Genie

Dylan squinted up and stopped. The endless orange leafed trees had been interrupted by green. Appearing now as he walked closer, there was a line of pine trees he hadn't noticed, or maybe just couldn't see before. They were tall, taller than the surrounding trees, and stretched in both directions like a line of soldiers. Beyond them was a wall of white.

He walked through the ranks and found himself in a clearing thick with fog. Dylan was stunned. Left and right, the pines went on and curved to meet in a circle somewhere in the far distance that couldn't be seen through the mist, a ring of harsh trees that held the mass of fog like so much cotton. The ground was no longer wet and leafy, but thin and dry like a scattering of crumbs.

He tried to see through the fog, but it was solid. Even with better eyes he could have had no idea what it held. He was aware he couldn't hear any birds in the forest behind him - he couldn’t hear anything.

He stepped into the mist was soon engulfed. He walked about thirty paces but saw nothing else.

"Nothing but fog," he muttered as he looked behind him. "Nothing but fog..." His bad eyes did not mean so much in this mist, as everything looked the same.

He had been walking for some time when a huddled shape took form in the distance. He thought it was an out of place boulder. Why not? In this fog anything at all would be both a welcome sight and out of place.

Dylan stopped about five paces away from the man on the floor. He looked sick. He had no hair, and his skin was a diseased yellow except for red splotches around his cheeks, like a drunk. He had no wrinkles, but there were cancerous sun spots on his crown and hands, which rested on his knees. His filthy robes covered his legs and hid the shape of his body, and the cloth on his right knee was rusty with dried blood. He sat very still as he watched Dylan with young, vividly blue eyes. After a moment he slowly tilted his head.

"Good day," said Dylan.

The man did not reply. He was looking Dylan up and down.

"I... heard a story about this forest, that... about a man who could help people."

"And why do you need help?" the man said in a high and boyish voice. He sounded almost like Daniel.

Dylan licked his lips and tapped his hand against his thigh; he had just told a stranger that he believed in folk tales he had heard from a drunken friend enough to go looking in forests for them, and wasn't sure how much more he should say. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave. He glanced around, but except for the man on the ground he could see nothing else for the fog.

"I have been made a captain by my lord-commander, and I will need to lead men in battle."

"Do you need a stronger sword-arm? I cannot give one of those now. And your voice is strong, so you should have no problem giving commands..."

Dylan swallowed. What?

"No I... my eyes are poor. In the battles to come I need to see the field, assess, know where to send my men."

The man on the ground made a soft "hmm" noise. He leant back slightly. "What do you bring?"

Dylan brought out his satchel and opened it. He looked in at the gold and coins and what else he could gather from his house. He put a hand in and combed through the contents, which chinked quietly. "I haven't much here, but I can bring more back when-"

"Fool."

His words caught in his throat and he looked at the man. "What?"

"You bring gold. Wealth. Coins that buy food and favors but will never buy what you need. Many men come here and expect the man-made will pay for the god-given. Never. Only the god-given can pay for the god-given."

Dylan had not moved, his hand still in the sack. The man's words had run a cold finger down his back. God-given?

Awkwardly, he strung his bag closed and let it hang limp from his hand. "What can I offer then?” he said as he held the man’s stare. “For the god-given?"

The man on the ground tilted his head back and looked Dylan over again from the bottom of his eyes. After a moment he said "Do you have sons?"

"Yes. Two."

"Do you wish for more?"

He swallowed. He still had not moved, not one muscle. His palms were sweaty but he did not want to be seen rubbing them off on his clothes. "Perhaps. A man is remembered through his acts and children. My lady-wife would like a daughter someday too."

"Ah." He fell silent. In the quiet Dylan felt the man look him over as his eyes rested on his body for moments at a time; to his hands, at his ears, his mouth, his knees, through him to where his back still hurt from the siege. "Hmm," he said again, quietly. "Tell me about your wife."

He thought of her, the woman he had danced with at the autumn feast who now cooked quietly in their house and raised their children and waited for him to come home from wherever his lord-commander ordered him, the woman who he shared silent meals with and lay with and worried she would not be there when he came back but also knew she had nowhere else to be.

"She is a wonderful mother."

"What does she look like?"

He thought about the way his father had laughed and slapped his back after he had first met her, and remembered the way he and his friends had talked amongst themselves on the night of the dance about her before he had stood up and introduced himself. "The envy of all the women when we were younger. So many of them are going dull in their eyes and hair, but her hair is still like it was ten years ago. Still young and red." Dylan smiled. "Daniel has the same hair." His smile vanished. He had not meant to tell the man his son's name.

The man had stopped looking Dylan over and was now looking him in the eyes.

"Her hair?" He paused. "Would you still love your wife without her hair?"

Dylan was surprised. "Of course, she-"

He stopped and suddenly regretted what he said. His heart had been ticking hard and the breaths he took through his mouth did nothing to stop the swelling in his chest. After saying Daniel's name he felt like he had said too much, and now he knew that he had been very wrong to ever mention Leigh. His throat clenched and he glanced away. He could still see nothing beyond the fog. There was only him and the filthy, sick looking man sat on the ground who was still staring at him.

