The Forgotten

THE FORGOTTEN

BY JOSEPH A TODARO

It was the smell that grabbed his attention...

There is something about the coppery tinged aroma intermingled with the fetid stench of decaying meat that stirred the wild senses into a sort of haywire frenzy.

He loved it...

It had been a long time since the meat had been so fresh. Long since he had felt the thrill of the hunt motivate his spirit to give chase and rip and tear. For far longer than any mortal could endure, he had trekked thru the lightless depths and hunted the intractable void of the earth beneath the true earth. The world of dreams and nightmares where the true masters of reality reside. Above him, in the realm of the lords exists a garden that spans for eternity. But this is no place of bounty, no zen masterpiece or aesthetic menagerie. The garden was a place of cruelty and sport for the masters. It was covered in great living hedges taller than any living man. Some say it’s design changes upon the whim of the master who comes with a sound to claim.

How had he come to be here?

It was a fact, he had always been here. Always been this nightmare in the garden; A predator of the lower darkness. The graciousness of the Lords above filled his belly with the dead and dying from their sport. There were more like him, but they avoided one another, scavengers rarely ran in packs when food was scarce...

Or was it something else?

Something in the hedge... Thorns. Thorns in the hedge. Razor edges that tore not only at the flesh, but the flesh of memory. Barbs that robbed you of the very being you had once been.

New.

Something new moved quickly upon the soil above. A rapid pulse and labored breathing signaled that it had been injured by the Lord’s hunt... or perhaps by the hedge itself. Thick drool began working in his jaws, the scent of blood excited his predatory instincts and urged him into a quick sprint through the catacomb-like tunnel.

“Help!” A voice cried out. “Someone fucking help me!”

The harried sound brought a cruel sense of joy. A feeling like a cat pawing at the mouse it has just cornered and is moving in for the kill. He felt his limbs energized with the power afforded him by the thrill of the hunt. He moved past relics of his previous meals. Little more than shreds of clothing and bone. Each cluster, he was forced to recall with brutal clarity, the clarion call of pain and fear which their death agonies had made manifest as his teeth found purchase in their flesh.

The voice called with the fear almost palpable. “Help! Please....”

Passing on his left was the remnants of a young boy whose life was taken as Lord Pithe set forth his hunting pack into the hedge. Peter, his name had once been. Pithe had allowed the boy to explore and gave him a glamored knife in the name of fair play. When the spirits were released, they flew from the fae in an aura of purple mist which seemed to highlight their path as they wove towards him in the air. These hunter spirits took on the look of sparrows as they darted through the twilight. Their sharp beaks streaking into the boy’s back and left leg maiming him and ending his flight. Pithe pulled a small wooden cylinder from his flowing silk robe and began to press his lips over a hole in the top. He exhaled, and a ghostly melody issued forth. He remembered the music had called him... and he fed.

Just ahead lay most of a young woman who had been hunted by Skip of the Razor. Skip was known to hunt by allowing the prey to run through to exhaustion and then delight in the torture of a death by the thorns.

Why did they hunt?

Was it not survival? But, how could it be? They did not eat as he did. They did not taste of the flesh. Was there something else? Something in the fear? For him, the emotions seasoned the meat. But what of the Lords? What of the Tuath Dé—?

The questions began to cause a searing pain behind his eyes. The force hit him and sent him reeling to his knees, an agony that felt like white fire along the nerves. Had this questioning of his existence or that of his masters brought about some punishment?

But, with the pain came clarity...

Perhaps it was a memory or the beginnings of one. There was a room. It was above ground and a window let in beautiful rays of sunlight that glinted off of the wooden planks of the floor. A breeze blew thin silk curtains along an invisible path. The adornments were alien things that he knew not, yet they maintained an eerie familiarity that remained unexplainable. Their meanings to him, hidden behind a veil of secrecy or uncertainty, never to be revealed.

As quickly as the vision had come on him, it was over...

The voice was closer now. The owner of the voice had taken to simply whimpering and wheezing as the fight left their body. Their pace had slowed as they had discovered the entrance to the cave that served as his home. His body folded and sunk to the debris laden floor. The scent of old death lingered and mingled with the fresh blood running from the wounds of this newcomer. There had been a moment where the silent sensation of abject terror filled his being as he behold the wounded woman. But, as her shambling form struggled past him, the urge, the need was too great. His fangs ran with drool as his anticipation grew. His muscles coiled and his body prepared to strike. She collapsed not ten feet behind his current position. His vision glazed over red and he sprung like the most capable asp or viper, tackling his exhausted prey.

As the flesh parted and the blood flowed, the pain lessened...

So too did the memories of his past...

The secrets of the Hedge were to forever remain a secret...

At least to him…

At least for now…

Along with its masters...