Chapter IV

  Return Home

  Thing and Vito passed by a huge palm tree shaggy with brown leaves. Vito remembered it and became sure that they were going the right way. Soon after, he saw Quldir’s home, and the man himself fishing at his little dock. Vito guessed that he was in his late forties. He was wearing a bulky coat of some kind of waterproof hide, and a wide-brimmed hat to shield him from the rain. He looked a bit like a spirit himself in that moment, sitting motionless with his pole at the edge of the sea, and the rain roaring around him. He looked lonely to Vito.

  Vito turned to Thing, saying, “We’re getting close.”

  Normally, Vito would’ve gone to greet the fisherman, but today he felt that might be a bad idea, given that he had a spirit in tow. Quldir might be afraid, or think he was in danger. Better to bypass his home. He wouldn’t see them, as long as they gave the wharf a wide berth. Quldir wasn’t married, so no one would see them if they crept around the back of his home. Vito led Thing just so, noticing how the rain fizzled through the stream of blue fog billowing from the spirit’s lower half.

  When they’d circumvented the house, they turned a corner, and a green field opened before them. The land was almost entirely flat, with ponds of insect-infested water strewn here or there. Most of the little pools were in the shape of bows or horns, longer than they were broad. During the long dry season they were empty, but now that the rain was coming, they had filled once more, and the mosquitoes would be able to breed more prevalently. Vito tried to keep away from the pools as they passed through the meadow, but the insects found him nonetheless, swarming around his head underneath the gold ring where they could keep dry. He batted at them, noticing that they took no interest in Thing. When his gaze settled on the spirit, he saw that it looked distant, or distracted. It hadn’t spoken in a while either.

  “You alright?” he asked it.

  “Just trying to remember more stuff,” it said.

  Vito returned to battling the insects, ceasing only when he saw a landmark he recognized, a pigpen constructed of bricks.

  “Those are Diggi’s pigs! We’re almost home!”

  Thing didn’t say anything.

  As he looked at the pigpen, Vito’s attitude towards the matter began to change. Diggi’s pigpen. Diggi. Diggi, who had abandoned him. Diggi, who had gone to school, and left him to die. He considered knocking on his parents’ door to give him a piece of his mind, but knew it would be pointless. Diggi was almost certainly still at school. As they passed by the pen, however, Vito did give a swift kick to the wall of the enclosure. It didn’t budge, but his foot hurt a little.

  Looking over the great field surrounding them, free of a single tree or spirit, led Vito to wonder just how anyone, especially a human, could’ve cleared such an area. The forest he could imagine being cut down, but the spirits? How any group of humans, however large, could have defeated them, he could not imagine. Prior to this day, he had envisioned a huge host of men and women armed with swords and torches, driving the spirits back in a kind of large-scale duel. In his imagination, neither side had killed, only fought to a standstill, with the spirits then acknowledging the humans’ need for the space, followed by them vacating it. He now very much doubted this account of events. He considered asking Thing about it, but figured that it probably wouldn’t remember, since it had happened over two days ago. Yet another unanswered question about the spirits.

  When Vito saw his mother’s fence which enclosed the pasture for their sheep and goats, he began to run.

  Thing followed after him, crying with a huff,

  “Wait! I’m a long-distance runner, not a sprinter!”

  When Vito reached the door, he grabbed the knob roughly, and pulled, but found it was locked.

  The weathervane on top of his home rattled in a sudden wind, the deer motif which crowned it turning to face the west.

  “Who’s there?” he heard from within.

  “It’s me mom!”

  His mother slowly opened the door, with a confused look on her face.

  “Did you decide to come home early, or—”

  She saw Thing.

  “Dear gods! Vito, get away from that thing!”

  Vito put his hands up.

  Thing fanned itself, clearly thinking that she had referred to it by name. “She knows who I am?! I mean— of course. Wow, I forget how famous I am sometimes…” it said.