“Of course.”

"Hmm." He sat up straighter. "I will take your wife's hair and give you the eyes you wish for."

"My wife's hair?" It couldn't be done. There was no way it could be done. How could this robed creature take one person's hair and give another person better eyes? He should never have come here. He had never believed in folk stories yet he had come out into the forest looking for a legend. There was no such thing as magic, it existed in the tales he told his children.

And he could not give away Leigh's hair. It was hers.

And yet...

"Have I anything else to give you? I cannot-"

"You have nothing to offer me that you will not need in your new position. Painless knees would be welcome but the ones you would get would not serve you in battle. Your liver is healthy, but the one I would give you would kill you before you will ever reach the field. So I will accept your wife's hair."

The captain stared at the man on the ground. What horror was he suggesting?

"What you're saying... it isn't possible-"

"Then leave. Your wife keeps her hair and you keep your eyes. You become a captain and you live on. These are your choices; I can give you better eyes, or you can leave with the ones you have."

Dylan did not know how the man could do such an unnatural thing, but he was suddenly sure he could do it, the same way he was sure that he would find this help if he came to these woods. He could leave with the eyes he needed to see and fight and lead and give his family a richer life and leave a legacy after he was gone - and somehow the price was Leigh's hair.

Dylan stood in the silent fog. The bag of gold was still dangling at his side. He lifted it into his hand felt its useless contents, then put it away and sat down. He nodded.

"You must say it."

He licked his lips. "Okay."

"Say it."

He paused. Then he swallowed and looked at the dirt between them. "You may take my wife's hair."

The man raised one of his hands and held it above his head, while his other hand placed his thumbnail against his hanging palm. The robes on his arms slid down as he did so. Although his skin was smooth and young his arms were sickeningly thin and his veins crossed them like blue marble. With a twist of his thumb his palm began bleeding, which he held out. Dylan took it palm down. Instead of taking it, the man grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand around so his palm faced up before gouging him with his nail. Dylan winced and gasped, and the man clapped their bleeding hands together before closing his eyes. His breath began to grow deep and rasping.

Dylan's eyes began to twitch back and forth. Horribly, he felt suddenly aware of his whole body. He could feel blood pumping hard out to each of his fingers and his crossed legs began to cramp at the thighs and calves. He felt like he was rising and tried to pull his hand away. The man's grip was weak, but he could still not let go or jerk his arm back, as if stuck to him, joined by the unseen flesh between their clasped hands. His head exploded in pain and his eyes rolled upwards. All he could see was the red-black of his own eye sockets and all of his muscles were shrinking in cramps. His arms began to spasm and his jaw clenched so tight his teeth grinded. Some horrid sensation gripped his eyes, like tiny hands seizing them all around.

These I take and these I give. May the gods forgive you for scorning their gifts.

All pain ended and Dylan fell on his back. He legs flung out spasming and he pushed and scrambled on the floor until he was lying on his front, his hands by his head. He breathed in hard ragged gasps and his muscles ached like they did in the mornings when he was still being trained years ago. The man was coughing hard and had fallen forward onto his elbows.

Dylan looked up to him and winced. His eyes hurt. He looked far left, and far right, and rolled his eyes around. Whichever way he looked, they ached and tugged. He crawled forward and pulled the man gently backwards until he was sitting again.

"Why do they hurt?"

The man finished coughing but kept his hand over his mouth. His eyes were closed. "Because they were not made for you." His voice was raspy. He wiped his palm on his right knee on the patch of dried blood.

They said nothing. Eventually Dylan took his hands off of him and crawled to where he had sat to slouch back, still getting his breath back. "What happens now?"

"You leave, and become a captain" The man said in a low voice. He did not look at Dylan. His eyes were only half-lidded and he looked at his lap and away at the ground.

"You mean to say... my eyes..."

"You will be able to fulfill your duties."

Dylan was amazed. Was it possible? He looked around, but the fog still hung about and he could only see as well as before the man had cut his hand.

"How can I thank you?"

"You have nothing to thank me for." He still had not looked up.

Dylan cleared his throat and stood up shakily. "Who are you?"

"A servant and an enemy. I grant the wishes of men against the wishes of the gods." He looked up. His eyes were brown. "Now go, and make use of your gifts."

Dylan stood still. Then he turned and walked away towards the endless white cloud, and for as long as he walked he knew the man was staring at him.

Finally colors began to appear and the trees’ jagged forms pierced the fog again as the ring of pines circled around him. Deep within the clearing Dylan felt the man was still sitting there, looking to where he stood with sore brown eyes that made no difference in the thick white miasma.

The trees around him had never been so clear and colorful and beautiful, wet dirt on bark, dead leaves underfoot and dying ones above. The rain had stopped and a crow was screaming in the canopy, a black bird amongst dark leaves. He could see it.