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eruanna1875 · 6 months

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The Lost Boys (Guidesman, C1)

Chapter One: No Name

C1 on Tumblr: First (you are here!) - Next

~~*~~

Not that he thought about any of this. The Woodsman simply hummed and chopped, collecting the branches he so needed. Then, when he’d gotten the best of his reaping, he gathered them up and placed them in his bundle. Strapping it onto his back and slinging his axe over his shoulder, he picked up the all-too-familiar lantern with care, and strode on into the dark. The woods were always dark here.

The Woodsman felt his grip on the lantern-hoop tighten, almost involuntarily. Just a little more for the bundle, he thought to himself, mind immovably on his task. Then back to the mill. That should make us enough oil for a long while, shouldn’t it?

His mind almost ended with a name, but he quieted it. The work first.

Yet though the work directed his thoughts, it did not seem to direct his feet. As he walked through the woods he knew as well (if not as dearly) as his own home, he found himself turning. Doubling back. It was as if he was compelled, ever so gently, to retrace his steps through the fallen leaves.

He stood still a moment, glancing around by the lantern-light. There was no one near. No wandering witch that might enchant his steps. No solid shadow that might call forth the heedless with song. Nor did it feel like any such dark forces.

But he nonetheless felt a nameless something, tugging at his heart to return.

The Woodsman refused to allow imagination (or hope) to run for the reason. Instinct, he told himself, taking the path laid for him through the mist. In these woods, instinct has warned me away from many a peril. And perhaps there is a better tree in this direction.

This tide in the affairs of men, like the current of a deep river, drew him onward. Instinct was not its true name. Yet on instinct of his own he was focused—so focused, indeed, that he hardly noticed where his destination lay. That is, until he ran right into it.

They startled him. These strange figures and muttered voices, so suddenly before him. Without thinking, he reared his axe in his hand, ready to strike at any foe. “What’re you doing here?!” he shouted. “Explain yourselves!”

The unnamed voice now squeaked and stammered fearfully. “Calm—calm down, mister! Wh-whatever you do here is your business!” The oddly-dressed figure held up his hands: he was only about the height of a fireplace mantle. The one at his side was even smaller.

The Woodsman’s axe lowered.

Children.

“W-w-we just wanna get home with all our legs and arms attached!” the boy finished, staring with wild eyes.

His alarm at the presence of such youngness here was buried beneath frustration. “These woods are no place for children!” he snapped, in reproach of their rashness. “Don’t you know the Beast is afoot here?”

“The Beast??” The taller boy couldn’t help a shrill crack in his voice. “We don’t know anything about that! We—w-we’re just two lost kids trying to get home!”

Lost. He felt his shoulders ease, very slightly. Only lost. Hardly likely the lads could’ve helped that, even if they crossed the borders on a reckless dare, or… or on curiosity.

“Well,” the Woodsman sighed, fixing his gaze on them both, “welcome to the Unknown, boys.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re more lost than you realize.”

The boy eyed the trees about him uneasily. His little friend, however, seemed unaffected by the dark greeting, smiling up at the elder child. “See, Wirt? You were right. We should’ve asked him for help!”

“Greg!” The sharp word was fraught with anxiety. Though he avoided the Woodsman’s gaze, the boy kept glancing toward him, then off into the shadows, as if weighing their chance of escape.

Hmm. The Woodsman’s frown shifted as he eyed the odd and disheveled pair. They had names, it seemed. ‘Greg,’ the younger, a frog in his arms and a teakettle on his head. Of all things. And ‘Wirt’ was the elder, with a tall, pointed cap and a soldier’s coat like a cloak. He could’ve been no older than thirteen or fourteen years of age. No older than…

Perhaps the wood is enough for the moment.

“Well, come along,” he grumbled, hanging his axe on his belt. He tightened his pack as he turned.

“To—to where?” A squeak in the last word.

“If you want my help,” he replied over his shoulder, “I’ll bring you to a house where we can speak freely. Then we can talk of help.”

Without looking back, he began to walk. There was a hovering moment of pause at his back. Then, the sound of little feet, pattering on behind him, and a nervous groan as other shoes followed.

“So,” said the smaller voice, “I’m Greg, this is my frog, and that’s my brother, Wirt!”

“Greg, stop giving our names to strangers,” Wirt whispered.

“But you already said my name!”

“Shh!”

“You shh!”

Though he said nothing, the Woodsman nodded. Brothers, too. I thought as much. His mind began setting things aside, for later or for never. Questions that would likely not be asked. Ideas of how these two brothers might have found their way into the Unknown. Wonderings of why his steps turned back to find them.

“Well, I guess you’re not allowed to have our names,” Greg went on, with only a trace of disappointment. “What’s yours?”

A heaviness fell on his chest, if but for a moment. His tread slowed, if so little that it was hardly noticeable. “There is no name for me in these lands. I am only a woodsman.”

“Great,” muttered Wirt. “Not suspicious at all.”

But neither Greg nor his croaking companion seemed to notice his mutterings. “That’s okay, Mr. Woodsman.” Even unseen, the smile in the boy’s voice was evident. “My frog doesn’t have a name yet either.”

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #the old grist mill #writing #my fanfiction #my writing

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eruanna1875 · 7 months

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(C1) Snippet of "Six: Burdens to Bear"

Night had long fallen by the time they stood back from their work. Boards were nailed. Hinges were fastened. The door was mended and set in place, and not the smallest mouse would slip over its threshold now. The only light remaining came from the stars and the lantern. The moon was hidden behind the trees. “There,” exhaled Wirt, wiping his brow. Despite his breathlessness, he seemed to smile a little, as if in satisfaction. “Finished.” “Yep!” Greg grinned, his frog under his arm. “You guys finished fixing the door, and Birdie and me finished getting up our candy trail. See?” And he held out a handful of little sweets, about seven or eight of them all together. “Th-that’s great, Greg.” “Indeed,” the Woodsman nodded. He looked the door over. Then he looked his two workers over. “You both have well-earned your rest this night.” “But I don’t wanna rest!” protested Greg as he stuffed his candy in his pockets. “We’ve gotta get going!”

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #writing #my fanfiction #my writing #snippets #the old grist mill

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eruanna1875 · 7 months

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(C1) Snippet of "Three: The Wereling"

The crash itself wasn’t what worried the Woodsman. Oh, his instinct would’ve jumped at once to danger, if it had been only the crash. But his sense would’ve quickly reminded him of the two boys and their troublemaking. It might have been nothing more. He might have gone on, if that had been all it was, humming half-nothings and setting his sturdy-built system to work. No, it wasn’t the crash. It was the roar. It was the shadow, huge and hunched, flickering past the little window. It was the glimpse, so quick it might have been imagined, of eyes. And where were the boys? He snatched his axe from the place he’d laid it against the wall, swinging it up into his hand. The action knocked over the other tools around it. They didn’t matter. The Woodsman’s boots thumped up the stairs like the hounds of Hell were at the heels of them. “What’s happening?” he barked out, the moment he burst through the door. His eyes took in the scene in a second’s time. A half-empty room, a dropped toy, and one boy sitting at the fireside. Only one. “Where’s your brother?”

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #otgw beatrice's dog #writing #my fanfiction #my writing #snippets #and this is where we depart from canon #the old grist mill

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eruanna1875 · 7 months

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(C1) Snippet of "One: No Name"

The Woodsman mumbled a tune with no name as he knelt to chop away the soulless wood. But then, few of his songs had names. Few were even real songs. Those that were, and that had lyrics of any kind, often went wordless into the air. He hadn’t had the heart to truly sing for years. Not that he thought about any of this. The Woodsman simply hummed and chopped, collecting the branches he so needed. Then, when he’d gotten the best of his reaping, he gathered them up and placed them in his bundle. Strapping it onto his back and slinging his axe over his shoulder, he picked up the all-too-familiar lantern with care, and strode on into the dark. The woods were always dark here. The Woodsman felt his grip on the lantern-hoop tighten, almost involuntarily. Just a little more for the bundle, he thought to himself, mind immovably on his task. Then back to the mill. That should make us enough oil for a long while, shouldn’t it? His mind almost ended with a name, but he quieted it. The work first.

#over the garden wall #my writing #my fanfiction #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #salt and light #snippets #the old grist mill

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eruanna1875 · 5 months

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Happy Reapers (Guidesman, C2)

Chapter Four: We Labourers Few

C2 on Tumblr: First - Previous - Next

(C1, The Lost Boys)

(This is a bit of a long one, but it's split up into scenes, and it's also sort of cozy.)

~~*~~

“So what’s the plan?” asked Greg as soon as they stepped outside of the barn. “Because I started thinking about Linus meeting the Great Pumpkin and Charlie Brown getting my Rock Facts Rock and Beatrice being Lucy cause she’s blue and crabby, so I didn’t hear anything you guys said.”

“Well, apparently,” Wirt snapped, though he wasn’t looking at Greg, “we’re staying here in Pottsfield for the rest of the day, even though we’re in kind of a hurry to get home!”

“There’s no need to be cross, boy,” the Woodsman said, and Greg turned to look at him. “The Pottsfielders have been hospitable and—”

“But we don’t even know if that… th-that Enoch thing will tell us anything!”

Greg perked up at the name and looked at… hmm, Schroeder. The piano one. “That’s the Great Pumpkin, Schroeder!”

“Greg—”

“I will not have you speaking of Enoch so disrespectfully,” interrupted the Woodsman, looking very sternly and loomingly at Wirt. Dad used the same exact look, but only on special occasions. Like if somebody was crabby about going to church or sassed Mom or something. “He will do as he said he would, and he will not break his word.”

“Yeah! Like Linus says!” Greg gasped—that gave him the perfect idea! “C’mon, Wirt, we gotta find the most sincere pumpkin patch so he can come there!” And he tugged on Wirt’s blue cape.

Wirt frowned and turned away. (Greg knew what that meant: he didn’t want to come this time either.) “But…”

“Boy, you must allow me a little of your trust.” And the Woodsman stepped over to Wirt, not quite so stern now. Maybe still a little looming. “By the time this day is out, you will be on your way home. And, until then, this is truly the safest place in the Unknown that you could be.”

Wirt looked up, with that funny look that meant he didn’t want to say what he wanted to say. Which might be ‘yes’ or ‘no’ sometimes. In the end, he just sighed. “Yeah, well, I guess there’s not much else we can do until we get directions.”

“Yeah!”

He shrugged too. “A-and besides, if you’re right about this Enoch... guy... we’ll be on our way home soon anyway, and we won’t have to worry about any of this ever again.”

They both stopped talking. Greg thought that was a funny kind of a place for a stop-talking. He didn’t quite get what Wirt meant with that last part, either, about any of this and ever again. But not getting what he meant wasn’t unusual. Wirt was Like That.

“Yes,” the Woodsman nodded at last. “Yes, that’s quite right. So you need only be patient ‘til the night.”

“Just like Linus!” declared Greg, accidentally swinging Schroeder around as he side-fist-pumped. If that was what the arm thingy was called. He’d asked Wirt once, but he didn’t know the name either.

“Okay, so… uh…” Wirt looked back up at the Woodsman. “So what are we supposed to actually do at this… harvest thing?”

The Woodsman didn’t smile. But he made his eyes all narrow like he might’ve. “Come with me, boys. I’ve guided you through the woods, and I can guide you through the fields.”

~*~

The fields were familiar to the Woodsman, as he led the boys down country lanes that he’d walked nearly every harvest, for years past his reckoning. He found the way almost without thinking.

They met very few on these dirt-aged roads. Those they did were mostly stragglers late to the festivities. All greeted them. Most then bustled on. But only one stopped.

“Oh, Goodman! Hello!” cried the woman, waving her kerchief. The Woodsman tipped his hat as she approached. “It’s so nice to see you! Have you been to the barn yet?”

“Yes, Mrs. Harmon, I and these boys are off to the harvest now. How are your daughters?”

“Oh, I’m just going to join them now! Leah and Tara went early—you know how they are—and, well, these old bones can’t keep up with them as well as they used to!”

She laughed. Loud and long and hard, as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Greg laughed too. Wirt only stared at them both with confused discomfort.