  “It’s making some kind of warcry!” Cione shouted, running back into the house to get a weapon.

  “No, mom! Its not dangerous, let me explain!”

  Cione came back out with a tanning knife and brandished it at Thing. The spirit jolted back. It got an intense look in its eyes, and its body began to shift, growing in size. Its pupils began to change shape, but Vito shouted, and the process stopped before it could run its course:

  “STOP!”

  Vito was surprised at the volume of his own voice.

  Cione and Thing looked at him. The sheep and goats began to grow agitated at the commotion.

  “Bahhh.”

  “Eh-eh-eh-eh!”

  “Uuuhhhh.”

  Vito broke into their baying, “I fell into the Spiritwood. Thing rescued me!”

  This did not clear up the situation for his mother.

  “What thing?!”

  “Uhhh, hello, I’m right here!”

  His mother became animated again hearing Thing make noise. Vito waved his hand at the spirit, gesturing to indicate that it wasn’t helping. Thing rolled its eyes.

  “Its name is Thing, mom. It’s a good spirit— it saved my life. Will you please put the knife away?”

  Cione looked at Vito, then Thing. She looked at his hands, clearly confused by the gesture he had made to Thing when it had made sounds— as though he could understand it.

  “Can you… understand the sounds it’s making?”

  Vito nodded, gulping. Cione looked at Thing one last time, and then at the giant ring hovering over Vito, at which she gasped again.

  “You’ve become a sorcerer!” she said with elation. She jogged back into the home at once, and replaced the knife where she had taken it from.

  “No mom, that’s Thing doing that. It wanted to keep me dry.”

  Vito approached the open doorway to follow his mother, but found that the ring was not small enough to fit through. Thing snapped its fingers, returning the ring to its right horn.

  “Thanks, Thing.”

  “No problem, friend!”

  Thing flew ahead of Vito, sailing all around the house and examining the furniture with intense interest. Its body returned to normal size, and its pupils went back to their normal shape. “There’s so much stuff in here!” Thing remarked.

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  Cione watched it with a suspicious gaze.

  “Tell me everything,” she said to her son, never taking her eyes off the scarfed spirit.

  Vito told her the whole story as Thing explored their home— everything from trying to get to school, to being left behind in the Spiritwood by Mr. Quaglione and the other kids, to being attacked by four spirits, discovering he could talk to them, and eventually being saved by Thing from a close scrape with an oily tree spirit.

  When he had finished, Cione called Thing over to herself.

  “Thing!” she shouted. She then turned quickly to Vito.

  “It can understand what I’m saying?”

  Vito nodded, and Thing approached her, hearing its name called.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  She turned to her son, “what did he say Vito?”

  “It wants to know what you want.”

  Cione nodded, and smiled to Thing. She extended her arms, pulling Thing into an embrace.

  “Thank you for saving my son.”

  Vito saw her eyes well up, and Thing didn’t seem to know what to do with its little hands. It hadn’t a chance of hugging his mother back, since its short arms couldn’t reach around her, so instead it laid them on her shoulders in a comforting fashion.

  “It’s no problem, lady! Kind of a well-known hero around these parts, just doing what I do best…”

  Vito translated: “it says it’s happy to help.”

  Cione wiped her eyes, and hugged Vito.

  “My baby, thank the gods you’re okay.” She kissed his head and his cheek. Thing went back to looking at their silverware.

  When Cione separated from her son, she looked him over.

  “You’re covered in leaves, mud, and sand— I need to check to see if you have any wounds. Go to your room and take off your clothes, okay?”

  Vito didn’t like that his mother felt that he couldn’t check his own wounds, but he didn’t question her.

  “Yes mom.”

  Vito headed to his room.

  “Can I come?” asked Thing, who had shrunk his head to be tiny so he could look in between the tines of one of their forks. His voice sounded even more shrill coming from such a diminutive source.

  “No,” said Vito.

  His mother looked to him questioningly, wondering what Thing had said.

  “Wasn’t anything important,” he told her.

  Thing frowned at that, but was quickly distracted exploring their two butter knives. Vito went into his room, and closed the door behind himself. He stripped, and looked himself over in the mirror. He had a few nicks on his face from where branches and sharp leaves had struck him while running, but no cuts other than that. He did notice a massive bruise running all around his middle, from where “the joiner” had held him. There was a slightly less severe one on his right wrist as well from Grandfather Oak. He sat on his bed, his clothes lying in a pile before him. He had nearly died twice today.

  Thing acted childish, but it might be capable of the same violence he had seen of other spirits. It had proven itself dangerous already in how it had demolished that hill and killed the joiner, as well as how it had reacted to his mother when she’d drawn her knife. He wondered if he’d made the right decision in agreeing to become its friend, or indeed accepting its help to escape the Spiritwood at all. Perhaps he’d merely set himself up for a worse fate.

  Vito thought about the frog monster that had wanted to eat him. Thinking back on it now, the creature’s physical appearance had been silly-looking, and the fact that the owner of that area of the forest called himself “Grandfather Oak”, also so. The spirits were an enigma to him— as ridiculous and goofy as they were murderous and terrifying. Thing seemed to capture both sides in one individual. It was like an insane person sharing a brain with a na?ve child. Its delusions of grandeur only further unsettled Vito. What if, at some point, someone contradicted the spirit, told it that they didn’t have a clue who it was and couldn’t care less, and Thing flew off the handle and attacked them. Vito didn’t think that Thing had saved him because it didn’t want him to die, but rather because it was angry that another spirit had supposedly assumed its identity and then acted dismissive towards it. While spirits only acted in accordance to their nature, Vito wasn’t sure he had fully seen Thing’s yet. He wasn’t sure Thing really had his best interests at heart. He wanted to like it, but he just couldn’t trust that spirit, at least not until he had seen more.

  He heard a knock at the door, and his mother’s voice:

  “Can I come in?”

  Vito raised his voice slightly to carry through the wood,

  “Yes!”

  Cione cracked open the door and slid in, casting her head back for a second with an imperious gaze.

  “Shoo!” she said, clearly curbing an attempt by Thing to snoop. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Vito saw that she was carrying the handled box which contained their medical supplies.

  “That Thing is a bit odd…” she said with a chuckle.

  Vito smiled nervously, looking at the space under the door to make sure there wasn’t any small blue presence trying to slip in. His mother sat next to him, telling him to lay back. He made one last check of the door to be sure, and then did as he was told. She laid the box of supplies at the foot of his bed, and got a few canisters of something out. Vito was still somewhat resentful that his mother felt that she had to check his body for wounds, and said,

  “I already checked for everything, there’s nothing serious.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow, pointing to his stomach where the bruise stood prominently.

  “What do you call that?”

  “It’s just a bruise.”

  She shook her head.

  “A bruise like this is serious. Does it hurt when I just touch it?”

  It did.

  “No.”

  The eyebrow raised a little more, seeing the contrary evidenced in Vito’s facial expression.

  “Only a little bit,” he added.

  “People will stop trusting you, Vito, if you don’t show that the truth matters to you. If you only care about looking a certain way or being right, people won’t have any cause to listen to what you say.”

  Vito didn’t feel that such a trivial thing deserved such a harsh reprimanding comment, and replied,

  “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

  She began to apply something from the canisters to the bruise with her hand. From her precipitous silence Vito could tell that he was about to get a lecture.

  “If I had believed you Initially, I wouldn’t be able to give you the right treatment. Even now, I’m just going off how I saw you react, because I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth or not.” She shook her head. “There are different levels of salve that I have for different levels of pain. We have to use the right strength for the right level of injury, so when you don’t tell me the truth, it makes my job harder. Everyone has their role to play, Vito, to keep the world in balance.” She put one hand up, as if weighing something. “You know about books. I know about bruises. You’ll help the world by learning things and writing them down, and I keep you able to do that by making sure you’re not in pain. When you make assumptions about how other people should act, or you say things that aren’t true to cast things differently, you disrupt the system, and everyone loses. You’re less productive, and I use the wrong salve. Everything falls out of balance because you misrepresent things.” She finished with his stomach. “Wrist please.”

