Arrow Rock Literary Journal

The dark underbrush shook as the man struggled through, he stumbled into the clearing of the trees and flora. The forest around him circled like a stalking beast. It was dark in these woods, far darker than it should be, with the full moon standing sentinel in the sky.

The man looked down to see an aged cloak resting on the ground. He caught the icy breath escaping from his chapped lips. With a shiver, the man bent down to retrieve the cloak. It sagged with use and stained by misuse, but he had nothing else to fight the chill. So, with reluctance, he put it on. 

Now to find…there he spotted it, the disappearing light of the lantern held aloft by the thief. The man grits his teeth and begins to follow, determined to retrieve what was stolen. 

“Nice night,” a hollow voice hums from the tree line. 

The man jerked his head at the sound and found himself face to face with a pair of glowing, piercing eyes. As round as the moon and as deep as a star. The eye watched him from the shadows of the trees, watching him with dissection. 

“Who are you?” The man asked, shaking his wrinkled, gnarled hand at the eyes. 

“Another traveler of these woods, might I walk with you?”   

The man went to protest but saw the light fading. He gave the curtest of nods and began to run after the thief. He noticed the eyes following him with the ease of a creeping wind. 

“Who are you chasing?” The Eyes asked. 

“A thief.” 

“Ah, what has he stolen?” 

“He stole…he stole…he,” the man trailed off. What was it that he lacked? Whatever it was, the thief had it. 

“I understand, it’s hard to keep track of what has been taken from you with such a long life, youth, sanity, happiness, family.” 

The man scoffed at the mention of family. “Some things are better lost, useless things that bring nothing but headache and wasted years.” 

The Eye regards him with a pale judgment. “Such cruel words to a person you once valued above all others. Tell me, do you remember the day you met? The day you met that shining woman? 

“I…” 

“That’s all right, I do. You were reciting poetry, your poetry, at a somber pub near your flat. You had not a scrap in your upturned hat until she dropped her number in just for you.” 

The man turned from The Eyes. The memory was acidic, painful. 

The Eyes continued. “You talk for hours and hours as the bar empties like the wine in your glasses. You asked her what her favorite poem of the night was, and she answered the first one you told. It surprised you; it wasn’t a poem of love or joy it was one you wrote at the darkest corner of your life, so very close to the edge. Do you remember it?” 

“No,” the man lied.  

 “I see,” The Eyes said. “It matters not, for you soon put down your quill, the rhymes rested, the odes quieted. And you found your fortune in a vocation you once hated or perhaps still do.” 

The man ignored The Eyes as he struggled to keep up with the light. 

“Why are you out here?” The Eyes asked. 

“I must-” 

“Why are you out here when something precious awaits you at home.” 

The man laughed with cruel mirth. “That old crone? A diamond no longer. A shine now dulled, why should I spend this hour in her frigid presence?” 

The glow of the eyes intensified, becoming a beacon in the shade. “So, you yourself are such a young tree? With no wrinkles or cracks adorning your porcelain skin? And you yourself are a being of warmth and no venom? One who deserves company at this vile hour?” 

The man looked into the center of those bright lights and saw himself old and debased, a skeleton clinging to the disintegrating skin hanging from it. He turned away from that mortifying sight and cast it instead at the light, it was no longer fleeing. In fact, it seemed just in sight. 

“You should turn,” The Eye cautioned. “It is not too late to return home, a real home, one not bound by cold coin or branding wedding band, but of companionship and solidarity in the face of the end of a long road.” 

“Never,” the man hissed, pushing his way into the clearing where the light stood. 

The thief’s back was to him, wearing a long, dusty overcoat, stitching frayed along the shoulder, an old hat with a peacock feather in its brim. The stem of the feather was broken… he knew that hat.

The Thief spun on its heels and hoisted the lantern high, the garish yellow light illuminating the man’s own face. It was young, bereft of the cruel years that dragged his skin away from his face as if it was desperate to escape his poisonous skull and the rotten ideas that festered inside. His eyes still held the light he once had. 

There it was, that’s what was stolen from him. 

“You’re wrong,” The Eyes said. 

The man turned to find the source of the voice but found nothing till he took a closer look at his youthful doppelganger. The eyes of the youth were glowing bright, brighter than the lantern it held aloft. The youth turned the dial on the side of the lantern and the flame died away. Without the light the shadows claimed him and all the man could see were those eyes. 

“Wrong? But that’s what was taken!” the man cried. 

“Taken? No, you gave it away like a stone to a raging river, nothing was stolen from you that you weren’t willing to throw away.” 

“I…I don’t understand, what was the point?” the man begged. “Why am I in these woods?” 

“I asked you the same question, you couldn’t name me what was stolen.” 

“What am I missing?” 

The Eyes closed for but a moment and when they opened again the pair that stared back was the same as the man’s dull green fading into a black void. “You’ve lost your light… and with it any right to your heart.” 

The man fell to his knees the cold ground bleeding the warmth from his body. 

“You feel it, don’t you? There’s nothing to you anymore.” 

“What am I supposed to do?” the man whispered, so soft he feared The Eyes could not hear. 

“You find a new heart and protect it as if it were your own.”  

The man rose to his feet. “But it won’t be mine! It won’t be my heart! Why should I spend my remaining bleak days nursing some fragile soul? I want myself back!” 

The Eyes stayed silent for a moment, gazing down at the man. “I thought you might understand this time.” 

“What?” 

“Don’t worry, we will always try again.” 

The man heard a rustling above and peered up to see a murder of crows resting on the branches around him. They stared at him with hungry, angry eyes. 

“The Poem?” The Eyes asked. “Do you remember?” 

The man nodded, feeling tears stain his eyes. 

“Good. Some progress has been made.” 

The crows launched from the trees soaring low to The Man, who simply closed his eyes as they descended on him, he disappeared beneath their writhing mass.

The Eyes watched on and words began to tumble from its formless shape.

“Your Eyes they are so piercing as they stare right through.

I know you truly see me and all that I do.

Your Eyes they are so piercing and I wish you only knew.

That not a word I say is true.

I’ll make it up to you.”

The empty cloak falls to the frozen ground and the crows ascend once more into the night. 

The dark underbrush shook as the man struggled through, he stumbled into the clearing of trees and flora. The forest around him circled like a stalking beast. It was dark in these woods, far darker than it should be, with the full moon standing sentinel in the sky.

The man looked down to see an aged cloak resting on the ground…

---

Jack T. Miller is a student at Lindenwood University majoring in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing. When not attending writing club meetings, or playing Dungeons and Dragons with his friends, Jack can be found daydreaming about worlds he’d like to create, with a passion for mystery and fantasy writing.