As Greg introduced himself and his brother, however, the Woodsman's attention was drawn away. A little breeze was stirring, rustling the autumn grass, sending a few stray leaves tumbling to the sky. He thought he felt the faintest portent of winter in its chill.

This leaf-stirring wind stirred him too, set urge in him. Urge to hasten on to their work. Urge to finish the next task. Urge, it could almost be said, to beat winter to the fields.

“Well, we must be going,” he nodded abruptly to the masked mother. “Greet your daughters for me.”

“Of course—they’ll be sorry they missed you!” Mrs. Harmon made to pass them, and he made to leave. But the woman stopped suddenly as she came to his side. She turned her carven face up to him with a little gasp of remembrance. “Oh, and thank you again, Goodman.”

“What for?” interrupted Wirt, unintentionally rude.

But Mrs. Harmon was gracious enough. There was a smile in her voice as she turned to answer him. “Why, for pointing us to Pottsfield! My girls and I’d have been wandering those woods for ages if it hadn’t been for him. And it was such a cold winter that year!”

The winter again. Like a frost, it came now to tinge his thoughts with regret. “Very cold indeed,” he murmured, eyes downcast. And they were ill, too. If only I had done more, perhaps they would not have…

“But the winter doesn’t trouble us in Pottsfield,” she continued without burden nor care. “The girls are so happy here—and I’m happy myself! So of course I must thank him.” She nodded, turning her hollowed gaze back again. “And truly, I do.”

She bade farewell to the boys, and Greg tipped his teapot to her. Before she went her way, however, Mrs. Harmon took his hand gratefully. The fingers were cold beneath the straw, and the words muffled beneath the mask. Yet, for all that, the touch somehow held warmth. For all that, her voice was soft and earnest.

“Be happy while you’re here, friend.”

The Woodsman did not speak for some time as he led the boys on. Wirt must've asked him a thousand questions in his looks. But not even a silent reply did he receive. Even Greg's voice, proclaiming enough for two, seemed hushed in these hills.

At last, they came to a field just behind town, at the back of a little white farmhouse. That was where they’d begin. Straw was always first. And, as every year, the tools they needed were already there waiting for them.

“Look at Schroeder! Haha!” Greg giggled as he balanced his frog on his rake (somehow having managed to find one just his size). The frog seemed content with his lot.

Wirt, on the other hand, seemed much less pleased. “Are—are there any gloves?” he asked, eying the field as if he expected it to bite him.

“Are they needed?” The absence of answer was answer enough. He jerked his head over toward the farmhouse. “On the stairs. Timothy Grub always leaves them out for the labourers, though they’re not often used.”

“Why?”

The Woodsman faltered.

Why?

Why should these people, with their hollowed faces and straw-bound hands, neglect to protect themselves as they worked? Why should they not shudder at the thought of black, life-taking winter? Why should they rejoice in their state? What were they hollowed of? Fear, care, discomfort, sorrow, pain?

Yes.

They were happy here indeed, and no season could trouble them.

So, taking up his rake, the Woodsman drove winter from his thoughts. “Their hands have no need to fret for the straw.”

The boy stood a moment with a doubtful squint. Then, he shrugged and headed for the porch.

~*~

Wirt could still smell the straw and stover as they rattled away from the fields. It wasn’t a smell he knew very well. But it was nice enough. It reminded him of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A lot of things around here did that. Maybe it was something from when he was little. Or… or somewhere else.

Timothy Grub had come out of the farmhouse near the end of their work, also harvest-garbed. He and his sons (similarly dressed, but smaller in size) helped them heap up the straw. Then, tipping his hat brim, “Say, you folks oughtta ride to the pumpkin patch with us!”

“Is it a sincere pumpkin patch?” asked Greg, grinning eagerly.

Wirt grimaced: he didn’t really enjoy the thought of socializing, especially here. “Oh… we—we don’t wanna be too much trouble—”

“Oho, no trouble there! The Goodman’s a friend. Besides, the wagon’s already hitched up.”

The Woodsman thanked him for them.

So, as Wirt stared at the sky, letting his thoughts drift, here they were: rolling over dirt roads like the gentle stream of time through golden hills of memory.

In a wagon pulled by huge turkeys.

Driven by a pumpkin man.

What a weird day.

“We lab’rers few, we happy few, we many lab’rers few,” sang Timothy Grub, though his voice came out a little muffled. “We’ve fields to reap and hearts to keep and happy work to do!”

“Happy work, happy work,” Greg mumbled, kicking his legs as he fiddled with something. The Woodsman, sitting next to him, just stared, a little uncertainly. Like he was trying to figure out what to do with the kid.

Pfft. He’d need some pretty good luck for that.

Greg seemed to succeed in whatever he was trying to do. “Aha!” He held up a little paper wrapper, emptied of its sweets. “Hey, do you want a piece of candy, Farmer Grub?”

“Oh, no thanks,” the pumpkin man said over his shoulder. “I’ve got no stomach for it.”

And he laughed. Really, really hard. For no reason at all. Same as the lady earlier.

Geez, that was weird.

Of course, the weirdness was promptly joined by Greg, once again. Which was a little distracting, at least.

“Uh, Greg,” asked Wirt, eying him, “do you even know why you’re laughing?”

“Cause he was laughing!” And he popped the candy in his mouth and chewed happily, humming as he did so. The Woodsman’s brows went up in surprise.

At the sight of them both, Wirt cracked a smile in spite of the weird day, the weird pumpkin people, his own weird self. He couldn't help it.

Greg was just Like That.

~*~

“Yup, I think this is a very sincere pumpkin patch,” Greg nodded, surveying the field. “Don’t you think so, Flying Ace?”

The Flying Ace croaked.

At the insightful comment, he frowned and put a hand on his hip. “Yeah, you’re right. The sky makes it kinda glum, since it’s grey now and not blue anymore.”

He looked around. Farmer Grub was handing Wirt and the Woodsman some snipper thingies to cut the pumpkins. Was he supposed to snip them too? Or maybe he was just supposed to pick out the best ones. Or he could make the faces! That’d be fun.

Wirt leaned back, resting with one hand against the big ol’ turkey. “So, how many of these things are we supposed to get, huh? A dozen or something?”

“Ol' Berwin said to take whatever we need,” waved Farmer Grub. It looked funny with his straw hands. “So we probably oughtta fill up the cart. The harvest goes on for days, and it’s shaping up to be a plentiful year.”

Wirt frowned a thinky frown. “Okay… but, if it’s such a big harvest, how come you don’t have more people working? I-I mean, we’re the only ones out here, so—”

“No, we’re not,” grunted the Woodsman, already lifting a pumpkin. He was winning the pumpkin race!

“Wait, really?”

“Well, sure!” Farmer Grub shrugged. “These pumpkins aren’t gonna move themselves… are they?”

Wirt started to make a funny look, but the Woodsman talked first. “You see, lad, in any given part of these fields, the labourers are few. But they’re never the only ones.” He set Pumpkin Number One in the cart.

“Just like the song!” And Greg started singing the “happy work” part to himself again. Well, and to the Flying Ace.

Wirt looked from the Woodsman to Farmer Grub. He looked like he was gonna say something else. But right when he opened his mouth, the turkey he was leaning on snatched his pointy hat right off his head. And red. Pointy and red.

“HEY!”

He tried to jump and grab it back, but he tripped. He was better at tripping than jumping. The turkey stuck it on the other one’s head, and they both startled gobbling and cackling. Maybe they thought it was a funny joke. Wirt hopped and hopped, but he couldn’t reach. “Give it back, you stupid—!”

“Ho now! Ho!” barked the Woodsman, coming around from the back of the cart. He caught the turkey’s halter and held up his other hand. The turkey tugged against his hold at first. But, as soon as it started to settle down a little, he grabbed the hat. He was taller than Wirt, so he didn’t have to jump.

Greg thumbs-upped. “Haha, good catch!”

“Dogood! Boaz! Bad turkeys!” Farmer Grub scolded the turkeys (which was also funny, because he couldn’t frown with the happy pumpkin over his face). “Sorry, folks, they’re a little pesky today.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Grub,” said the Woodsman, dusting off the pointy and red hat. “No harm done.” And he handed it back to Wirt.

Wirt huffed as he settled it back on his head. “Thanks,” he said, eying Boaz and Dogood with a frown.

The Flying Ace rupped. No, Methuselah. He was in the Bible too, just like Boaz. “Yeah, you’re right, Methuselah. It doesn’t have to be blue. Grey’s a sincere colour too.”

~*~

Something small plopped down in the dirt beside the Woodsman.

“Do you think it hurts?”

"Hm?" He glanced up from his task. Greg was on his hands and knees, inspecting the pumpkins and their vines from inches away.

"When you snip their green things, I mean. I don't wanna snip them if they don't like it."

He blinked. Then, once he understood the question, he considered it (with the assumption that the plants could feel at all). "Perhaps. But I don't believe they would despise it." His hand ran along a round-ridged hull. "They were created to be harvested, after all. It is their purpose."

"Oh, right!" The lad's contemplative frown righted itself. "That makes sense. If I was a pumpkin, I'd sure want to have a cool face and a candle in my mouth!" And with that, he made a... face. Stretching his mouth into a toothy grin. Crossing his eyes. Shaping his cheeks with his fingers.

The Woodsman could not find even a question to ask. He only stared, unsure of whether to be concerned.

"Did you know that that's how pumpkins dress up for Halloween, instead of wearing costumes? It's a Rock Fact!" And Greg held up a painted stone.

A moment. Then, one little word unrolled a map for his lost soul at last. All Hallow's Eve. That's what he's talking of. And a jack-o-lantern face to make of himself. He nodded slowly. Now I under—

"So can I?"

Just as quickly, the map refurled.

"Can you what?"

"Snip the pumpkins!" And he turned his bright face upward expectantly.

Though he understood this well enough, the Woodsman wavered. Even at the Mill, he hadn't let the boy handle the tools. "We... mustn't have you snipping your own fingers, little one..."

"Aw, that's what Wirt said!" protested Greg. "I won't! I know how to be careful!"

A little sigh escaped him at the age-old claim. If I recall, there are few children in all the world with that knowledge.

"Please?"

But he knew. As his gaze turned from the tool in his hand to the pleading face, he knew. He wouldn't deny a child a chance to help. He never could.

"Here, then. Let me show you the proper way."

"Yeah, haha!"

It took a little time to show him the safest way to hold the tool (and to work out how to balance it in his small hands). But Greg seemed a quick learner at such things. And, when the blades closed easily on the vine, and the pumpkin shifted in its new freedom, the lad actually cheered.

"See, Methuselah? I did it! Just like Mr. Woodsman showed me!"

The frog ribbited approval.

"Can I carry it to the cart too? I think I'm strong enough."

The Woodsman studied its size, shifted it where it sat. Then he nodded. "I think perhaps you are."

After a moment or two (for Greg insisted that they both bring pumpkins), they headed back for Timothy Grub's cart. Young Wirt was still nearby, picking his own fruits of the vine. The turkeys had settled down by now, and Grub was counting out their harvest.

"Mr. Woodsman, I think you're a born gardener."

At the simple sentence, stark as lightning, the Woodsman's gaze jumped wide and darted down. Greg was already smiling back up.

"A what?" was all he could manage.

"It's what Old Lady Daniels called me. When I helped her clean up in her flowerbeds and her yard and stuff." Greg shrugged lightly. "I think it means you're the kind of person should have a garden, cause you know how to do gardening a lot, and you're good at this kind of stuff. And you're really good at this kind of stuff, so you're a born gardener too!"

The Woodsman blinked. Heat flooded his face. "Er... th-thank you... little one."

"Welcome."

He stared another moment, unnoticed, until he could stare no longer through his muddled thoughts. Then his eyes dropped.

A born gardener? What named me that in your eyes? He shook his heavy head. Lad, I fear you are too kind for the truth.

His gaze swept across the fields and their fruit.

A born gardener, I? Who fells what he has not planted, and roams too far and too long to see things grow?

Answer came. But not from the present.

Long-bygone days were his answer, the green before his eternal black and brown. Days when he tended to other things than twisted trees. Days when another little voice too kind begged to help. Days when the yield of the earth was not a burden.

