The Decrepit Copse

Zilch wandered down from the mountain after discovering an indescribable treasure at its peak.

An old juggler dared him to climb the mountain, but first gifted him a magic cap. Zilch felt silly wearing it—it was a jester’s hat, after all!—but it bestowed physical strength, endurance, and a level of awareness that helped him avoid and overcome the dangers of the mountain paths.

What he found buried in the rocky earth at the top of the mountain, however, was something else altogether. It was magic, but of an order he never would have anticipated. It was pure light, but somehow he possessed it.

Or did it possess him?

It did not matter. He knew with the fullness of his heart that it was good—The Good!—perhaps the very essence of good, and that no evil could assail him so long as he was dedicated to love for The Good and doing good out of love.

In the valley below he encountered a flat rocky plain that stretched to the sea, so he could not go on unless he wished to cross the ocean.

He startled himself with the realization that this was a possibility, recalling how, on his mountain journey, the magic hat generated a field of energy that protected him from drowning.

He forded a river at its deepest point by walking on its bottom! Fish swam about him in an undertow that should have beat him into the rocky riverbed! What wonders might he encounter at the bottom of the ocean?

Yet this other magic, this soul magic of The Good which now thrilled him through with ecstasy, gave him counsel. It was not so much a voice as a feeling, an internal compass. These gifts were bestowed upon him because he was worthy. He should wish to remain so and gave himself wholly to the holy.

It was unworthy to waste these gifts for mere pleasure and curiosity. Zilch was invested with a purpose and knew that in fulfilling it he would witness no shortage of wonders, so there was no need to seek them out on his own!

To the left was a further descent, away from the coast and back into the bowels of the mountain, which was also a dormant volcano. This was not his way.

To the right was a road that stretched parallel to the coast and into a thick forest. Along the road, just before the forest, was a white church with a towering steeple at the forefront.

The Good informed him that this was his way; but, though he had been brought up in the ways of The Church, and raised by many good people therein, this church emanated an ominous aura.

It was as if the lily-white church were engulfed in a roiling black flame. Silver streaks shot through it like comets darting through a void—so did Zilch’s vision reveal to him.

The Good warned him not to go near the church. His way was through the forest. As he strolled toward the trees, he veered away from the steeple; but he felt as if the lone, circular window near the top watched him, an evil eye marking his path, hoping he would stray close enough, but within reach of what?

He had no intention of finding out. He listened to The Good, which he knew would not lead him astray.

This is not to say that his journey was without challenge! He was not only a beneficiary of The Good but its instrument to do good, and this presupposed encounters with evil.

For instance, on his way down the mountain, he came upon a circle of stones stained with blood. He stopped short, appalled at the stench of rotting corpses piled up in the center. Restless spirits screamed in a chorus of agony which made him fall to his hands and knees.

He tried to crawl away but The Good stopped him. Like a gentle hand, it caressed his heart, comforting him in his distress. These restless spirits wished to be freed from the horror that enslaved them. His own soul might be temporarily soiled when he walked into the circle, but if he trusted in The Good, he would be cleansed in the act of burying the dead.

Zilch dug the holes with his own hands, as a show of humility, of deference, of care to the tragically departed. This took a whole day, and some part of the next.

He was thankful when The Good used the power of the cap ‘n bells, however, to move and place the bloated bodies into the makeshift graves.

Again, with those same hands, he broke the circle of stones, placing them instead as markers to memorialize the departed, who were now arranged in orderly rows, dignified by the consideration of our wandering, and openly weeping, fool, who, to his astonishment, watched as the bloodstains disappeared from each stone as he placed it.

Disentangling the bodies unknotted the spirits as well, and as each ascended to some unknown otherworld, for which Heaven is as good a name as any, he heard a note chime which he would never be able to reproduce on any instrument, no matter how hard he tried.

It was the most beautiful sound he would ever hear. It was the sound of gratitude, he thought, but more than that, it was one note in a symphony of love that spanned the ages, and to which he was in his own right grateful to have been an audience.

He knew then that The Good would not steer him wrong, but he also knew that he would encounter ugly and painful things.

The trees before him were such things.

Gnarled, twisted, leafless, yet brimming with malevolent life. The spirits that inhabited these trees were not lost; they were bound—imprisoned for a purpose? Zilch was unsure, but it was an ancient evil, which chittered and clicked an arcane, insectoid language.

It barraged his consciousness in a manic surge which sought to overtake him, to inhabit and possess him that it might control him like a puppet; but The Good was too strong! It repelled the possession with great force, though only able to keep the hive mind of the tree spirits barely at bay.

Zilch felt as if he were swarmed by flies in a bog of manure and random filth.

From just inside the decrepit copse, Zilch heard a choking sound. He ran into the trees to find a woman hanging from one of the branches by a noose! Zilch hugged her knees, lifting her high enough to relieve the pressure of the rope from her neck.

She gasped and grabbed the branch above with both hands, pulling herself up. Then the branch snapped, and lady landed atop fool in a jumbled heap!

The woman scrambled to her feet, pulling the noose off her neck. She stood, wild-eyed, breathing deep, ragged breaths. “Thank you, stranger! Thank you for saving me! I don’t know how I got here, or why I should have wanted to hang myself!”

As Zilch rose from the ground, he shooed her to the edge of the forest. “Get out of here, dear lady! It’s these trees! They’re inhabited by evil spirits, ask me not how I know! Run also from the church, for it is not as it seems! Go! You are not safe here!”

The lady didn’t stay to ask questions.

Peering around, Zilch could see bones scattered here and there. Human or some other animal? He dared not investigate further. This was a place of death, and even the power of the magic hat and The Good would not save him from a tragic end if he lingered too long.

He could see that these undead wooden sentinels were set apart from the other trees, which seemed healthier and lusher the farther into the forest he looked.

The Good bid him go, steering still away from the direction of the church. He figured the lady must have arrived from the way he was headed and wandered into this trap, where evil spirits possess unwary travelers.

A torrent of chittering and clicking assailed him as he walked away, but The Good withstood the onslaught.

It was unfortunate that he could do nothing to cleanse the decrepit copse. He would learn over his years of wandering and doing anonymous good deeds that there were some evils which only time could mend.

Nevertheless, The Good came along to help the worthy, like himself, and the lady whose life was ultimately saved because of his own chance encounter with the juggler.

Or was it chance?

Zilch was not so sure…

***** * *****

Zilch's Journey started here, in this Abecedarian poem: