Ya gotta do that sometimes, clear away the dead and dying, or the ones choking out new life. It hurts, but you gotta do it, because it'll hurt more if ya don't.
SCP-8514 » Tall Tales of the Old West
"The Nephilim were on the earth in those days — and also afterward — when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown." — Genesis 6:4
Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention, One Who Bathes the Darkness in Visions. We will consider the matter and deliberate. If there are no further matters to discuss, then this Court is adjourned.
Your honor, if I may?
You have the floor, One with Nestles and Thorns.
Your honor, I do not speak on my behalf. One Whose Leaves Canopy the Sky has requested a seat at this council, but has remained silent for its entire duration. If it pleases the court…
One Whose Roots Run Deep, One with Barbs and Bracken has made a fair case. Do you have something to say?
Slowly, the silent one stood, cleared its throat, and took a deep breath as it spoke.
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Unusual Incidents Unit #18
Room 48
(Agent Wesson enters, alone, and sits. Eight seconds of silence pass. Wesson quietly hums "Ode to Joy")
(Wesson hums "Ode to Joy" louder)
(Wesson softly vocalizes the melody to "Ode to Joy")
(Wesson loudly vocalizes the melody to "Ode to Joy", slapping his thighs in time to the music)
(Wesson stops vocalizing as Deputy Director Harold Dyne enters with Special Agent Benjamin Garland)
Garland: Damn it, Wess, can't you just smoke like a regular person? We can hear you from halfway down the hall!
Wesson: Oh, hey there, Harry. You know, for a second there, I thought I was in trouble.
(Garland grunts in offense.)
Dyne: You're not in trouble, Wess, this is just a standard run-of-the-mill inquiry. How was the flight?
Wesson: Insipid.
Dyne: Well, sorry about that. You need any water?
(Wesson looks over at an empty water cooler)
Wesson: What makes you say that, Hare?
Dyne: Aww. What in the name of… Hold on. (Dyne goes into a storage closet and produces a replacement water jug. He removes the empty jug.) They never replace this. Never. People don't have consideration anymore.
Wesson: You're preaching to the choir, Hare. They don't have a drop of it.
Garland: May we please begin the debriefing, Harry?
Dyne: (as he attempts to replace the jug) Sure, go right ahead. Don't…mind…me.
Garland: Thank you. (he sits) Please state your name for the record.
Wesson: That Annoying Asshole from Unit Eighteen.
(Dyne laughs as Garland glares)
Wesson: Raven Croft Wesson, Special Agent, UIU division of the FBI, Unit Eighteen.
Garland: Could you please describe, in your own words, the incident that took place between the days of August 9th and August 12th of 2024?
Wesson: Do you want the short version? I mean, we could be here awhile.
Garland: You got a date planned, Wess?
Wesson: No, but you sure sounded like you were in a hurry.
Dyne: He's got you there, Gar.
Garland: Just do it for the record, Wess. Standard procedure.
Wesson: Sure. Well, this was the one where I was sent to that one state park in central Minnesota to investigate a decapitated body. I forget the exact name.
Dyne: Mille Lacs Kathio State Park.
Wesson: Thank you, Harry. You okay over there?
Dyne: (struggling) Eyup. Water's a bit heavier'n I thought. Just keep talking, Wess.
Wesson: Right. So I was sent to Mille Lacs something-something state park — which I thought was odd, since it's not exactly our M.O. to investigate a murder, but I was in the area, so I figured, why the hell not. Call it curiosity. Oh, damn, I guess I could have recorded everything on my phone. That would've saved us some trouble.
Garland: It's fine. Please continue. In your own words.
(Wess stares emptily at Garland, who rolls his eyes)
Garland: Your professional words.
Wesson: All right, where was I? Let's see… I got in contact with the local ranger station and law enforcement, and they led me to the scene. Kind of out in the middle of nowhere: lots of trees, no people. Well, except for one, and he was missing a head. I looked down at it.
Wesson: "Yep, that's a decapitated body, all right."
Special Agent Wesson
This council's grace and patience with my silent presence
Reflects upon their dignity, their mercy and their pleasance.
In truth I hesitated, dreading what my news portended,
But now I feel emboldened, and pray you are not offended.
Upon a common excursion I was partaking in the night,
As starlight danced above me, torches sparkling and bright,
I did behold a Milesian who had strayed from common road
And lurked now in my forest, burdened with his load.
Quickly I approached him, speaking sharply in my tongue,
And though the man was mortified, still his courage hung.
He greeted me most respectfully, making sure to bow,
And returned my language to me, without fuss or row.
But then, O council, a marvel, I speak to thee in truth,
He gave to me an offering, which made my temper soothe,
And then, I swear, he added, a praise of all my fame,
Informing me his kindred had given to me…a NAME.