A born gardener?

Perhaps I was, once.

"Wait, do you have a garden already?"

His words came forth slowly, though not from confusion. "A garden?"

Yet, as he turned to the child before him, he found there the wrong face. A moment. Then his remembrance shattered.

Those days were gone, and long gone.

I am a woodsman now. That is my place, and my burden. I cannot grow. And I will think back no longer on memories today.

His eyes hardened a little.

They drown too easily.

"Well, do you?"

"I have no garden," the Woodsman replied with a stony sigh, setting his orange load in the cart. "The edelwood is my crop, and the oil is my harvest."

Two "ohs" were said. One came, in realization, from the nearby Wirt. The other, more disappointedly, from Greg.

The child looked down again. Set down his pumpkin. Pondered. Then looked back up.

"You can't eat those, can you?"

"No. It is only food for the lantern."

"That lantern must be pretty hungry, then, 'cause you feed it a lot."

He reached out toward the Woodsman's side to pat its metal shell. The Woodsman turned sharply, keeping it out of reach.

But there was no anger to be mustered. When he looked down, he saw only a tiny child. A child with dirt under his nails and frog slime between his fingers and a world of childish reasonings boiling inside that teakettle on his head. A child that would soon be gone, gone away home.

Not his child. But a child nonetheless.

"Come, little gardener," he sighed, with what he hoped was a friendly look. "We've work to do."

"Happy work to do!" sang Greg—that old song, it seemed, had nested in his head like a bird in a tree. Warbling, he skipped away into the fields.

No less lost, the Woodsman followed.

~*~

Beatrice had already kind of given up on finding anybody when she turned to circle again over the town. But she still turned. One last time, she told herself. Just to make sure. Not that that's any assurance they'll actually be ALIVE if I find them, but I may as well know.

So she wheeled once more, keeping her eyes peeled. Her beady little bluebird eyes. Why couldn't she have gotten turned into a falcon or something? Then she could see better. At least there were clouds now. Earlier, with the sun out, it had been way too—

She stumbled on air. She took a second look to make sure she wasn't going crazy. But the flash of red and blue amidst golden stalks was there. Small green and tall grey solidified it: they were in that field, all right. And they seemed to be moving.

"I don't believe it," she muttered to the wind (half-relieved, half-annoyed). Then, like a tiny bird of prey, Beatrice dove. The cornfield, and its trio of new scarecrows, were her aim.

She fluttered as she came to perch on a stalk. "Well, you didn't get eaten."

"AHH!" The kid (she was sure it was "Wirt" now) jumped and almost dropped his basket. His wide eyes swiveled. They found her. Then they rolled. "Ugh, Beatrice." He shifted his weight and walked past her. "I thought you ditched us."

If she could've reddened under her feathers, she would've. Even she wasn't sure if it was irritation or embarrassment, though. Neither really mattered to her scowl.

"Maybe next time, I'll ask you to pick between honour and a fate probably worse than death. We'll see how you respond."

"Pfft, come on, it wasn't that terrifying," he lied. Oh, she could tell that was lying. He was a terrible liar. Her baby brother could've told a lie better than him.

And Wirt seemed to be aware of the fact, too. His lie left an awkward silence in his mouth, and he looked away. When Beatrice tried to stare him down, he frowned, still without eye contact.

"L-look, why don't you go bother Greg?" And he tried to use the setting-down of his basket as a distraction. "He seems to be the main magnet around here for little... woodland creatures, or... whatever."

That remark tightened her grip on the stalk furiously. Oh, really? How'd YOU like to be a little woodland creature? Maybe I'll give YOU a bluebird curse. See how your dumb face looks with a beak.

In actuality, she placed no such curse (even if it would've worked, which she still wasn't sure of). Instead, she forced her wings into a shrug. "Believe me, I would. But he found himself a different woodland creature."

"Huh?" Wirt stood up and glanced around for his brother. It took him about four seconds longer than Beatrice thought believable to spot him. The kid was prancing around under the stalks like an elephant in the corn. The old woodsman was close behind, watching him with a hesitant eye.

"C'mon, it's even happier work if you sing!"

"L-little one, I... well, I fear my voice is not the sort to make anyone happy."

"Psh. Everybody's voice makes somebody happy. Here, Crosby and me can show you how!" And he started singing some random chorus about happy work and hams to keep, plucking corn as he went. That frog of his hopped alongside. His other friend, however, only looked more lost.

Beatrice shook her little head, the slightest bit smug. Looks like your "Guidesman" doesn't know EVERYTHING, does he?

"Well," shrugged Wirt beside her, turning back to the stalks, "at least Greg's bugging him instead of me now." He plucked an ear.

"Yeah, yeah." Beatrice looked at him. Eying the corn with his tongue just poking out the side. Dork. Then she took another glance at the pair. Still noisy as a river and silent as a stone. Neither paying attention.

So she took the opportunity. Hopping onto a closer stalk, she began to speak a little lower.

"Speaking of which, you're not really sticking with that guy, right?"

The ear half-raised to Wirt's mouth froze. "What?"

"I mean, it's not like you know anything about him. How do you know what kind of things he's done, out there, alone in the woods, for years on end?"

"I-I don't need to know his life story, Beatrice," he interrupted, tossing the unmunched corn into the basket and reaching for another. "I just need to get home. And, hey," he shrugged again (which was really getting annoying), "he got us here."

Rolling her eyes, she fluttered after him and perched again. "And then what? Did you offer community service in return for not being murdered or something?

"No," Wirt scoffed. "We're just helping them out while we wait on the next step. At the end of the day, these guys are gonna give us directions. Then we'll be out of here."

Ugh, quit having plans already! "Supposedly."

This time, he turned towards her fully, complete with hand on his hip. Trying to look sternly disinterested or something. "Beatrice, is there a point to all this, or are you just being a raincloud?"

Beatrice thought up a quick deflection. "I'm just saying, I don't like it. I mean, you find all this as creepy as I do, right?"

His face twisted like an explanation was about to come out of it. "I-I mean, so maybe it's a weird... whatever it is, where they wear vegetable costumes and—"

"And worship a giant pumpkin head?"

"Follow a giant pumpkin head," he corrected (nerd), "they don't actually act like they worship it. Him. Whatever." Wirt hurriedly waved it off and took a few steps forward. A few steps closer to the others. They still didn't notice. "But they like the Woodsman. And..." He wavered. "...they seem nice."

Seriously? You're not even gonna agree on THAT? "Okay, you're in denial. That's fine. But I'm telling you," she added, glancing around, "something feels off about this place."

At that, they both seemed to poise on silence, suddenly aware of faces. Pumpkin faces, staring at them through the stalks. As if the very speaking of their strangeness had summoned them. Even Wirt couldn't ignore them.

Evidently, Wirt was more capable of ignorance than she thought. He huffed stubbornly and stomped on past her. Boy, he might as well have outright said 'I'm not about to listen to a bluebird'.

"You know what? This whole thing has felt off ever since we came into the woods. But the Woodsman told us this place is safe—which, so far, it has been! Safer than that wereling thing we ran into before."

"The what?"

"So I'm gonna wait until the end of the day." He reached for another ear. "When Enoch comes, he'll tell us what we need to know."

"Oh, and you trust this Enoch guy?"

"Who said anything about that? The Woodsman said—"

Beatrice was quick. Her voice shrank, and she bunched up her feathers innocently around her.

"Do you trust him?"

She held her breath. It was a risk. Clearly, some big thing happened with a 'wereling', whatever that was, and she could easily believe that the woodsman either ran it off or killed it. And clearly, he'd led them all the way here. Any normal kid would have every reason to trust the guy. And, too, with the woodsman so closeby, she was risking putting him on the scent (which was the real reason she'd stayed away from Greg).

But her risk paid off more than she expected. All Wirt's retorts and excuses dropped from him. His open mouth soon shut out the silence, working without words. He stared at her until his eyes flicked away and fell.

Jeepers, you'd think it was a dirty word I was getting him to say.

But maybe that was just what she wanted.

"Look, Wirt, is it?" she asked, still in a hushed voice. One stalk closer. Time to be careful. "You can think what you want, you can trust people or not. I really don't care."

Very c areful.

"But if it doesn't turn out the way you want, just remember that I owe you a favour. I can take you to somebody who will know how to get you home, if you want."

His eyes got just a little wider, and he looked up.

Gotcha.

"And, let's be honest," she added nonchalantly, wings shrugging, "I'm probably the only one around here who's physically incapable of keeping you from leaving."

Wirt wavered. But it was a wavering on whether or not to say what you really think. She was almost sure of that. "I—"

Something whipped past Beatrice, making her squawk. Though it didn't hit her, it smacked Wirt right in the forehead. It flopped upright again, quavering like the cornstalk it was. He, however, tripped over his own basket and toppled, limbs flailing ridiculously before he hit the ground.

Oh, the ground didn't hold him long. The others rushed on by her, probably not even noticing her. Greg was apologizing. His hands and that woodsman's were already reaching down to help the guy.

But Wirt wasn't looking at them. He was only watching her. So she risked a little more to give him a conspiratorial smirk. Then, she took off, leaving the cornfield and her quarry behind.

For now.

~~*~~

[And that's as far as I've got. I'm probably done for a while, what with Christmas coming up and all. But I hope you enjoyed!]

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 2: happy reapers #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw greg #otgw wirt #frog jason funderberker #pottsfield #otgw beatrice #writing #my fanfiction #my writing #i love this chapter #honestly just any chapter where i get to spend time in Pottsfield

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eruanna1875 · 5 months

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Happy Reapers (Guidesman, C2)

Chapter Three: The Goodman and the Great Pumpkin

C2 on Tumblr: First - Previous - Next

(C1, The Lost Boys)

For @why-bless-your-heart :)

~~*~~

Now, it wasn’t that Wirt exactly liked the town. In fact, its utterly empty and silent streets—almost as if its inhabitants had been “raptured away,” as Greg's friend Mrs. Daniels liked to say—seemed a little eerie. It made him uneasy. What’s more, it made him… uncertain. He wasn’t supposed to be there, if only because it was a place meant for other people than him.

So it wasn’t that he liked the town. It was just that he disliked the idea of being led around by a talking bird (whether she claimed to be magic or not) more.

Thus, when Beatrice made the snide comment—

“Hey, not to be obnoxious, but an abandoned ghost town doesn’t seem like it’s gonna be that helpful in getting you guys home!”

—Wirt scowled, despite having had similarly nagging doubts (for a moment or two, anyway). And when the Woodsman replied simply with the words—

“It is not abandoned.”

—Wirt nodded decisively and folded his arms, as if he himself had been proved right in something or other. “There! See, Beatrice?”

“No, I don’t see. There’s nobody here!”

“What? But there’s lots of people here!” interjected Greg. “There’s you, and Wirt, and me, and Alford, and Mister Woodsman!”

“Sh-she means other people, Greg.” He took a couple steps, then stopped. “And isn’t that supposed to be Alfred?”

“It sounds better my way. Do you guys hear that?”

The last out-of-nowhere comment took Wirt a second to process. But when he did, he began to listen. The others followed, falling silent. And in their silence, they found another sound: song. Faint, distant, but most certainly real music. The sound of it drifted through the streets, like the timeless voices of spirits. Suddenly, the idea of a ghost town didn’t seem so unlikely.

“What… what is it?” Wirt asked, hardly expecting an answer.

“That, children,” declared the Woodsman, lifting his head, “is the people of Pottsfield. Come along, now. You must meet them.”

He gestured them on, then began plodding up the road, making for (as far as Wirt could tell) a tall wooden barn in the midst of the houses. His steps didn’t seem as heavy as usual.

“Well, Beatrice,” Wirt sighed, giving Beatrice what he believed to be a subtly smug look, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to rejoin civilization.”

“And so is Alford!” declared Greg, lifting the frog above his head. It ribbited.

Beatrice only frowned. At least, it looked like a frown. Could birds even do that? Then again, if they could talk, why not beak contortions?

The boys (and bird) followed their guide to the barn, from which the music came. The sounds of voices and fiddles and instruments even Wirt didn’t recognize wafted like a homely scent through the door, slightly ajar.