  Vito put out his wrist.

  “But it’s just a stupid bruise, and it really didn’t hurt that much.”

  “Then you should’ve said ‘not much’, instead of ‘no’. Precision will earn you respect.”

  Vito couldn’t help but roll his eyes, though his mother didn’t see since she was focused on his hand.

  “Does it hurt when I touch it?” Cione asked again, lightly prodding Vito’s wrist. It hurt.

  “Yes.”

  “Out of ten?”

  “Five,” said Vito, truthfully. Cione smiled and quickly retrieved a different herbal mixture.

  “See, aren’t we efficient now?”

  Vito couldn’t help but resent this statement, even if subliminally he recognized its claim. The two were silent for a moment as she finished lathering his wrist. She then turned to his legs, looking at them closely.

  “I didn’t get hurt on my legs,” Vito said. Cione looked skeptical of this.

  “Well sure there’s no bruises or cuts, but I do see a few ticks.”

  “Ticks?!” exclaimed Vito, who had a special hatred for the parasites.

  “Keep still, I’ll wiggle them off.” She pulled out a set of tweezers, and began to separate one of the insects from his right leg. She suddenly shook her head.

  “I can’t believe those awful kids left you behind.” She pulled the tick out, and crushed it. “You shouldn’t pal around with them anymore.”

  “I know, but what can I do? They were my only friends,” he said.

  His statement suggested that he was considering staying friends with them, when in truth, he was not. He couldn’t imagine them anymore without the context of how they had left him, abandoned him as he had screamed for help. He wasn’t sure he’d have done any different, but it hadn’t been him in that position, but they. He didn’t think he’d be able to feel comfortable in their presence for a long time, maybe ever.

  His mother nodded at what he had said.

  “‘were’.” she quoted. “Find new people that you can trust. Those are the people you should hold close to you.”

  Vito was surprised at her choice of words, “hold close to you”, and, only having encountered the turn of phrase before in terms of romantic relationships, thought she might be trying to give him a hint of sorts. The way she had said it with such emotion only reinforced this hearing, so he asked her,

  “Are you saying like a wife?”

  Cione laughed, crushing the second tick she had pulled out as she did so.

  “No! No! I didn’t mean for you to get a wife.” She began to pull the third and final tick out. “But if that ever happens, I’d say the same rule applies.”

  Vito frowned, “‘if’? You don’t think I’ll ever get married?”

  “Maybe. If you want to.”

  Cione was distracted before she could crush the last tick, seeing that her words had not satisfied her son. “You’re so smart, and so gifted Vito, I think you’d succeed at anything you try at, eventually. If you wanted to get married, I’m sure you could, and if you didn’t want to, I don’t think there’s a person living who could make you.”

  “But everyone eventually gets married,” said Vito, running through a mental catalogue of every adult he had met. He knew not a single one who was unmarried besides Quldir. Quldir, the man sitting alone at his dock, fishing in the rain. Vito saw a binary between these two states, one with his mother, who had married his father and created him, and the other with Quldir, all by himself, fishing in the pouring rain.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Cione, “some people get married and some don’t. I got married because your father asked me, and I love him. If you find yourself in the same position, maybe you’ll get married too, but if not, that’s alright as well.”

  Vito was surprised to hear that his mother still loved his father, even after all that he had done.

  “You still love dad?”

  Cione nodded.

  “He had no control over what happened. You were young, you don’t remember. I still love the man he was before.”

  Vito did not feel the same way, but didn’t want to upset his mother.

  Cione looked at the tick squirming between the hands of her tweezers, and sighed. She crushed it.