The Man In the Forest Part 7

Over the next few months, Ryan saw Laknir almost every day. She would set out in the morning, not knowing where she was headed, and find herself in areas of the forest she’d never seen before despite the time she’d spent mapping it in her mind. And always, he would find her. She would paint him over and over, but she did not improve. His face never came out just right, and she felt sometimes that she would go mad with frustration.

Laknir never commented on her paintings, nor indeed, hardly even look at them, but he would sit or stand for hours without moving, allowing her the attempt to capture him.

When she was too exhausted to continue, they would break bread and nestle together sometimes speaking, sometimes just being. And then the kisses would come and overwhelm her. Every time felt like it would be the last time, and she would return home feeling lost and empty. He never brought her back to the meadow where they’d met, and she would bite her tongue to keep from asking.

At home, alone, she would try to remember that place; the waterfall throwing rainbows in the sunlight, and the way the golden grass rippled and moved in the breeze. And the house, she especially couldn’t get the house out of her mind. It had been difficult to tell much about it except that it was very large, and had a tree growing through the middle. She wondered what it looked like inside, and just how tall it really was, and where Laknir slept…if he did sleep.

One evening, after coming home from spending the day with him, she found herself staring around her house at the unpainted walls unhappily. Without thinking, she picked up her brush and began to paint. At first, she couldn’t even tell what it was she was creating; she moved her brush over the wall in a fever. After a while, she found that she was so close to the wall her nose was in danger of smudging the paint. She stopped, realizing that night had fallen and she could hardly see what she was doing. She dropped her brush on the table, and went to fetch candles and lamps so she could see what she had done. Once everything was lit and arranged so that the mural was cast in a warm glow, she stood back and looked at it.

It was the meadow. She had begun by painting some of the wildflowers she’d seen there, but she could see the river taking shape and where the waterfall would go, and the barest outlines of the house. And there, in the middle of it all was Laknir. She’d nearly finished his body, his tall, lanky frame standing slightly turned, his hand out as though to lead her back toward the house, but his face remained blank. She was astonished at how much she remembered of the meadow, for she was sure she’d never seen those particular wildflowers anywhere else, and she knew she’d gotten the blue of the river just right.

Her evenings became filled with the painting of the mural which seemed to grow larger with every stroke, and she began to neglect her other duties. A storm came through and ripped off some of the shingles on her roof, so now when it rained the water leaked into a pot in her bedroom, but she kept putting off fixing it.

And if she didn’t have to go into town for new brushes, she might have stopped going altogether. She certainly spent less and less time there, and when she spoke to people they noted that she seemed distracted and withdrawn. Her mother mentioned on several occasions that she looked pale and asked if she felt all right, but Ryan said she was a little overworked and agreed to have dinner so that her mother need not worry too much.

The mural began to devour her almost as much as her need to be with Laknir, but as much as she worked, as much as she studied him, she still couldn’t capture his face. She wondered dejectedly one night whether she would ever see the meadow again, and if maybe the magic of that place would help her paint him.

The next day, as she was once again trying (and failing) to recreate his likeness on canvas she blurted out, “Will I ever get to see your home?” He blinked at her for a moment, and she wondered if she’d crossed a line and now he would leave her and never return and she would pine for him until the day she died.

“Of course, if you wish,” he answered, sounding surprised.

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. “When?”

He thought for a moment. “Tomorrow you go to market. The day after, I will show you where I live, if you still want to see it.”

She frowned. “Of course I’ll still want to see it, why wouldn’t I?” she asked. But Laknir just shrugged in that unreadable fashion. She hated that she couldn’t decipher him, that there was still so much she didn’t know about him, and didn’t know how to ask. But then, maybe that unfathomable quality was exactly what kept her interested.

She went to market the following day, just as he’d said, and was so excited about the prospect of seeing the meadow she hardly heard a word that was spoken to her. She began to pack up her things early (she’d brought so little it took hardly an hour to sell everything) and it was a full minute before she realized someone was saying her name.

“Honey?” the voice said. She was surprised because whoever it was had called her by her first name, which is also why it took her so long to respond. No one called her by her first name… She looked up to see Tom standing shyly a little ways away.

He was broader in the shoulders than she remembered, and he was pale, no doubt from having spent too much time indoors poring over books. He also had a close trimmed beard and had cut his hair short. She supposed that was the fashion in the city. But even through all these little changes, he was still Tom, though she’d never seen such a serious look about him. Where was the Tom who had dragged her out into the sunlight and led her on an adventure through the abandoned chapel on the outskirts of town and told her ghost stories in the graveyard? He’d twisted his ankle when a rotted floorboard gave way in the chapel, and she’d wrapped it with cloth torn from her apron. She’d been so scared for him, insisting that he’d been reckless and that he should take it more seriously. But he’d laughed through the pain.