The Woodsman lifted his hand to push it open. He paused. Then turned.

“Let me speak to them. The Pottsfielders are kindly folk, but they are wary of trespassers.”

“Oh, ‘wary of trespassers,’ great!” muttered Beatrice, flapping over their heads.

“Yes, as in this land they should,” the Woodsman replied, frowning at the bird’s suspicions. “But I will explain your troubles, and I have no doubt that they will do all within their power to help.” He fixed his eye on Wirt. “Only trust me a little. It will be well.”

The look only confused Wirt, and the words only put him off. ‘Trust’? He was already following the guy. Why would he need to trust him? But he shrugged anyway. “Uhh… okay?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

“Yes sir, Mister Woodsman!” And Greg saluted with his frog’s leg.

With a seemingly-satisfied nod, the Woodsman turned again and gently pushed open the door. With daylight at their backs, they stepped inside. And the sight that lay before them made Wirt’s eyes go wide.

The barn was filled with people. Shucking corn, peeling apples, playing instruments. Dancing, both together round a huge maypole and in their own smaller circles. But the mere presence of people wasn’t what was startling. No, indeed.

What was startling was the fact that every single person in that barn had a pumpkin for a head, and bodies and limbs made of straw, or of other vegetables.

“What the…?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” the Woodsman cut off, with a handwave toward Wirt. “It’s only the way they dress for their harvest festival. I had to learn that myself, many years ago.”

Wirt blinked. “Wait, you mean it’s just costumes?”

“Good thing I didn’t take this off then!” And Greg stuck out his pumpkined foot.

Before Wirt could breath a sigh of relief at this bit of information, however, something happened. One of the pumpkin people—seemingly a girl, with a hat over her straw braids—lifted her hollow eyes. She looked at him. She looked at Greg. Then she looked at their guide. And the corn in her straw hands dropped.

“It’s the Goodman!”

The music stilled. A rustle went through the crowd, and each orange head turned toward them. Wirt almost had the chance to feel extremely unnerved by the collective gaze. But the stare did not last. Almost immediately, every one of them cheered.

“The Goodman!”

“The Goodman’s back!”

“Hurrah!”

The music struck up again, even more joyfully. All those without instruments left their revelry at once. Then, the crowd of Pottsfielders bustled around the Woodsman, greeting him with excitement.

“Welcome back to Pottsfield, Goodman!”

“Goodman, glad to see you!”

“Who are your friends, Goodman?”

The Woodsman took a step or two further in, towering up over all of them. He returned their greetings, though his words were lost in the noise. And though he wasn’t quite smiling even then, there was a light in his eyes that could not be missed.

“Whoa,” cooed Greg with wide eyes. “Now he’s the Woodsman Guidesman Goodman!”

“Okay, what? HOW.” Beatrice, now seated on Greg’s teapot, flapped out her wings fiercely, gesturing toward the strange scene. “How does a crusty old man who rails about beasts and scares people get to win over a whole town?”

“Yeah!” Wirt breathed out incredulously, throwing up his own hands in agreement. He stared after the Woodsman, slightly astounded. Heck, if he was this popular around here, they’d get directions in no time!

But then his eyes dropped from the man to the throng. And that was when his newfound positivity failed. What were they supposed to do now? More specifically, what was he supposed to do? That would’ve been too many normal people to wade through (for him at least), much less weird, old-timey pumpkin people.

“I thought we were just meeting one guy here,” he muttered, frowning uncomfortably.

However, before he could fret too much, he saw the Woodsman look over his shoulder. The man paused. Then, he excused himself back through the crowds. As soon as he reached them, he settled a hand on Wirt’s shoulder.

“With me, lads,” he nodded sturdily. Then, with his other hand on Greg’s back, he urged them onward without another word. Thus, the two… or three… or four of them (with the frog) followed their guide through the heart of Pottsfield-town.

Greg seemed utterly unperturbed by the strange townsfolk. “Woodsman Guidesman Goodman, Woodsman Guidesman Goodman,” he murmured at Wirt’s side, over and over with each stumpy step.

Wirt rolled his eyes and turned his gaze away. Almost immediately, he recoiled. One jack-o-lantern grin had come a little too close, and a muffled voice a little too near his ear. It sounded almost hollow—

Okay, no. They were people, he had to remind himself, taking a breath. Just some nice… kinda weird people. And, what’s more, he didn’t have to deal with them. That’s what the Woodsman was doing. All he had to do was stick close behind him.

Wirt eyed the surrounding masses.

Very close behind him.

“So,” he asked, trying to keep within the man’s shadow, “so you’re getting directions to get us home, right? Somebody here is that friend of yours who knows the way?”

“Goodsman Widesman Hoodsman, Couldsman Tidesman Shouldsman!”

“Greg!”

“Yes, boy, he’s here,” muttered the Woodsman, hardly audible over the chatter. Then, louder, as he came to a stop about twenty feet from the foot of the maypole, “Good folk of Pottsfield! People!”

The hubbub quieted to a murmur.

“I thank you for this hospitable welcome, but—”

“Of course!” said one voice.

“The harvest wouldn’t be the same without you, Goodman!” chimed another.

A hovering pause that confused Wirt. Was he surprised? Or was he just annoyed?

“You are kindly folk,” he said, a little quieter. And the tone seemed to rule out Wirt’s second option. It didn’t linger long, though. “But now that I’ve come, I have a matter of importance to speak of, and I must see—”

“Well!”

The voice boomed in Wirt’s chest, as close as his own heartbeat. Greg’s self-echoing chatter fell silent. Even the murmur hushed.

“—Enoch,” finished their guide.

Wirt’s eyes drew upward, toward the source of the booming word. And his breath snagged in his throat.

The speaker seemed to be none other than the maypole itself, an enormous pumpkin head at its top. It appeared to be made of cloth. Its face was sewn, with huge eyes and toothy grin. But it lowered itself toward them of its own volition, and the greenish ribbons attached to it moved like arms. Or tentacles.

“Look, Wirt!” squeaked an inexplicably excited voice. “Linus was right all along! It’s the Great Pumpkin!”

“Greg!” he rebuked, though the word hardly hissed out. But as he stared at that gigantic jack-o-lantern, he could not bring himself to think Greg was wrong.

Quickly, he shrank back behind the Woodsman. But to his alarm, the Woodsman did not stand still. Instead, he took off his hat, and he stepped forward. The Pottsfielders wordlessly cleared from his path.

“I… I’m done.” Wirt hardly had time to process the sentence before the flapping of wings signalled desertion. Beatrice had flown.

A part of him begged to follow her. Another, which was stronger, did not want by any means to leave the Woodsman’s shadow. But the strongest still dared not come a step closer to… to that. So he hung back, lingering beside Greg and his frog, biting his lip as he watched the Goodman and the Great Pumpkin meet.

“So,” chuckled Enoch, a sort of delight in his deep, drawling voice, “the Goodman has returned to Pottsfield.”

“Yes, great one,” was the Woodsman’s simple reply. He sounded solemn to Wirt, far more solemn even than usual. And yet, somehow, not gloomy.

“Hmm-hmm, that’s fine! Now our little tradition, kept all these many years, can continue. Now that you’ve gathered in your harvest for the winter, you’ve come to help us reap our own.” The great head seemed to nod, ever grinning. “That’s very fine.”

Wirt saw a few more nods spread throughout the crowd. Questions began to form his thoughts as quickly as they were answered. This was how the Woodsman knew them, but how long had he been coming here? And what was the harvest he meant? There hadn’t been any garden near the mill, not that he’d seen.

“Only,” said the worn voice, scattering his speculations, “I have not gathered in.”

“Oh?”

The Woodsman took a breath. “Not yet.” As the people began to murmur again, he held out his hand behind him, towards Wirt and Greg. “I found these children before I could complete it.”

Wirt did not move. Greg started to, but Wirt held him back with one hand. Then, the Woodsman shot them a look over his shoulder. It wasn’t an angry one. But it was a command: they must come forth now.

Greg, of course, pottered up with his pumpkin foot and a perky smile as soon as he got the signal. “Hi, Mister Great Pumpkin! I’m Greg, and this is my frog, Charlie Brown!” He pointed back. “That’s my big brother, Wirt.”

Hesitantly, and with a tremble he tried to hide, Wirt tiptoed to join the others. “H-hi,” he stammered, lifting a hand in nervous greeting.

“Beatrice was here, too, but she got scared. She’s not a magic bluebird.”

“Well,” chuckled the Great Pumpkin, “welcome to Pottsfield, children.” He leaned down with a creak. “You must be very special that the Goodman has put off his harvest for you.”

“Oh… really?” was all Wirt’s dry mouth could come up with. The head was as big as Wirt himself, and terribly close.

But it wasn’t the size of the being before him that set dread in his bones. It wasn’t pressure, though if he had come alone with Greg, as uninvited outsiders, it might have been. It wasn’t even danger, not with the friendliness of manner. Not with the Woodsman standing between them.

No, this was something greater. Something the poet in him could only grasp and desperately define as presence. Not even that of a ghost; it would have been so much easier if it had been merely ghostly. He could have fled from a ghost.

In the face of this, he could only stand and try not to drop to his knees.

“They are lost, Enoch,” said the Woodsman’s voice, not sounding half so imposing now by comparison (and yet—he couldn’t figure out how—not the slightest bit weaker). “They are wandering as strangers here. The Unknown is not their home, and they must go back where they belong. I have promised to help them do so.”

“Hm.” A deep, slow nod. “Now, ain’t that a neighbourly deed?” A deep, slow breath. “But tell me somethin’, Goodman.”

The Woodsman lifted his head, but said nothing.

“If this is not their home, and they’re not ready to join us here, then why’ve you brought ‘em to me?”

Though Wirt did not look away, his eyelids flickered doubtfully over many possible meanings, good and bad, of ‘not ready to join us.’

But his guide seemed to have no doubts. He took another step forward, eyes fixed immovably. “Enoch, you are wise. If there is a way for them to leave these lands and return to their home, I ask you to tell us, or to show us.”

At these words, Enoch chuckled. And Wirt couldn’t quite place the emotion in it. It seemed amused and bemused at once. It seemed both surprised and perfectly knowing. It could almost have been pity. But it was too light for that, and too thoughtful.

“Well, now.” And he drew himself up straight, though the smile (a genuine one) never left his voice. “Goodman, there’s a lotta things I’m not. It wouldn’t be for me to say that wise is one. But wishin’ wells, spell-makers, guides, well… such things ain’t in my dominion.”

“But do you know where they might be found?”

“Those particularly? No.” His voice grew light and lazy, as if such matters were hardly to be troubled with. “But there are ways to leave the Unknown, I’m sure. Not all who have walked these lands’ll join us here.”

“Then—”

The Woodsman stopped.

After a moment, uncertainly, Wirt tapped his elbow. “Well, go on,” he whispered, hating how loud the sound of it seemed. “Ask him what ways.”

He said nothing.

Wirt peered round his shoulder to see his expression (whilst trying and failing to ignore the Other Face). His eyes were narrowed, but in thought rather than suspicion. Then, as Wirt watched, his mouth opened again.

“What if we stayed the day?”

“What?” The word slipped out sharply before Wirt could stop it.

The head tilted slightly. “Hm?”

“I have already pledged in the past to help you bring in your harvest,” the Woodsman went on, ignoring Wirt. “If I stayed, and the children with me, would you consider the matter until the evening? Then you might give us answer.”

Wirt stared at him agape, snapping out of his fear, if fear it was. What was he doing? Did he forget that they had to get home as soon as possible? And now he was signing them up to work here for the rest of the day!

“Well.” The painted or stitched eyes lifted to the ceiling. “That is a kind offer. Particularly because you have not finished your own harvest.” He looked down on them again. “But I would not consider it payment for answers.”

Wirt’s teeth clenched in desperation.

But Enoch was not finished. “Goodman, I will see what answer I can give by the even.” His ribbons spread out like open hands. “And if y’all wish to help us, you’re welcome to it. But I place no obligation.”

“Re-really?” Wirt clapped his hand over his own mouth, trying too late to suppress the squeaked word.

