he people of Ravenmoore said that only fools and the desperate wandered into the Wychwood after sundown.
Fools… or sorcerers.
Pennyboy trudged along behind his master, Parlock the Keeper, holding the mule’s lead and trying not to notice the way the trees leaned together overhead like old conspirators. The path was little more than a deer track, and even the mule seemed to think they were lost. Pennyboy, who had been the sorcerer's apprentice for five years, had never seen this part of the forest and wasn't even sure where they were supposed to be going.
“Are we lost, master?” Pennyboy asked for the fifth time.
“No,” Parlock said. "Don't ask me again."
He did not sound particularly certain.
The sorcerer had a face like weathered parchment and long dark hair tied back with a bit of twine. Streaks of grey framed his face and striped his beard, but Pennyboy would never dare to ask his age. Old. He was definitely old.
His robes were patched in seven colors, each representing some school of magic Pennyboy could never keep straight. He walked with purpose and direction though Pennyboy suspected this confidence was mostly habit.
The woods pressed in around them, branches gnarled like clawed hands, trunks swollen with age and secrets. A crow watched them pass with an expression Pennyboy would have sworn was disappointment. He remembered that crows eat the eyes of the dead and looked quickly away.
“They say witches live here in the east,” Pennyboy muttered.
Parlock grunted. “Witches live everywhere. So do thieves, ghosts, and old men who tell lies about witches and thieves and ghosts. Best to ignore most of them.”
A chill breeze sighed through the trees and Pennyboy shivered.
“And what about the other things?” he asked.
Parlock paused and turned to look at him. “What other things?”
“The ones people don’t talk about.”
Parlock resumed walking. “Ah. Always those.”
Pennyboy Hears a Voice
They made camp beside a crooked ash tree whose trunk forked into a shape that resembled an old man raising his arms to the sky.
Pennyboy did not like the look of it.
But Parlock declared it “as safe as anywhere,” and began unpacking his traveling kettle and the bundle of dried herbs that were supposed to be dinner.
While the tea steeped, Parlock lowered himself onto a mossy stump and began muttering over a small leather-bound tome. Pennyboy brushed down the mule, Jonathan, humming to keep his nerves steady.
It was then he heard the voice.
A faint whisper, just behind his ear.
“Boy…”
Pennyboy spun, heart thrashing.
Nothing there. Only the ash tree stirring in the light wind as twilight gathered around them. Pennyboy studied the tree. It had no leaves even though the other trees around the clearing still held their red, yellow and gold glory. Was the wind causing the tree to shiver, or was something else causing it?
He swallowed. “Master?” he called.
Parlock didn’t look up. “If you’re hearing voices, tell them to wait their turn. I’m busy.”
“It said boy,” Pennyboy whispered.
Parlock snorted. “Everything in these woods says ‘boy.’ The ravens, the foxes, the shadows that think themselves important. Don’t answer unless they know your name.”
Pennyboy stared at the ash tree, which now looked disappointingly innocent. He felt somewhat foolish.
“Do shadows know people’s names?” he asked.
“Only if you tell them.”
"Maybe we should camp somewhere else, Master?" he asked meekly.
"This is where we are meant to be tonight."
Pennyboy decided not to ask further questions.
The Man in the Tree
By the time darkness fell, the fire was spitting sparks into the starless sky. The Wychwood seemed to exhale around them, a long, slow, thoughtful breath.
Parlock dozed with his battered felt hat over his eyes. He snored lightly, seemingly at peace and unconcerned. The Wychwood was his home and Pennyboy knew he felt connected to it.
Pennyboy sat awake, however, hugging his cloak to his chest, watching the shadows dance in the firelight. He huddled close to the fire and kept it fed not just for warmth, but for protection. The circle of light felt slightly safer to him, but not much.
The forked ash tree loomed above them. Pennyboy studied it from the other side of the fire. Just a tree, he told himself. Don't be a baby.
And then… it moved.
Not much. Not dramatically. Just a shifting of weight, as though easing stiff limbs. Pennyboy froze. The bark rippled like old skin, and the two raised branches lowered slowly, almost tenderly, like arms.
A man’s face, or something like one, surfaced from the grain of the wood.
The eyes opened.
They were pale and sunken, like moonlight reflecting on pale rocks under water.
“Boy…” it breathed again. The voice was whispery and dry, quiet but very distinct in his ears. Not human. Very not human.
Pennyboy’s mouth went dry. He remembered Parlock’s warning: Don’t answer unless they know your name.
He didn’t move. He couldn't move
The thing reached out, bark hands stretching through the darkness and into the dancing light of the fire.
“Boy… kind boy... young one... help me…”
Pennyboy shook his head, scooting backwards towards Parlock. His mouth opened and he tried to shout "PARLOCK" but nothing came out, like in a dream. He croaked, "Help..." but it was barely a whisper.
The ash man’s eyes narrowed. “Please. I only need… a touch… to be free. Your warmth... your soul...”
The fingers lengthened, bark splitting like old paper. Jonathan suddenly let out a terrifed bray and pulled at his tether, stomping his hooves as he strained at the rope. Pennyboy could not pull his gaze away from the wooden face coming slowly closer.
“Do not trust the begging ones.”
Parlock’s voice cut through the night like a blade. He wasn’t dozing anymore.
He stood beside Pennyboy, staff in hand, eyes fixed on the monster.
“He lingered where he shouldn’t,” Parlock said quietly. “Roots too deep. Memories too old. He only half-remembers he was human once. The rest of him remembers hunger, for a heart that beats and lungs that breathe.”
The ash man hissed. "Not you," he said. "Too old, too cynical."
“Let go,” Parlock commanded in a booming voice, holding his glowing staff up with both hands. "Let go of this form and be at rest. Join the earth as you were meant to. Leave this plane and go to the next."
For a moment, Pennyboy hoped he might obey.
He didn’t.
His arms snapped outward, stretching farther than wood should stretch, reaching for Pennyboy with impossible speed...
Parlock moved more quickly. He struck the ground with his staff. The fire flared bright gold and flames leapt from the campfire, surging upwards like a single roaring dragon.
The ash man shrieked, recoiling, and the bark of his face cracked and fell to the ground… revealing nothing beneath. Nothing but smooth wood.
He folded back into the trunk, the grain sealing around him like a wound closing. The limbs returned to their upright position and stilled.
The clearing fell silent again.
A Home in the Shadows
Pennyboy stared at the silent tree, trembling.
“Master… why did we come here?”
Parlock sat back down beside the fire and picked up the kettle, knocked over by the fire spell. He poured in fresh water, added more herbs from his pack and set it back in the coals
“Because the Wychwood needs someone who understands it,” he said, looking up and around. “Someone who won’t burn every strange thing on sight nor bow to every whisper that calls itself magic. I am the keeper of the Wychwood and I have been away too long.”
He handed Pennyboy a steaming cup.
“And because it’s safer here than anywhere else.”
“Safer?” Pennyboy croaked.
Parlock blew over his cup, then he gave Pennyboy a crooked smile.
“Most of the time.”
A distant howl echoed through the Wychwood, low and mournful, neither wolf nor wind nor anything Pennyboy had heard before.
He swallowed hard.
Parlock took a sip of tea and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth and the taste.
“Drink up, Pennyboy,” he murmured. “Tonight is merely the woods saying hello.”
Pennyboy did not find that comforting.
