The Forest King

Like everything in Cassidy’s past, the mansion in the foothills existed nebulously within the far reaches of her memory. Blurry. Incomplete. What she didn’t forget were the feelings the mansion gave her: warmth, comfort, joy. She recalled laughter and, on occasion, the smell of bread, for some reason.

So why didn’t she feel those things now, as she stood mere paces away from it, the late-winter sunlight illuminating its windows beneath the overgrowth? Birds sang a song of relief. They anticipated the melting of the snow and the bloom of flowers on the forest floor. Cassidy wasn’t mistaken. This was the mansion from decades ago, from before the Sickness, from before her years of cryostasis. Where was the innocence of her youth? Why did it not wash over her like a tidal wave the moment she set her eyes on the mansion and the spire in which she had spent many of her childhood summers?

Cassidy made her way to the front door, leaving shoe prints on slushy snow. The metal doorknob was cool to the touch. She turned the knob and found that it was unlocked. Slowly, she let herself in, closing the door silently, hand drifting to the handle of her holstered pistol. You never knew what could be lurking in a long-abandoned building.

The cough arrived quickly, unexpectedly, just as she turned the corner into the old dining room where her grandfather would make toasts to his beloved family. Cassidy placed her hand against the wall and coughed into her sleeve until tiny splatters of blood stained her tan hunting jacket. She swore under her breath and regained her composure. If there was anyone—or anything—left in this house, it would’ve made a noise. It would’ve rushed her, pinning her to the ground, her final moments at the whim of some wild creature. The cough was loud enough that it scattered the magpies outside, their squawks disappearing into the distance.

Alone. Cassidy was alone in this mansion. Because of its location in an isolated and forested part of the foothills, it was unlikely that looters would travel all this way. And the doors and windows—despite being unlocked—were sealed well enough to stop larger animals from squatting inside (though she did spot the occasional mouse or vole scurrying along the walls of the house’s hallways). When she was younger, she never associated this place with loneliness.

She moved from room to room, looking for things and objects that would spark her memory. In a nearby bathroom, someone had unscrewed the lightbulbs and smashed them into the sink. A framed, faded photograph of a beach hung tilted on the wall. Upstairs, in the study, Cassidy rummaged through dusty books. Most were leatherbacks, but some were trade paperbacks, spines cracked so badly that pages fell out as she opened them. She remembered one of her older cousins, boy-crazy and talkative to the point of annoyance. These were hers. Shirtless men and impossibly beautiful women graced their covers.

She continued looking. Through a broom closet, a guest bedroom. In the maid’s quarters at the far corner of the mansion. The objects she found sparked her memory, but like the romance novels in the study, they spurred no feeling, no emotion within Cassidy. She went into her grandparents’ old bedroom whose windows faced the mountains. There, the fatigue hit—whether it was her searching or the Sickness, Cassidy didn’t know. The mattress had no cover and no pillows, so she put her dirty pack on top and laid her head on it, coughing gently into her arms. This room was as she remembered it in the past: her grandmother’s vanity to the side; a small bookshelf by the door; a small basket on her grandfather’s side table.

Within that basket, Cassidy noticed something familiar. It was a tiny notebook with a brown paper cover. Its coils were frayed. Coffee—or some other brown liquid—had stained its corners. Cassidy held it in her hands and flipped through it. And for the first time since she entered that mansion, she felt something. This was her grandfather’s notebook. How it survived the decades of abandonment, she did not know. Inside the notebook, she found little notes. Reminders to not forget a birthday, an appointment. Notes about how beautiful Cassidy’s grandmother looked on some particular day, little doodles in the corners.

But what moved Cassidy the most was on a page toward the end of the notebook. A rough sketch of a deer with a third eye on its forehead and flowers growing out of its antlers. The lines were shaky. He was close to death when he drew this for her. His hand could barely keep steady.

The Forest King. It was an old story he told Cassidy about when she was still quite young. The King took on the form of a fantastical deer, small in stature and weightless. As it moved, it made no sound, as if it were floating above the soil and roots of the forest instead of making contact with the ground. Flowers grew from its antlers, and it would shed petals as it grazed on low-hanging foliage. Even as a child, Cassidy never believed the myth. When she asked her grandfather where it came from—whether it was Cree or Nakota or Sioux or European or Asian or African—he couldn’t answer. The Forest King, then, had merely been a figment of his imagination, one that he wanted to pass onto her.

“One more thing,” her grandfather said, when the young Cassidy was antsy to go outside and play. “The Forest King makes itself known only to those close to death.”

The child’s eyes widened. “Did you see him?”

Her grandfather laughed and shook his head. “No, no. This is just how the legend goes. They say that he provides comfort to those who are living out their last days.”

He’d never divulge who “they” were. Nor would he talk about The Forest King much after Cassidy grew up.

That didn’t matter, though. In the waning sunlight that crept in through the window of her grandfather’s bedroom, Cassidy held the notebook and the sketch close to her heart, clutching it tightly. She imagined being embraced by her grandfather. She missed how he’d kiss her on her forehead. How he’d brew her chamomile tea when her stomach hurt. In this cornucopia of days gone by, Cassidy’s eyelids drooped, and her consciousness disappeared in an instant.