Another chuckle. “You don’t have to worry, children. I only demand that you do no harm, to our people or to our town, so long as you remain here.” His voice deepened, very slightly, but there was warning in it. “I do not take lightly the care of Pottsfield.”

Wirt shrank from the presence, which seemed nearer, watching, studying his soul. But with a step, the Woodsman drew nearer still. “I will take responsibility for them,” came his answer. “They will do no harm.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think they will.” The lightness, laughingly sincere, returned, and Enoch drew back. “Not these.” He folded his ribbon-hands. “Not with you around.”

The Woodsman—the Goodman—nodded respectfully. “Thank you, great one.”

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 2: happy reapers #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #otgw beatrice #otgw enoch #pottsfield #hard times at the huskin bee #i love this chapter #writing #my fanfiction #my writing

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eruanna1875 · 5 months

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The Lost Boys (Guidesman, C1)

Chapter Five: Repairing the Door

C1 on Tumblr: First - Previous - Next

~~*~~

“…and how you fought the wolf monster, and how I tricked him into jumping into the river, to get the piece of candy I stuck to Wirt’s cape! See, that’s teamwork!”

At the sound of a croak, Greg turned from his excited prattle. He beamed down through the dim at his frog, rubbing its head fondly.

“Don’t worry, Rover. You were brave too.”

The Woodsman glanced down at the child and nodded. He’d been going on about their ‘adventure’ ever since they left the riverside, and barely stopped for breath once. It was incredible. The Unknown has hardly heard so much chatter in a hundred years, he thought to himself, a little amused. Then, his gaze dropped. Nor have I.

“Is—is it really a good idea to head to the mill, do you think?” came the concerned comment, as Wirt tripped alongside. “I mean, the Beast might come back.”

“The Beast,” he scoffed, shaking his head. What a misconception! “That was not the Beast.”

“What? B-but, you said the Beast was afoot here, and that thing—”

“The Beast is not a mindless monster, so easily tricked. ‘That thing,’ as you put it, was only a wereling.”

The word, like a wind, seemed to stir the boy’s restless mind. “Yeah—y-yeah, you said that before! When you were fighting it! But what does—I mean, the moon wasn’t even up, much less full, and people don’t turn—”

A sigh escaped him. It seemed a real explanation was necessary. So he stopped his steps and turned to face Wirt. “A wereling is nothing but a creature, some hapless forest animal bewitched by a darker power. It does not depend upon any moon.”

Wirt lifted a finger, then dropped it by his chin in thought. That was understanding enough for the moment.

“From the look of the one we faced,” he continued as he strode on, leaves crunching beneath him, “I’d say it was a dog or a wolf.”

“That was a very bad dog,” commented Greg. “He needs more spankings.”

“But do you think the—the wereling will head back to the mill? I mean, it could come looking for more candy. Or it could get mad that we dunked it in the river, and—”

“That river is strong, young one. The wereling won’t have the might to tear itself from the current for some time.” He cut through a low-hanging branch in their way and glanced at it. Not Edelwood. He tossed it aside. “We’ll be long gone by the time it returns.”

They stepped out of the woods and into the clearing, now grey with the fall of even. There stood the old grist mill, none the worse for wear. None but the door, that is. That had been knocked in by the wereling when first it entered. With any luck, it would be salvageable.

“Wait, wait,” said Wirt, coming up beside him and waving his hands in confusion. “What do you mean, we’ll be long gone?”

“I mean that I will be taking you boys on, through the Unknown, to someone who may be able to help you return home.”

The boy’s mouth dropped. His footfalls froze for a moment. Then, he began stammering half-spoken questions, none of which came out properly.

The Woodsman saved him the trouble. “I told you I would do what I could to guide you, and so… regardless of your disobedience… I shall.”

“Whoa, Guidesman Woodsman!” declared Greg, his face lighting up even more than before.

Wirt, however, still seemed struck. “W-wow, that’s—”

“After you have helped me to repair this door,” the Woodsman interrupted, holding up a hand. “We can’t leave it standing open to any ravenous creature that might come rooting around.” Before Wirt could protest, he added, “No argument, now! It is only fair after the trouble you both have caused.”

Wirt groaned. Greg cheered. The frog seemed to agree with the latter.

~*~

All things considered, the task was not such a terrible one. The door was mostly intact. It only needed a bit of patching with fresh planks and some new hinges. These, he had. The tools as well. And, once he’d made sure his lantern was unharmed after all that had happened, he brought it out and set the boys to work.

“Young man, you will help me mend the door with these boards.” He set down the boards and toolbox he’d found in the mill. He grabbed one hammer and left the other.

“But, but it’s dark!”

“It is often dark here, even in the day, and I have the lantern for us.” He found a little pouch of nails, then gestured over to Wirt. “Take up your tools, now, and get to it.”

Wirt grunted, but reached for the hammer anyway. However, what he lacked in enthusiasm, his brother more than made up for.

“Let me hammer the door! I wanna hammer the door too!” And he began poking around in the toolbox, seeking a tool to use. He picked up a little blue spade and swung it.

The Woodsman eyed him with a lopsided frown. That might end in more harm than good, for you as much as anyone. As I certainly found earlier! But the child’s little hands pleaded for something to do, some way to help. So he found him a way.

“I have another task for you instead.”

Greg glanced up from the toolbox. “Another task?”

“Yes, and it’s most important. You must search all round this mill and make sure that none of your candy has been left. Otherwise, the wereling may come back for it.”

He gasped, eyes growing round. “That is most important.” Then, “C’mon, Goldie! We have to unleave our candy trail!” And he scurried off inside, dragging his frog right along with him.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

The Woodsman turned back to Wirt as soon as Greg was out of sight. “Do what?”

“Be nice to him just because he’s pestering you.” Though the Woodsman frowned at him, he went on with a shrug. “I-I mean, the most it’ll do is distract him for a little while. It’s better to just ignore him.”

“I did not give him a task for the purpose of sending him away!” He growled—again, this boy had not the least thought for his younger! “It is in a child’s nature to do, to… to want to do! And when they ask, their elders should be slow to deny them.”

Wirt folded his arms, a little sulkily. “Yes, and you know so much about kids.”

That one almost loosened his lips. But he bit back the words that would refute all his backtalk, and crouched by the fallen door. “I know enough. If nothing else, today would prove to me that a young boy does better with a purpose in mind.”

“Yeah, and who proved that?” he muttered.

The Woodsman fixed his eye on the boy, saying nothing. Wirt glared back up, but… faltered. Something went between them in that look that said all the words that might’ve been spoken aloud. His arms unfolded.

“Y-yeah…”

The boy glanced away, but his elder did not imitate him. Instead, he jerked his head. “Come here, help me set this door upright.”

A pause, and the boy trudged over, affecting a scowl. But it didn’t seem entirely genuine.

Neither spoke much for some time after, except to talk of boards and nails and what to do. They lifted the door and set it straight. They began patching it with the planks. And they worked. Though Wirt needed a little guidance at first, he soon got the swing of it.

Purpose indeed, thought the Woodsman, glancing at him as he worked. For all his obstinance, he does well with a purpose. He turned away and angled his nail upon the wood. And for all his indifference. Tap went the hammer, and in went the nail. If he would only take the care of his brother for purpose.

But the Woodsman had seen the rock, gripped in his hand for the fight. Perhaps that purpose was not so unlikely after all.

“So, um…” came Wirt’s voice again at last.

He turned his gaze, but not his head. “Mmh?”

“So if the thing we saw was just a wereling, then… w-well, I mean…”

“Yes?”

He held a moment’s breath. “What’s the real Beast like?”

The Woodsman’s hands froze mid-strike. For a moment, his eyes were blinded. He was not seeing planks and nails. He was seeing horns like branches, and eyes like death. The real Beast? Chills ran over him, even as his teeth ground.

Oh, he knew too well the real Beast.

“Mr. Woodsman?”

Remembering Wirt’s presence, his hammer lowered. His glare, and his voice, followed. “Pray that you never have to find out for yourselves.”

He saw Wirt, staring silently, from the corner of his eye. The boy turned. Pounded another nail. Paused. “Yeah, but is it bigger than a wereling, or—”

“It is he who creates the werelings,” he muttered, a grim flame in his eyes. He finished hammering his own nail into the board, never turning. “Corrupts simple creatures into such monsters.”

“So it’s a guy.” Wirt was never finished. “Okay, that makes more sense, cause I thought—”

“The Beast is neither animal nor mortal man, he—”

“Well, then, what is he? You said—”

“HE is shadow incarnate!” the Woodsman shouted without trying, flinging the hammer to the ground. Now, at last, he turned. “He stalks like the night!” And his shadow was flung into the lantern-light, creeping over his shoulder. “He sings like the four winds!” And the gale howled like a banshee at his back. “He is the death of hope!” And the thought of the lost—the memory—burned into him like a fiery brand.

Then his blazing eyes fell on the boy before him. And his voice dwindled. Wirt was staring with wide eyes, hands over a gaping mouth. His hammer had fallen too.

The Woodsman released a heavy sigh. “But you are only asking questions.” He stooped to pick up the fallen tool. “It was only the foul answers I needed give in return that angered me.” Like an offering of peace, he held out Wirt’s hammer.

Wirt eyed it. He eyed the Woodsman. He eyed the door. Then, hesitantly, he accepted his tool back.

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #frog jason funderberker #the old grist mill #writing #my fanfiction #my writing

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eruanna1875 · 5 months

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Happy Reapers (Guidesman, C2)

Chapter Two: Shoulder

C2 on Tumblr: First/Previous - Next

(C1, The Lost Boys)

~~*~~

According to the bits of conversation the Woodsman heard over his shoulder as they walked, it seemed their new companion’s name was ‘Beatrice’.

They were coming now to the end of the trees. Though the damp of the morning still hung in the air, the path led out of the woods entirely, out from beneath the roof of leaves under which he lived out so many of his days.

The Woodsman glanced back at them over his shoulder. The half-early day was bright, and all was cast into a golden haze by the lingering mist. No shadows lurked behind. Or at least, none seemed to.

“Do you… think something’s following us?”

“Hm?” He turned his gaze. Wirt was walking at his right hand, and staring with a puzzled frown. “Why should I think that?”

“I mean, you keep looking back, so I just assumed you…” He tried to gesture an explanation, then gave up. “I-I don’t know. Dumb question.”

“No, questions are only natural in such a strange land.” A sigh. “And… I think nothing has followed us thus far. The wereling is long gone, certainly, and I’ve seen little that could be of any danger since we left the mill.”

“Really? So… why…?”

The Woodsman eyed him, then turned his gaze away. At his left side, out of Wirt’s sight, he set his hand on the lantern, hung on his belt hours ago. “The Unknown has taught me to keep vigil. Though perhaps you would profit from it, I am glad it will not have the chance to teach you.”

“Oh.”

Wirt fell silent, letting the sound of Greg’s chatter and the morning’s hush fill the space. And the Woodsman tried to turn his mind from dark possibilities. Their road had rounded a bend, and was fenced now on both sides. Fields of pumpkins stretched out beyond, their further borders out of sight. They walked in farmland now. Their road was plain. He knew the very dirt beneath his shoes. No need for concern, surely.

His eyes drifted over his shoulder once more.

“AHHHH!”

The Woodsman jumped. His hand sprang to his right side, where he had hung his axe. He spun to face Greg—the source of the scream. The child stared at Beatrice aghast.

“How can you not eat waffles?!”

Suddenly, he screamed even louder.

“What’s happened?” the Woodsman demanded, urgently bewildered as he bent toward the child’s level.

“I stepped on a pumpkin!!”

The Woodsman stopped. His eyes dropped to the ground. Greg’s foot was stuck inside of a small pumpkin. He looked back up, at a loss. But it only took him a moment before he let out a small “Ah.”

That’s right. Children do such things.

“Ha! Look!” Wirt’s triumphant cry caught his ear. He took a last look at Greg, who seemed now perfectly untroubled, and who began clomping along with his pumpkin pegleg. He glanced at Beatrice (who looked just as disoriented as he had been). She seemed to shrug.