The speaker stood proud, heedless of the babbling chaos, the droves stirring in shock, the accusations, the envy.
One Whose Canopy Dances in the Wind, you are commanded to Bind yourself by Word that what you say is true.
I do indeed, great council, bind myself in Word:
I swear upon my root, my blood, every beast and every bird.
The babble intensified. A bell rung, silencing them.
Speak in truth, One Who Sits Before Us: did the Milesians give you this gift freely?
Freely given, I can say, and gladly with their will,
Even now, I must confess, my heart cannot be still.
This you swear upon your Bound Word, One with the Voice of Ages?
I do, my friend, in solemnity, as many times as needed;
I only ask of one and all that my account be heeded.
For all their faults, the Milesians have one distinct virtue:
That they give Name to those whose wrath they zealously eschew.
And also Name, I must admit, those they hold in esteem;
My friends, they give unto our kind our long-enkindled dream.
The One Who Had Been Named sat, in patience and dignity, waiting for the council's verdict.
Wesson crouched down, examining closely. Studying the neck. The arms. The body's position. The grass surrounding it. He moved in closer, hopeful for a trail of blood. He couldn't see where the head was — providing it was anywhere at all. He noticed something and looked away from the body, toward a tree stump in the distance. He pointed at it lazily.
"A-huh." Then he traced a line from the stump to the body. After glancing around again, he knelt, patting the corpse's pockets. He found what he had been searching for and went to take it.
"Isn't it a crime to remove evidence from the scene?"
Wesson grunted, and without missing a beat, pulled out his badge and flipped it so it was facing behind him.
"It's okay, I know what I…" He glanced behind, seeing a woman. She was half his age, dark, bright-eyed, staring impatiently, dressed professionally. She silently produced her own badge. "Hmm, small world," Wesson grumbled. He gestured for her to approach and stood.
"I'm Agent Smith, Unit 49," she said. "I've been assigned to be your partner for this investigation. Captain Horne says hello."
"Is that so?" Wesson said, raising a suspicious gaze. "You're acquainted with him?"
"Not well. He just heard I'd be working with your unit."
Wesson grunted. "I see. Tell Captain Horne he owes me a steak dinner when you get back."
"I'll be sure to remind him." Wesson nodded, apparently satisfied, and was just about to go back to investigating the body when something clicked.
"Wait," he said, "did you say your name was Smith?"
"Yes. Rhonda Smith."
"Spelled S-M-I-T-H?"
"I don't know of any other way to spell it."
"And did Horne tell you who you'd be working with?"
"No. Why?"
Wesson sighed. "Just making sure nobody's playing a joke on me. I'm Wesson."
"Ah. Hello, Wesson."
He stared at her dully.
"You don't get it?"
"Get what?"
He grunted. "Never mind. Just call me Wess, or Rave if you like. Short for 'Raven'. Raven Croft Wesson."
Smith chuckled dryly. "Do you think I'm giving you a fake name?"
"No," Wesson grunted, stretching his neck. "If you wanted to use a fake name, you would've chosen a less common one." He went to shake her hand, but she recoiled.
"Sorry, I don't shake hands. Bit of a hypochondriac."
He shrugged carelessly. "So what did they tell you about this case back in Forty-Nine?"
"Not much more than they told you, I'm guessing." Smith knelt down to examine the corpse, crinkling her nose. "Yep, that's a decapitated body, all right. Any idea who it is?"
"I was about to go for his wallet when you came in. No, I'll get it," he said as Smith went for the corpse's pocket. "I'm used to getting in trouble with Forensics."
"Don't worry, I brought gloves. And I'll be very careful." She smiled sharply, suited up, and dove in. Wesson pointed his thumb at the stump he had seen.
"I'm thinking it was dragged from over there. No wedge marks in the ground. I'll go take a look."
He shoved his hands in his pockets and perambulated. He only got an eyeful before something diverted his attention. Female, older than Smith, good-looking. Pale, dark hair, excellent posture. Dressed better than either of them, carrying a suitcase. Nothing to indicate who she was or where she came from.
"Hey there," Wesson called, waving. "The area's off-limits to civilians."
"I'm with the Bureau," she replied, raising a badge. Wesson trudged over and listlessly examined it. Ebony, Dana. Thirty-seven, Unit 22. He looked over at Smith.
"Did you request backup?"
"Wasn't me." He looked at the woman.
"I'm with forensics," she said. His face lit up with indolent delight.
"Oh, hey, good timing. He's all yours." He gestured for Smith to move out of the way and stood back as the woman, Ebony, examined the corpse. "By the way," he grumbled, "I'm Wesson, this is Smith."
