had ceased moving as well. No one on the fair grounds stirred or spoke. The balls from a juggler fell out of the air. For a strange moment, Bailey felt himself in danger.

Seeing familiar faces in the crowd, Bailey called out to a few of them, “You there Susan Sartre, Phil Barber, Roy Cooper, you know who I am. I need to speak to this man.” Bailey indicated the caller, but his fellow townsfolk stared at him with the eyes of strangers.

This eldritch tension broke when the caller snatched the bullhorn back from Bailey and said to him, “Wait your turn, son. We’ve got a permit to be here.” Then he went back to clamorously ushering folks inside. 

When the last of the circus visitors had entered the tent, the caller jumped down from his box and moved to follow the crowd inside. Before the caller could escape Bailey grabbed him by the elbow and said, “Now wait a minute.”

The caller stopped, and glanced down, unperturbed, at Bailey’s hand. “I’ve got to get inside, son. I’m the Ringmaster.”

“You can spare a moment,” Bailey insisted. “There’s been a fire near here and I need to ask you a few questions.”

The Ringmaster, towering over Bailey in his tall shoes and fine hat, scanned the fairgrounds. “I don’t see a fire.”

“It didn’t happen here, but a few miles from here. You would have seen the smoke.”

The Ringmaster frowned and made a show of looking towards the horizon. “We haven’t seen any smoke. Look, son, the whole town is here, so no one’s in danger from any fire.”

“The fire finished a few days ago.”

“So much the better. Forget about it and come inside.” The Ringmaster handed Bailey a ticket, “See what all the fuss is about.”

Without thinking about it, Bailey took the ticket and watched the red and white stripes of the Ringmaster disappear into the tent. Bailey looked around to see if there might be anyone else he could speak with, but realized everyone else was already inside. 

The main tent was voluminous enough that Bailey was surprised he could find no place to sit. This was made more difficult as the only lights shone on the massive ring at the tent’s center. With the Ringmaster striding out into it, Bailey quickly found a spot by one of the tent poles to stand. 

There, the Ringmaster spoke through his megaphone, already introducing the next act as a clown pedaled his unicycle off stage, only pausing to throw one of his juggling blades to embed itself into the wooden pole Bailey leaned against. 

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, the Circus of Wondrous Times has come from afar to bring you the impossible. We will show you exotic animals that you thought only existed in legend, magicians with unbelievable powers executed upon beautiful assistants, clowns that will bounce and stretch beyond human capacity, strongmen that will lift impossible weights, men of machine and their calamitous canines. We will transform this very big top into a sweltering jungle and then into the most arctic of wastes so we may all be transported wherever we wish to see all of the wonders of the world.”

With each strange and bold claim, Bailey found his incredulity decreasing, ceasing to think of the Ringmaster as a loud-mouthed liar, but a purveyor of the fantastic. Forgetting himself, he leaned on the pole he stood next to, eager to see whatever came next in this true oddity of civilization. Bailey had to admit, despite his initial dislike of the Ringmaster, there was something magical about this place.

That thought had only just entered his mind when Bailey’s hand brushed against the pole he leaned against. The back of his hand burned as if a brand had been pressed into it. The gasp of pain he let out was loud enough to draw the irritated attention of the closest spectators.

Stung by the tent pole, Bailey stared at it, wondering if some wasp or viper climbed upon it. But it was only a wooden pole. Rubbing the pain in his hand, his mind cleared and he realized it was where the Dryad had touched him. It was then that he saw the pole was new and roughly hewn, fresh from a forest.

Bailey examined the wood from where it was planted into the ground to where it held up the canvas ceiling. He examined the rafters, the bleachers, and realized everything, even the bones of the tent, were all made from the fresh wood of the Enchanted Forest. The wonder he had felt a moment before shed itself, revulsion taking its place. He was no longer in a circus tent, but standing in a cage made from the bones of a murder.

When next the Ringmaster made his way into the center ring, Bailey strode out between the caged lions and strongmen to snatch the black bullhorn. Before the man could protest, Bailey threw the megaphone to the ground and crushed it under his boot. Sure to his theory, under the horn’s canvas wrapping was a wooden skeleton crudely constructed from whittling of the Enchanted Forest.