The Woodsman, very slightly, did the same. Then he stood straight again, still a little baffled but no longer alarmed. Such a strange boy. He shook his head. I shall have to warn him of crying out without cause. The sound could well draw real dangers, or—

They came to the crest of the hill. And all his wary thoughts hushed at the sight.

Golden fields lay out before them. Autumn freely and wholeheartedly rested on the rolling hills. In the midst of these, the path wove down into a little farming village, its homely houses all together, safely gathered in. Pottsfield.

For a moment, there was nothing behind him at all.

“Civilization!” declared Wirt, throwing his fists in the air (and, he did not realize, shaking his guide from his reverie). “Yes! At long last, our ill-begotten wanderings through this realm of shadows are ended!”

The Woodsman cocked his head, intrigued at the strangely poetic words. The lad had never spoken that way before. And yet, it seemed as easy on his tongue as his everyday speech.

But the young wordsmith wasn’t used to attention for his work. He caught the look and shrank away a little. “Uh… yeah, we-we’re here, so— what the…?”

This last was said because his shrinking produced a squelch. Wirt looked down. Then he scowled. He too had stepped into a pumpkin.

“Ah, great.”

Once they’d removed the involuntary shoe, the four of them (five with Greg’s frog) made their way down the hill toward Pottsfield. Greg kept chatting with Beatrice, who seemed to respond only grudgingly. Wirt eyed their surroundings with curiosity (and kept watch for stray pumpkins).

The Woodsman didn’t look over his shoulder once.

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 2: happy reapers #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #otgw beatrice #pottsfield #I'm so looking forward to this you guys #writing #my fanfiction #my writing #hard times at the huskin bee

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eruanna1875 · 5 months

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Happy Reapers (Guidesman, C2)

Chapter One: One Is A Bird

C2 on Tumblr: End of C1 - First (you are here!) - Next

(C1, The Lost Boys)

~~*~~

Beatrice shifted her uncomfortable position—meant to give the appearance of being trapped in vines—and peered up through the leaves at the sun. Still there. Still getting higher. Just like it was an hour ago. And still, nobody else was there to see it.

“Ugh,” she moaned.

The little bluebird had been waiting in that bush since dawn. She’d already had to turn away some blond guy with a mustache who tried to ‘free’ her (after subjecting her to his long-winded blather about joining the circus to buy a ring). Her boredom was getting irritated. Those boys should’ve been there by now.

Frowning (as well as a beak would allow), she muttered, “Honestly, if they got themselves killed on the way out, I’m gonna be mad for wasting a morning.”

Well, there was nothing else to do. So Beatrice let her mind wander a little. Not back, of course, where it both longed and dreaded to go, but around in the recent. She met the boys in the afternoon yesterday, wasn’t it? Maybe evening. It was dark in that part of the woods, it was hard to tell. But even if they followed the path, and didn’t get eaten or killed or something, they probably stopped somewhere for the night eventually. They might’ve slept in. And if they were anything like her brothers…

Oh, cripes, I’m gonna be here all day.

It seemed like an hour at least before anything happened. In actuality, it was about another fifteen minutes. The sun had barely inched further up the sky before, at last, she heard something coming up the road toward her hiding spot.

About time. She shifted back properly into place, rehearsed her plan once over in her mind, then locked her eyes on the bit of road she could see, watching for the boys. Hopefully, I can get the attention of just one. She only needs one, right?

Beatrice heard the sound of raspberries approaching. She rolled her eyes.

Probably THAT one. Lucky me.

She waited as the noises came closer. It was definitely the little boy making them. Soon enough, she heard the annoying older kid too, muttering to himself. “We’ve been walking a long time. Shouldn’t we have reached that town by now?”

Then came a sound that made her little bird heart jolt: a third voice.

“Patience, boy. It’s not far off now.”

Beatrice’s beak dropped. Seriously?! That creepy old forester came WITH them? I thought for sure he scared them off yesterday! Jeepers, how could a bluebird get such rotten luck?

Her incredulous thoughts shushed themselves. Shadows passed before her bush, and Beatrice froze, though she wanted to shrink back.

“Once we arrive,” continued the unwelcome voice, somewhere in the shadow beyond, “it won’t be long before you boys are on your way home. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Oh great, she groaned in thought, now they have plans too.

The shadows moved. A flash of grey passed before the opening in the leaves, then one of blue. The teenaged voice went with it.

“So—so who is this person you’re taking us to? A-and how do you know they’ll actually be able to get us out of here?”

Okay, not complete trust in the guy. That helps.

“Wirt!” reprimanded the younger voice, as green flickered past the opening. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying? For the last couple of hours, I’ve been saying—”

And the raspberries took up again.

“Well, that settles it. I’m gonna walk up ten feet ahead of you.” One pair of footsteps hurried on ahead. A heavier pair followed, briefly and sharply. Soon, both stopped.

“You most certainly will not!” said the old voice, a little further off now. “In these lands, you’d be a fool to let a little child like your brother out of sight.”

“But according to you, we’re almost there anyway! Why can’t he just—”

Beatrice stopped listening to the words. She didn’t need those. All she needed was the knowledge that they were both distracted, arguing up ahead, and that the smallest of the three shadows was standing still, just within her line of sight.

Perfect.

“Help!” she chirped out, not too loudly.

The little silhouette shifted. “Huh?”

“I’m stuck!”

The shadow swiveled once or twice. Then, “Did you hear that, Wirt Jr.? Let’s go this way!” There was a croak (reminding her that he was talking to his frog, not another person), and then the sound of pattering footsteps on the dirt. “Hello?” he called, not yet spotting her.

Beatrice arrayed herself like a perfect damsel in distress in the vines, then whispered loud. “Hey, you!”

“Who, me?” He turned toward the bush, at least.

She raised her voice just a little, hoping it wouldn’t attract the attention of either of the other two. “Yeah, you!”

The silhouette became a face. It brightened cheerily. “Oh! Hello!”

“It’s you again!” gasped Beatrice, feigning surprise, and then struggle. “I’m stuck. Help me out of here, and I’ll owe you a favour!”

Excitement widened his eyes. “Whoa, I get a wish?”

“No-no-no,” she corrected as quickly as possible—if he thought she could do that, he’d never follow her if she didn’t deliver. “Not a wish. I’m not magical.” Cheese and crackers, how do enchanted creature guides talk in stories? “I’ll just do you a good turn.”

“Can you turn me into a tiger?”

Wrong ‘turn’. “Uh, no, I just said, I’m not magical.”

“It doesn’t have to be a magical tiger.”

Beatrice resisted the urge to growl. Six-year-olds were every bit as bad as she remembered.

Just as she was about to speak again, another voice rumbled overhead. She couldn’t help a gasp bolting out. “You mustn’t wander off, little one. Whatever your brother may seem to think, the two of you must stick together.”

Thanks for the tip, she muttered in sarcastic thought. Really helping my chances here. At least now I know they’re related.

“Unless, apparently, you wanna talk to a bush,” murmured… what did the kid call him? Walt? Something weird. It didn’t matter.

“I’m not talking to a bush, I’m gettin’ a wish!” And, with one hand, the kid reached in to pull Beatrice free.

She avoided his grabby fingers and slipped out of the vines. Then, she flew up in the air above their heads. All of their heads—even if he was more bark than bite (as he appeared to be, from what she’d seen of him in the past), she preferred to be out of reach of the old woodsman. Walt stared up in bewilderment.

“Thanks!” she declared chipperly, fixing her eyes on his brother (who evidently was wearing a teapot on his head). “I owe you boys a favour!”

The old man did the same, tilting his head as he looked down on the boy. “That was good of you, little fellow. Setting the poor creature free.”

“Seriously?” Walt again, deadpan. “That’s what stands out about all this? Not the magical talking bird?”

“She’s not magic,” corrected his brother, “she just gives you wishes.”

Ugh, at least he got the ‘not magic’ part. “Not wishes.” Beatrice then cleared her throat, hoping to get back to the subject at hand. “So, you two are lost kids with no purpose in life, right?”

“Uh-huh!”

Walt frowned in silence.

However, before she could say another word, the Woodsman spoke up. “Getting home is their purpose. I offered to help them accomplish it, and I’ve guided them from the mill stream,” (she covered up a startled shiver with a flap of her wings), “to here.”

“And he saved us from a bad dog!” declared the kid. “And him and Wirt made a door!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” urged Beatrice, a little impatient, then added, “So how does that help you guys get home?”

“There’s a town,” the woodsman explained, “not far off. I know someone there, someone who—”

“But are you so sure this friend of yours can help? From what I’ve heard, it’s pretty tricky business leaving this place.” She braced herself, half-expecting the old woodsman to get all aggravated at her interruption. He was gruff enough.

But he did no such thing. As he looked at her, his eyes were certain as stone. “Little bluebird, if I trust any in this land, it is him. He will know.”

Beatrice opened her beak. Then she shut it again. Darn it, he’s too sure to argue with. There’s no way I could talk him into letting them come with me.

He thumbed his hat brim politely, then turned back to the boys. “Well, come along. We must get you safely home.” The forester plodded on down the path.

Walt shuffled after him, tugging at his brother’s arm with an eye roll. “Let’s go, Greg.”

The boy, whose name was apparently Greg, tugged right back. “But what about my wish?” he protested, whining slightly.

Wait, that’s perfect! “Yes, exactly!” Beatrice fluttered down closer to the brothers. “I still owe you guys a favour!”

“Uh, thanks, bird,” answered Walt, who was getting more annoying by the syllable, “but you can leave. We’re good.”

She sighed irritably. “I can’t leave, I’m honor-bound to help you. It’s the…” What’s a good excuse? “…bluebird rules.” That was dumb. But, hopefully, so are they.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding. Now we have to hang out with a talking bird in Magic Land too? What’s next, are we gonna get stuck with a creepy doll or something?”

“Yeah!” declared Greg, with a lot more excitement than he probably should’ve.

Before Beatrice could roll her eyes, she was startled by motion: the old woodsman, stepping up to face her. For a moment, that was all he did, just study her. She didn’t like it in the least—it felt too much like he might recognize her. But she stared right back.

“No,” he sighed. Then, to her relief, he went on with, “No, a bluebird has her honour.” He nodded to her. “If you are bound to help them, you may come with us.”

“Uh, thanks,” she replied, without much gratitude behind it.

The man continued on his way. Though Walt glanced at her with a grunt of distaste, he soon followed. Greg marched after them, waving Beatrice over.

“Don’t worry, pretty bird,” he encouraged cheerfully, “I’ll think of my wish later.”

“Great.” And Beatrice flapped on after the trio, grimacing.

At least he let me tag along, she grudgingly reminded herself, though the implications of ‘tagalong’ only irritated her more. And he doesn’t suspect anything yet. That’s something.

Ahead of her, Greg took the frog down from its spot atop his teapot hat. He laughed and held up his pet. “Now you try it, Wirt Jr.!” And he poked the frog’s face with its own fingers, instructing it on the making of raspberries. Walt… or maybe it was Wirt… rolled his eyes again.

The woodsman glanced over his shoulder, and said nothing.

But, if I wanna get either one of these kids to Adelaide’s, it looks like I’m gonna have to get them away from HIM first. Her beak tried to frown again. And with his attitude, that doesn’t seem like it’ll be easy.

She flew past a sign, declaring “Pottsfield: 1 Mile”.

This is just not my day.

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 2: happy reapers #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw beatrice #otgw wirt #otgw greg #frog jason funderberker #writing #my fanfiction #my writing #hard times at the huskin bee

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eruanna1875 · 5 months

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The Lost Boys (Guidesman, C1)

Chapter Six: Burdens to Bear

C1 on Tumblr: First - Previous - On to C2

~~*~~

“There,” exhaled Wirt, wiping his brow. Despite his breathlessness, he seemed to smile a little, as if in satisfaction. “Finished.”

“Yep!” Greg grinned, his frog under his arm. “You guys finished fixing the door, and Birdie and me finished getting up our candy trail. See?” And he held out a handful of little sweets, about seven or eight of them all together.

“Th-that’s great, Greg.”

“Indeed,” the Woodsman nodded. He looked the door over. Then he looked his two workers over. “You both have well-earned your rest this night.”