She awoke hours later to the wind’s howling. Darkness enveloped the bedroom. She coughed into her handkerchief and looked outside the window where old-growth trees were being pushed around. A layer of thick, fluffy snow plastered the window. From inside her backpack, Cassidy took out her flashlight and faced it to the ceiling, illuminating most of the room with indirect light. She would be trapped here for a little longer. So be it, she thought, though she longed for the days that she could bring up the forecast on her cellphone or catch it on the radio. Had she known that a blizzard was to blanket the mountains with snow, she wouldn’t have made the trek up here in the first place.

Cassidy rummaged in her backpack and placed what food she had in front of her on the bed. Three litres of water stored in airtight metal canisters; two cans of assorted fruits; a dozen shelf-stable protein-packed granola bars; two packs of beef jerky; five MREs, most of which were spaghetti and one whose label had come off. This was the first time she laid all those things on the bed, and she marvelled at the weight she’d been carrying in her backpack.

Nothing to do but wait. The wind didn’t stop its assault. The snow piled upon itself.

To kill her boredom, Cassidy paced around the house, visiting old rooms and trying to remember what they were. Someone had cleared many of the rooms of furniture and decorations. Occasionally, she recalled a smell—the herbaceous potpourri in the guest bathroom, roasted potatoes from the kitchen. Slowly, the puzzle pieces of her memory—once scattered on the floor—were put together.

Cassidy sat on the cold, dusty floor in the parlor and imagined that the grand piano was still there. Her mother would play old jazz standards, simple block chords with her left hand and an awkward melody with her right. Sometimes, her father would sing along—his voice had a nice, dulcet tone to it, but he couldn’t find the right pitch to save his life.

Sometimes they danced, the music emanating softly out of the record player in the corner of the room. Lots of Edith Piaf, lots of Chet Baker. Her father was the graceful one, leading her mother with gentle steps. She remembered being bored of watching them.

Cassidy leaned her head against the wall and looked up, crying, wiping her face with her shirt.

At around midnight—if her watch was correct—Cassidy felt the weakening of legs, the shortness of breath. From the main floor, she willed herself back to the bedroom where her bag sat dutifully in the corner. Hastily she dumped its contents onto the floor and found an orange pill bottle, opened it, and downed two of the chalky, yellow pills before waiting for them to do their work. She laid on the bed, her heart beating, hand clutching the notebook that contained her grandfather’s drawings. The blanket that she hauled from place to place had been torn from use, and a draft from another room had now made its way to her. Alone. She was still alone.

Cassidy curled up into a ball and counted down from a hundred. She didn’t have any energy to shift her body when she was getting uncomfortable. All she could do was grin and bear it.

Her eyes drooped, her mind half unconscious.

And then she felt the warmth of a hand on her leg, the brushing of her hair to one side. A ghost? No. Ghosts didn’t exist. Her eyes opened and the sunlight blinded her. The room had been dusted, cleaned. She could hear the screaming and laughing of her little cousins downstairs. The meaty aroma of fried bacon wafted into her nostrils and saliva pooled at the sides of her mouth. She heard her grandmother speak to her. It was her grandmother who was brushing her hair, her grandfather gently squeezing her leg. They were there, in the flesh. Cassidy tried to call out to them, but the words wouldn’t come out, her voice parched.

Cassidy laughed. This was the life she missed. The one she longed for. But the double exposure soon betrayed itself—from behind the façade of this idyllic scene, the darkness and cold and dustiness of the mansion in its current state appeared, dissolving into view. She closed her eyes tightly. She thought of her family. She thought of her past. Of laughter. Of love. Of not being lonely. And in these thoughts, she found, finally, rest.

She woke up twice that night. Once when she had to use the washroom. The flush didn’t work. And once when a squall came through, slamming twigs and rocks into the window. Her eyes opened slowly. She watched odd, barely perceptible shadows on the wall. She couldn’t make out their shapes.

When she awoke, Cassidy knew that she’d be dead soon. She had energy, appetite, and a mind clearer than she had the night before. Her breathing was steady and deep. But something was off, something she couldn’t describe.

The blizzard had ended. Overcast skies painted the room a milky grey. A chickadee perched on the windowsill and chirped before fluttering away.

Cassidy picked herself up and wiped the sleep out of her eyes. She got out of bed, left the room, and ambled down the staircase, hardly needing to steady herself with the railing. She made her way to the front door, put her hand on the knob, and turned it. The door opened slowly, snow piled in front of it.

The crisp air jolted her awake. The world smelled like fresh snow and birch trees. A hawk made circles in the sky while a squirrel skittered from one tree to the next, checking on its food caches, surprised by this new, unexpected winter.

Wind whipped her hair into her face though this didn’t surprise her as much as the odd, pink object that found flight in the gust. It was weightless and paper thin. Cassidy walked down the steps of the porch and followed its descent back to the snow. She knelt down and picked it up. A flower petal, a little rubbery to the touch, but otherwise soft. She held it to her nose and inhaled. Cherry blossom? Odd. And in the corner of her eye, she spotted another one. And another one. A trail of cherry blossom petals that eventually led to the treeline where she finally noticed the tracks of a small deer.