“It’s my own fault for not looking where I was going,” he’d said, waving away her concerns. “Anyway, if you never take the leap you’ll just get stuck in the mud.”

Tom was always like that: eager where she was cautious, silly where she was serious. He knew how to wear his heart on his sleeve, knew that if you didn’t take chances, you couldn’t move forward.

She thought all of this in a matter of seconds then pushed those thoughts away, letting a mask of indifference settle over her features.

“Tom,” she said, with a polite nod.

“Your mother told me I would find you here,” he continued, still looking unsure. She went to Ichibod and tied her baskets to his saddle. “She also told me you were acting like a child,” he said when she didn’t reply.

“I’m not acting like a child!” she said, rounding on him angrily. Tom raised his eyebrows at her, the trace of a grin behind his eyes, and she realized he’d just said it to get a reaction from her.

“You’re ignoring me,” he pointed out.

“I’m not ignoring you, I said ‘hello’, I’m just busy,” she replied in an icy tone turning back to Ichibod.

“You didn’t say ‘hello’ you said my name,” he shot back, moving to Ichibod’s head so he could see her face as she checked the saddle bags.

“You’re right,” she admitted quietly, watching him stroke Ichibod’s nose and murmur something to him. “Mrs. Pennyweather would deplore my lack of manners,” she continued, a small smile tugging at her lips. He looked up from Ichibod and caught the smile, answering it with one of his own.

She saw hope rising in his eyes, and she turned away. She couldn’t bear to see that hope. Laknir is taking me to the meadow tomorrow, she thought, and Tom is going back to the university.

“I’ve wanted to see you,” he said softly, “but I thought it might be too hard, after what was said…” He made a frustrated, helpless gesture, but didn’t continue.

“Yes, that’s why I stayed away as well,” she replied. “I didn’t wish to hurt you further.” She looked up into his eyes, pleading with him to understand. And in her mind she saw him again that day before he went to the university.

“But why the university? I thought you wanted to be a carpenter like your father?” she asked imploringly.

“I do,” he said and hesitated. “Ry,” he stopped, deep in thought, then, as though he’d come to a decision, he looked up at her with an expression so intense it shook her to the core.

“Tom, what is it?” she said, frightened that there was something very wrong.

“R- Honey,” he said, and it surprised her because he never called her by her first name. “If you tell me you love me I’ll stay.” She stared at him. “Tell me it’s even possible, that someday, five, ten, fifty years from now you will love me. And I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you until the ends of the earth if I have to. But if not…I have to leave. I can’t stay knowing you will never love me as much as I love you.”

She couldn’t speak. Her heart was pounding in her throat, her fingers throbbing with the pulse of it, and her chest felt tight, like it was being squeezed from all sides.

“Tom,” she choked, barely getting the sound out. There was a burning in her throat and behind her eyes, and she swallowed over and over trying to force her heart back into her chest. She couldn’t speak, but he had his answer in her eyes. He looked down at his feet, and when he looked back up, his eyes were over-bright.

“Goodbye, Honey,” he said, his voice breaking. But he didn’t leave. He stood there, staring at her as she struggled to breathe. And then he stepped forward, and bent to kiss her. It was soft, just a small goodbye kiss, and her heart dropped from her throat into the pit of her stomach. He was gone before she opened her eyes.

“But I couldn’t stay away after I spoke to your mother,” Tom said, bringing her back to the present. “She’s worried about you. Said you were acting like you were under some sort of spell.” She tried to hide her shock. She’d had no idea her mother believed she was under a spell. Sometimes she believed it too, but she feared that it was not a magic sort of spell, only a spell of the heart.

“You can tell my mother not to worry,” she said.

“But she’s not wrong, is she?” he said narrowing his eyes as though he could see the magic on her. She started to protest but he cut her off. “Maybe not about the spell, but something did happen to you out there in the woods.” Ryan fiddled with one of the saddle bags even though she’d already checked it twice. Tom sighed. “Just tell me you’re all right,” he said in a tone of defeat.

She turned to look him in the eyes. “I’m all right.”

Tom shook his head saying, “I wish I believed you.” He walked away, disappearing into the crowds at the market, leaving her to stare after him, lost in thought.