“But I don’t wanna rest!” protested Greg as he stuffed his candy in his pockets. “We’ve gotta get going!”

“Wh—go? What do you mean, go?”

The Woodsman gave Greg an odd look. “The hour is late, little one. Have you no wish to sleep? To rest until the morn?”

“Well, I’m not tired! Neither is Birdie! Besides, Wirt wants to get home to see Sara the Bee!”

Wirt scowled as suddenly as a gasp, clapping a hand over his brother’s mouth. The red in his cheeks showed up clearly in the lantern-light. “Now’s not the time to talk about Sara the Bee, Greg!” he hissed.

An even more curious look crossed the Woodsman’s face. But he made no remark. A man has a right to his own secrets, he decided silently, granting him this privacy, even as young a man as this. Sometimes. Amusement sparked in his eye. And I think there’s no malice in this particular sort of bee.

“Well, boy,” he said aloud, “your brother seems willing and ready to set forth now. What of you? Do you wish to wait the night?”

Wirt huffed, still flushed, then looked up with some consternation. A moment’s meeting of gaze. Then his colour began to fade back to normal, and, as his eyes dropped again, his thought turned speech.

“Well… well, weirdly enough, I’m not really that tired either. A-and we do wanna get home as soon as possible!” His head cocked. “Plus, if we get going now, it’ll be easier to get out of range of that wereling, if it comes back.”

“And he won’t be able to follow our candy trail again!”

The Woodsman studied them, uncertain. “The night is dark.”

“And you’re shiny,” declared Greg, patting the lantern, “cause you’ve got your light!”

The Woodsman jerked the lantern away quickly. Then, he glanced back. He found Greg blinking, and Wirt staring, at his sudden reaction. Perhaps he’d acted too quickly. “I… do indeed,” he muttered, a bit self-conscious, as he lowered the lantern again.

But he still had courses to take, or not take. Deliberating, he turned the lantern toward his own face, gazing into its light. It would illumine their path. And with his axe, they need not dread any creature they might encounter. Still, a journey through the night would take precious time that he would have used to grind more oil—and that, he needed desperately.

His eyes looked from the dear light to the two brothers standing before him.

No. I will not let them remain lost a minute longer than can be helped. This must be my burden to bear.

“Very well,” he sighed, “if you are both decided—”

“Yes!”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“—then we will go tonight.” He began picking up the few remaining boards as Greg celebrated. He gestured Wirt toward the toolbox, and heard him shuffle over. “The two of you will stay in the main room and rest while I fetch a few things from the mill.”

When he rose, the Woodsman found the boys waiting for him. He started for the door, but paused. Turned. Fixed a firm eye on them.

“I want you both to be sitting there when I return.”

“Y-yes, sir,” said Wirt, the toolbox shifting in his grip.

“I’m not sure if Birdie knows how to sit, but I can teach him!” And his frog croaked agreeably. Then Greg reached up and turned the knob.

With a nod, the Woodsman followed the lad inside, with Wirt coming on behind. The door did not creak as they closed it.

~*~

“Wait, so where is it we’re going, exactly?”

The glow of the lantern passed through the trees, throwing shadows on everything.

“There’s a town north of here. We should reach it by morn tomorrow. Until then, you must keep your eyes sharp, young man.”

“What? Why me? Why not both of us?”

Small creatures rustled in the branches, and red eyes peered out.

“You are the elder child. You are the protector, and of you both, it is you who must guard against the Unknown, and keep watch for the Beast. It is your burden to bear.”

“Uhh… r-right, yeah… got it.”

The eyes fled away. Others took their place.

“Do I get a burden?”

One set of footsteps faltered, as if a pang had struck the walker’s heart. “You, little one?”

“Yeah, if you and Wirt get burdens, I wanna have one too!”

A little silence. Then an old man’s voice was gentle in the dark of the night. “You look after that frog. Give him a proper name. That is all the burden I hope you need ever bear.”

“Okay!”

In the broken black, two lost boys talked of frogs and names and renamings and all confusion. Their guide talked of nothing. But he listened to everything. They four stole like specters down the darkened path, and the half-moon above watched the lantern closely as it passed through the Unknown.

~~*~~

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #frog jason funderberker #the old grist mill #writing #my fanfiction #my writing #Spotify

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eruanna1875 · 6 months

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The Lost Boys (Guidesman, C1)

Chapter Four: Candy and Rocks

C1 on Tumblr: First - Previous - Next

~~*~~

Wirt made it to the edge of the clearing and nearly collapsed against a tree, gasping desperately. The Beast. The Beast was after them. He clapped a hand to his chest and shut his bugged eyes. Oh, that crazy Woodsman was right. These woods were no place for them.

He heard feet too small for a Beast running up behind him. “This is amazing!” came the oblivious voice of Greg. Apparently delighted at their doom.

“We should get out of here before the Beast comes back out,” Wirt breathed, glancing over his shoulder. He eyed the mill. He eyed the forest. “Should we try to make a break for it? Although the Beast seems like it’d be fast. We could try to climb a tree, or…”

“But Kitty isn’t a tree frog! His hands aren’t sticky enough! See?” And he lifted the frog’s slimy ‘hands’ toward Wirt’s face.

“Ew, Greg, no! Stop that!”

Before he could finish his protest, a half-howl broke the air. Wirt yelped and darted behind a tree, then shot out a hand to yank Greg back. After all, he was in plain sight where he was standing. The Beast would’ve totally found them.

From his hiding spot, Wirt saw the Beast hurtle through the empty doorway, scampering (not playfully) out of the mill. It still snarled. Its teeth were still bared. And its eyes were still—

Well, he still hated them. That glow. It was like nothing that should be. Like everything light shouldn’t be. Like… like if madness and murder and evil itself had eyes.

Feeling sick at the sight, he pried his gaze away. There were other colours on the Beast than those in its eyes. Red was one, streaked across its snout. That was from the axe, right? Or had it only glanced off? Maybe the Beast had gotten the guy. Although, to be fair, it probably wasn’t… er, messy enough for that. Which was good. Even if the guy was loony, it would’ve been awful to think about.

There was a wordless shout—not Greg’s—that shook him from his thoughts and overthoughts. Then:

“Look, Wirt!”

As he stared after Greg’s pointed finger, Wirt saw a shape in the doorway. A second later, the Woodsman burst through, brandishing his axe. Oh, the blood was definitely not his. What’s more, the Beast made a noise almost like… a whimper? Yeah! Still part snarl, but definitely with some whimper. It dodged away from the blade, then snapped at him and dodged again. It looked like it was limping.

“He’s… beating it,” whispered Wirt, shocked. “He’s beating the Beast!”

“Yeah, he would’ve been pretty dangerous if we ran away and didn’t knock him out.”

“I told you to—oh, forget it.”

Despite Greg’s unwelcome reminder of his ex-plan, Wirt never turned. He kept his eyes glued to the fight at the mill. Though the Woodsman had been knocked down before, he was standing now. He didn’t look the least bit nervous.

“BACK!” he shouted, axe-blade flashing. “BACK, wereling!”

“Wereling?” The word confused Wirt. Was the Beast a werewolf? Or—no, it couldn’t be. The sun was still out, and the last moon he saw was half, not full. Maybe he’d ask, once the Woodsman chased it off. Sure, he didn’t seem one for straight answers, but with the Beast problem taken care of, maybe he would—

There was a rustle on the ground beside him.

Across the clearing, the Beast’s head popped up, ears standing at attention. Its eyes swept round the clearing, toward them.

No, no, no, what? It was supposed to be running away, why was it doing this now? Wirt glanced around frantically for the source of the noise.

He found Greg, standing with his hand out and candy at his feet. “Haha!”

“Greg, what are you doing?!” he whispered rapidly.

“I’m leaving a candy trail, like you said!”

“Shh!” Wirt glanced back up at the Beast. It was watching them.

“You shh!”

“You—”

With a snarl, the Beast bolted away from the Woodsman and started coming right towards them. Fast.

Wirt screamed and took off. Greg kept close by his side. They darted through the trees, doing all they could to avoid the creature behind them. It didn’t take long for Wirt to hear it at their backs, crashing into trees as it tried to follow their path. And, too, he could hear the Woodsman’s cry somewhere behind them. Calling them back, maybe?

Even if it was, they couldn’t turn around now.

At last, he saw something ahead. A huge rock, jutting up from the leaf-strewn floor of the forest. Hopefully, it would give them an advantage.

“There, Greg! Climb up on that rock!”

“Yay, rocks!”

They found a way up and clambered to the top. Once they made it, they sat a moment, just catching their breath. Wirt closed his eyes and flopped onto his back. This was a nightmare.

“Wow, if I could take this with me,” breathed Greg, beaming, “I could have some BIG rock facts!” And he threw out his hands wide. His frog rupped as if in agreement.

Wirt lifted his eyelids with a glare, turning his head. “Keep it down, the Beast will hear you.”

“Hey, I thought he said it was a werewolf!”

“Ugh, quiet, Greg! Just—” He leveraged himself up onto one elbow. “—just listen and see if you can hear it coming, okay?”

They both fell silent, listening close. They heard the breeze in the leaves. They heard the river, louder than before. Wirt guessed they had run to meet it further down, where the current was stronger.

But other than the water and the wind, it was perfectly quiet. Almost too quiet for a forest. Then again, it had always been a little like that, since the moment they first set foot inside. And that gave Wirt pause. When did they first set foot inside? When did they begin? How did they get lost? Somehow, he still couldn’t quite remember—

Huge jaws snapped at the edge of the rock, and Wirt shrieked. He scrambled back from the edge. The Beast was there, scratching at the sides of their stony refuge. Its eyes were just visible past the edge, like rising moons over a horizon of cold stone, portending their doom.

“Wirt, look!” Greg’s voice broke through his poetic despair as excitedly as if he were breaking a pinata. “I found pinecones!” And he held up his discovery proudly.

“AHH, gimme that!” Wirt snatched the cone from his brother’s hand and threw it at the Beast. It did little. But there were more. He kept throwing them, with fair-enough aim. But all the damage it seemed to do was to make the monstrous eyes blink.

Then, a harder strike. And not from one of his pinecones. A different object bounced off the creature’s head and fell at Wirt’s feet. It was a rock. Then another came. Then the stones did not come silently.

“Here, creature!” was the gruff shout. “Here!” And another rock.

Wirt craned his neck to peer over the side. He brightened in spite of himself. “Greg, i-it’s the Woodsman! See, he’s throwing rocks to distract the Beast!”

Greg gasped, and his already-wide eyes widened. “Am I supposed to throw something too?”

He didn’t need to. Upon the fourth rock, the Beast turned away from the boys, and began stalking toward the Woodsman. He held out his axe in both hands, at the ready. For the moment, the Beast had forgotten all about them.

“Come on, Greg,” whispered Wirt, “while it’s distracted.” And without another word, he scooted toward the back of the rock. His conscience nudged him a little. But after all, the Woodsman could take care of himself. He was about to run the Beast off anyway, before Greg distracted it. He’d be fine.

Wirt scrutinized the stony surface. It looked smooth enough, and low enough. They should’ve been able to slide down without breaking their legs. So he started picking his careful way.

Easy…

…easy…

…not so easy.

“W-wh-whoa!!” Wirt lost his handhold, his foothold, his balance, and his composure. He squawked as he slipped, unable to catch anything to slow his fall. He landed roughly on his rump. “Owww…”

He started to get to his feet, but something crashed between his shoulderblades, shoving his face into the leaves.

“Wow, I fell on TWO people today! It’s a new record!”

“Get off, Greg, you almost broke my neck!” Wirt rolled over and shoved the six-year-old off. He was about to scold him for carelessness.

Black filled his vision as something shook the ground. A flash of eerie, pallid colours, far too close, made Wirt scramble back in terror. He didn’t even have to look up. He knew. The Beast had heard them.

The creature roared, and Wirt flinched, covering his head but unable to fully close his eyes. He heard Greg flop to the ground beside him. There was a horrible smell, like the oil from the trees the Woodsman had been cutting. Like woody blood. Wirt could hardly move.

“Oh!” Greg’s voice, cheerful of all things. “That’s what I can throw!” Another rustle: Greg was tossing his candy in the air. “Hee-hee!”