The Ringmaster was already protesting this action when Bailey punched him in the mouth. Unaccustomed to violence, the strike hurt his fist, but the brand on his hand burned more. 

Standing over the Ringmaster, Bailey felt all attention turn towards him, the clowns and strongmen brandishing fists and clubs, the crowd growing angry at their entertainment being disrupted. Slowly rotating so he could be seen and heard by all, Bailey cried, “This man has taken wood from the Enchanted Forest without permission and then set a fire to cover his crime. He will answer to the spirits there!” 

Protests erupted from the crowd, the carnies, and the Ringmaster all at once, so none were understood. Bailey yelled for quiet and, at the center of the big top, found the acoustics carried his voice above all the others. “You know the Enchanted Forest is real. Some of you have been there. And wood was stolen from it to make this circus a magical place. You know it. You can feel it. It has built this place to entertain all of you and to make this man,” he pointed at the Ringmaster, “money.”

Looking down at the Ringmaster, Bailey proclaimed, “And then he ordered a fire lit so he might escape his crime.”

The Ringmaster smiled as a child caught misbehaving might. “Which of us, even you Bailey, hasn’t done something like this? Who’s axe is bloodier?”

Before this logic could take root, Bailey asked, “If he does not answer for these crimes, then who among us will? Or will we ignore it until the Enchanted Forest seeks revenge in our homes?” At that question, the crowd and carnies silenced, each remembering an encounter with the Forest, or someone’s tale of it. Better for the Forest to stay where it was, so we might pretend its borders contained it.

Bailey continued, “I will take this man to face the justice the Forest wishes to dispense. Is there anyone here that would stop me?” The spectators, considering Bailey’s word, only shuffled in their seats. Before anyone changed their mind, Bailey grabbed the Ringmaster by the collar of his cape and dragged him towards his exit.

As he left the big top, the crowd erupted into boos and condemnations. The Ringmaster, hearing it, smiled as Bailey pushed him into his engine, and Bailey knew why. Under whatever hex that had been fashioned from the Forest’s wood, they would always hate Bailey for this.

Bailey was glad for the noise of his engine as it covered the Ringmaster’s talk during the journey. Without the megaphone, his words were no more persuasive than anyones, but he nonetheless cajoled, bargained, bribed, and begged for Bailey to release him. Bailey ignored him.

Bailey only stopped the engine on the Forest’s blackened edge. He dragged the protesting Ringmaster from the engine, across the ash, the scent of night jasmine rising up from the footprints they left in the soot. “Forest! I have your man!”

When nothing changed or appeared, Bailey waited patiently, long enough that he began to feel foolish under the increasingly smug countenance of the Ringmaster. It was only when his eyes widened and his mouth opened but was empty of words that Bailey knew the Dryad had arrived.

It stood there, wooden antlers like a crown, its eyes as baleful as uncontrolled fire. Too afraid of the avatar to even feel shame at his fright, Bailey stepped away from the Ringmaster. The Ringmaster, for the first time in a long time, said nothing.

The Dryad spoke in a voice like a cold autumn wind rustling through empty branches. “We may have granted you permission to some of our trees, Ringmaster, had you asked.” It stepped across the ash, closer to the man. “Now it is too late for that.”

The Ringmaster looked at Bailey, at the forest behind the Dryad, at the ash. Anywhere but at the creature. “Please, I was just trying to feed my family.”

“How many lies will you tell today, Ringmaster? You have no family to feed and had enough to feed five families if such was required of you. But you fed no one but yourself, and wanted more besides. Is that not why you stole the trees, why you lit the fire?”

“I didn’t do it alone. There were others – “

“There are always others. But they obeyed your commands.”

The Ringmaster narrowed his eyes and rubbed his hands, reverting to form as a dealmaker. “Oh, OK, look I’m sorry. I can cut you in. How much money is it going to take to set this right?”

“Money is of no use to us here, and it is far too late for that.” The Dryad raised an appendage, the spider-like hand at the end of it alighting with flames. The twigs of it blackened and withered as it reached for the Ringmaster who recoiled in sweating fear. “What you have taken from us will one day be renewed. We will heal.”

“You will not.”

See the author’s published work here.

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