To Wirt’s surprise, the Beast pricked up its ears. It didn’t snarl at the assault or snap at his hands. Instead, it lowered its head and began… licking the ground?

“It’s—it’s eating your candy!”

Greg put his chin in his hand, looking far more thoughtful than Wirt gave him credit for. “I wonder if he ate my whole candy trail that led to that mill!”

It took only a couple of seconds for the sentence to click in his brain. But the click was loud. “AHH!” Wirt smacked his tin teapot. “Greg!!”

“What?”

He couldn’t answer before the sound of a roar sent him scrabbling. He and Greg shot off, leaves sent flying around them. It was only when he was running that he got his chance to scold again.

“I can’t believe you, Greg! You led the Beast right to us with your candy!”

“I thought you said we needed to leave a trail!”

“Before we were lost, we should’ve!”

“Pfft, how can you leave a trail before you’re lost? You’d already know where you are!”

“Greg, just—” But Wirt cut himself off with a gasp, skidding to a stop.

Greg slowed as he came up alongside. He pointed triumphantly, as if it was a triumph. “Look, Wirt! It’s a river!”

“Y-yeah, I see it,” Wirt nodded, trying to keep the unease out of his voice. It almost surprised him. After all, it was probably just the same river they’d seen feeding the mill. But if it was, it was much wider here. Faster. Deeper. And there were no stones to use for crossing.

“Come on, Wirt! Rover’s ready to go! Right, Rover?” And he held up his frog.

Wirt didn’t move.

“Wirt?”

“N-no,” he stammered out, finding a crack in his voice. “It’s—i-it’s too deep for us. We’d just drown if we tried to cross here.” He swallowed, taking a step back from the waterside. “We’ll… have to find another way.”

A thunderous thump behind them, and the boys spun round. That Beast simply would not leave them be. It had caught up again. And now there was no escape, nowhere left to go but back into the swirling, cold darkness of—

Back?

“Away, creature!” came a sudden shout, and a flashing blade came down.

Wirt’s mind was all in a whirl. It was moments before he could even focus on what was happening in front of him. When he did, he saw the Woodsman, and he saw him miss a strike. The Beast took its opportunity. With a huge heave of its head, it shoved him, knocking him off-balance. It sent him stumbling back.

He only just regained his footing, right next to the boys. Then, “What’re you waiting for?” he urged, a little breathless. “Across the river!” And he swung, keeping off a snap of those jaws.

“Wirt says it’s too deep. If I had my floaties, though, we could get across just—”

“Be quiet, Greg,” scowled Wirt, smacking his teapot again. “It’s your fault the Beast followed us here, you and your dumb candy.”

“Boy!”

The Woodsman’s sharpness startled Wirt. When he looked up, he found a stern glare shot straight at him across the old man’s shoulder.

“You have it backwards!” he rebuked, but with no hint of pettiness or irrelevance. There was weight in his voice. Even in the midst of all this, there was weight. “You are the elder child—you are responsible for your brother as well as for yourself!”

Wirt was dumbstruck. He’d never heard someone talk about Greg so seriously. He’d never been ascribed any responsibility so gravely. “I… but, I-I didn’t—”

A roar, one that could be felt in their bones. And the Woodsman stepped up in front of them. With stony gaze, he took his stance—right between them and the Beast—and leveled his weapon at the looming creature.

And somehow, Wirt was more afraid of doing nothing in that moment than of being eaten.

Stooping, he snatched a rock from the riverbed. His nervous hands fumbled it, but it didn’t drop. As he rose, he turned and spoke to Greg (purposefully banishing any harshness).

“Uhh, Greg—Greg, you, um, you gi-give him the rest of your candy!”

Greg obediently searched his pants. But his hands came up empty.

He moaned desperately, taking a step back (as far as he dared go). The Beast’s eyes were even closer now, blinding as a train’s headlight bearing down. All the more now was he aware of the river at his back. Panic began to build. But he only gripped the rock tighter.

Just then, he felt Greg pull at his cape. When he glanced down, there was a little red candy in his hand. How did he…?

There was no time to ask. Greg waddled out a little from behind the Woodsman, holding the candy up. Then, with a little “Whoops!”, he tossed it behind him into the water.

The Beast leaped.

And before it had sprung three feet, Wirt felt a strong arm over him, bringing him low to the ground, pulling him close, covering him.

There was a splash, and Wirt looked up. The Beast had leaped right into the water to get the candy. Now the current was too strong for it. No matter how it struggled and yelped, the Beast could not escape as it was pulled downstream.

And, as Wirt turned, he found that the Woodsman had dropped to his knees and ducked down over him and Greg.

The old man lifted his eyes, glanced to the river, then looked at them each in turn. “You boys all right?”

“No! I’m GREAT!” And Greg tossed his arms in the air (or one of them, anyway—the other still clutched his frog to his chest). He almost fell over from the effort. “Haha!”

“Wow,” breathed Wirt, still a little in a daze from the whole experience. He met the Woodsman’s gaze. “I… uh, th-thanks, but…” He shifted his grip on the rock. What could he even say? But we tried to knock you out? But we almost got you killed? But we’ve probably been pests since the minute we ran into you?

“…but why?”

At that, the edges of the Woodsman’s mouth twitched up, not quite in a smile, and the faintest glimmer sparked in his eye. “Boy, I am the elder of you both.”

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #otgw beatrice's dog #the old grist mill #writing #my fanfiction #my writing

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eruanna1875 · 6 months

Text

The Lost Boys (Guidesman, C1)

Chapter Three: The Wereling

C1 on Tumblr: First - Previous - Next

~~*~~

No, it wasn’t the crash. It was the roar. It was the shadow, huge and hunched, flickering past the little window. It was the glimpse, so quick it might have been imagined, of eyes.

And where were the boys?

He snatched his axe from the place he’d laid it against the wall, swinging it up into his hand. The action knocked over the other tools around it. They didn’t matter. The Woodsman’s boots thumped up the stairs like the hounds of Hell were at the heels of them.

“What’s happening?” he barked out, the moment he burst through the door. His eyes took in the scene in a second’s time. A half-empty room, a dropped toy, and one boy sitting at the fireside.

Only one.

“Where’s your brother?”

Wirt merely shrugged, in casual confusion, and mumbled that he didn’t know.

That’s all? The indifference was utterly aggravating. The two of you alone in this perilous wood, and you don’t care enough to watch over a little child? He could have well taken him to task for it. He might have.

Before the rebuke could form its words, however, another noise came. A creak at the door. The Woodsman whipped a fierce glare toward it, grip tightening on the axe-handle.

He was almost tempted to let relief steal through him: it was Greg. Stumbling dizzily and covered in wreckage, but seeming unharmed.

“Holy moly,” the boy gasped, swaying, “hot dog…”

Greg wasn’t allowed to say another word. The door behind him burst from its hinges, knocking him away onto the stairs. Then, there at the threshold, it stood and stared. The creature. The monster the Woodsman had glimpsed through the window.

A wereling.

“Stay back, boys!” the Woodsman cried at once, heaving his axe above his head, ready to strike. “This creature,” he began to say, warning of the danger, “which is known as—”

He never finished. Something swung by his head, narrowly missing his hat. Seconds later, he heard a little cry, and the weight of a child crashed down on top of him. He fell on his face, the wind knocked from his lungs. The axe vanished from his grip.

Groaning, he looked at the boy on his back. A piece of the door was in his hand.

“Aw, beans,” Greg moaned, “I missed!”

“Missed?” He shifted painfully, wincing as he tried to regain his breath. The boy at least had pluck, if not the best aim. “I told you to st—stay back. This monster is too—”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t trying to hit the monster,” said the boy matter-of-factly. “I was trying to knock you out.”

His eyes went wide. “What?!”

“Greg, what is the matter with you?!”

The wereling turned its head at Wirt’s alarmed squeak. He shrank toward the fireplace, casting shadows across the room like blackened trees. These were soon felled. The moment the wereling crossed the threshold, the hearth-flame went out.

“That was your plan, remember?”

“Your plan?” At Greg’s words, the Woodsman shot a scowl across to Wirt. They really had been plotting mischief, hadn’t they?

“N-no, it wasn’t! I—I-I said that was a bad plan!” Wirt picked up the fireplace grate, cowering behind it as he stared at the wereling. “I swear, I told him to forget that plan!”

The old man growled, but said nothing. There wasn’t time to be angry with them. The wereling was fully inside the house now. It towered before him, a low snarl ever in its throat. The eerie gaze—a sure sign of the power that had taken hold—stared down upon him.

Upon them.

He glanced from the creature to the floor, where his axe lay. Just out of reach. He glanced over to where Wirt cowered, and felt Greg shift on his back. Then, he decided.

“Well, I have a new plan for you,” he said at last, carefully edging Greg behind him. “Young man, since that fire is dead, you will hide inside the chimney. Climb up if you can.”

The boy whimpered, then clapped his hands over his mouth when the wereling growled.

“And you, little one.”

“Uh-huh?”

“There is a door under the stairs,” he instructed, inching himself up into a better position to reach the axe. To fight. “When I tell you, run inside and shut the door tight behind you.” A turn of the black head, and the Woodsman hid Greg further behind him with one arm. “Do not open it until one of us comes for you. You understand?”

“Mm-hmm.” And he nodded so sharply it could be felt without seeing.

The wereling stalked closer, with slavering jaws. It snuffed the air, and the Woodsman could feel its sub-demonic gaze: fixed, not on him, but on the helpless child now in his care.

He refused to fail this one.

“Now!”

Wirt yelped and ducked down into the barren fireplace, pulling the grate behind him. The wereling lifted its head, turning toward the noise. It was opening enough. “Go, child!” cried the Woodsman, lunging for the axe. He grabbed it. Then, he swung its sharp head up toward the wereling’s chest.

But the wereling moved. Instead of the chest, the blow merely nicked its leg. With a snarling yelp, it jumped away. The Woodsman scrambled to his feet, readying his tool-turned-weapon for another strike.

He wasn’t ready fast enough.

Even as he turned, the wereling sprang upon him. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, with hot breath foul in his face. His arm was pinned by a heavy paw, and he could not move the axe. Dripping jaws were inches away. But no tooth or claw looked so horrible as the eyes, huge as tainted moons before him.

Oh, let the boys be hidden where they cannot see it happen, he prayed silently, never tearing his own gaze away. The jaws opened. Death had run him to earth at last.

“Spank.”

The wereling’s head jerked up.

“Spank.”

The Woodsman strained his gaze past its black legs. His breath escaped him. There stood the valiant little Greg, whacking the creature’s rump with that piece of door.

“Spank!”

The wereling turned with a building roar. Its paw lifted. Seeing his chance, the Woodsman jerked his arm free and swept the axe up in a flow of motion. This time, it did not miss its mark. With a bellow, the wereling staggered back, swiping at its snout with one paw. The blow had struck its face.

“Run, run, run, run, run!!” shrieked Wirt as soon as he saw the wereling wounded. He scrambled from the ashen hearth and scurried for the door.

“Yeah, come on, Mr. Woodsman!” And Greg began to follow his brother, grabbing at the Woodsman’s sleeve as he passed.

“Wh—no! You must hide before—”

“Oh, I can hide us!” Greg sounded perfectly confident. But he was perfectly mistaken. “Candyyyyyyy camouflage!” he cried, flinging some of his sweets out around them. Then, snatching up his frog, he pattered toward the door. “Runrunrunrunrun…”

“Boys, WAIT!”

But they were already outside.

Ohhh, why are the fearless always so foolish? With a snarl of his own, the Woodsman heaved himself up from the floor. Reckless little scamps, will they never LISTEN??

Gritting his teeth, he flew at the wereling, axe in hand. He hardly noticed that it had stopped, much less that it was licking up the candy Greg had left behind. All he knew was to fight it before it attacked again. All he knew was to keep those young rascals safe.

#over the garden wall #guidesman au #chapter 1: the lost boys #salt and light #otgw woodsman #otgw wirt #otgw greg #otgw beatrice's dog #the old grist mill #and this is the moment the fanfiction becomes an AU #writing #my fanfiction #my writing

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