"Smith and Wesson?" she parroted, snickering. "Are you joking?"
Wesson glared incredulously at his partner.
"No. How are his knees?" he called. Ebony glanced at him.
"His…knees?"
"Yeah. What kind of stress were they subjected to in the last few hours?" She made a face and examined the corpse's knees more closely, even going so far as to lower its pants.
"I'd say he was kneeling," she reported. "Why?"
"Thought so," Wesson stated. He crossed his arms, staring down at the body. "This wasn't a murder."
"Makes perfect sense," Smith stated ironically. "People get decapitated naturally all the time."
"No, I mean, this man was — what's his ID?"
"Uh, Wayne," Smith said, peering at a passport she had found in the body's wallet. "Wayne Lotson."
Wesson nodded. "Mr. Lotson was killed of his own free will, or otherwise convinced into it."
"That's a bold statement," Ebony said as she crossed her arms. "How do you figure that?"
"Because his hands weren't bound, there's no other injury on the body, and like you said, he was kneeling. The angle of his neck muscles confirm a single clean cut, probably from an ax, hewn straight from nape to throat. I just wasn't sure if he had been standing or kneeling. Look." Wesson guided them over to the stump, knelt down, and traced his finger over it. Three deep wedge marks could be seen, one still entrenched with bloodstains. "These two marks were made separate from the big one here. That means Mr. Lotson observed the first two blows, and didn't run off before, during, or after they were made. The third one did him in."
"Are you sure those other two marks weren't made after he was killed?" Smith said. Wesson shoved his hands in his pockets.
"There's blood in only one of those marks. If our killer had made those other two later, they'd be stained. One and two missed, I'm guessing deliberately, while the third hit. Then he was dragged away and left to rot. Still no idea where the head went. Hell of a way to kill a guy."
The trio was silent for a few seconds as they processed everything.
"Well," Ebony murmured, "we know the Where and How. Now all that's left is the Who and Why."
"HEY DANA!!" Startled, the trio jerked around, seeing a young man waving frantically as he ran at them.
"Partner?" Wesson said.
"Yeah. Dana Allen."
"Wait, so you two have the same first name?" Wesson snorted. "That won't get confusing."
"Dana," the man gasped as he approached them, "call me 'some kind of wonderful', cuz' I got us a witness!" He skidded to a halt and made a face as he saw the body. "Eugh! Boy, that's really a decapitated body, isn't it?"
"Shut up, Allen," Ebony grumbled.
Wesson: Oh, that reminds me. I have a little present for you two. From the two Danas.
(he gives Garland a folder. He and Dyne examine it)
Item Number: SCP-8514
Containment Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-8514 Variant-1 (V1) is to be monitored by MTF Upsilon-20 (“Hogtown Garrison”) and/or MTF Gamma-4 (“Green Stags”). Local branches of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions are to be consulted regarding SCP-8514-A. Folklore regarding both entities is to remain in circulation across Canada and the United States of America. Acts of aggression towards either entity are prohibited. A breach in containment is to be handled by the aforementioned Task Forces along with the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit #18.
Any instance of SCP-8514 Variant-2 (V2) is to be reported immediately. Interaction with the entity, where applicable, is to be maintained only by Foundation agents registering at or above a five on the Trevena scale (see Protocol Artognou for more details). Any agent interacting with V2 may be recovered after a maximum period of 72 hours; surviving agents are to undergo interrogation. Obfuscating pertinent information to V2, or acts of aggression to the same, will invoke hostility on the entity's part, and may lead to it terminating the agent.
Between June 1 and August 31st, all forested areas in territories currently or formerly occupied by Slavic or Scandinavian peoples are to be monitored exclusively by Foundation agents trained in Protocol-4000 Eschu, with particular care being taken during 00:00, 03:00, 06:00, and 12:00 at all respective local times. Agents encountering SCP-8514 Variant-3 (V3) must exhibit actions as described in the aforementioned Protocol to the entity, although the use of identifying nomenclature (whether to one's self or V3) is safe. Hostility on behalf of V3 may be countered by theistic or thaumaturgical means, though salt, the presence of dogs, copper bullets, plants from the genus Tilia, profanity, and being incorrectly clothed will stymie the entity. Fires and campsites built on forest trails are strongly discouraged.
Description: SCP-8514 describes a singular entity adopting three separate variants. In descending commonality of appearance, they are listed as follows:
Variant-1 is a bearded humanoid entity of tall, muscular stature, typically residing in the American mid-and-northwest, and regions of rural Canada. It primarily occupies itself with logging and reforesting, though occasionally it integrates itself with locals, passing itself off as a lumberjack. Variant-1 is occasionally accompanied by SCP-8514-A, an abnormally large blue male Bos taurus.
Variant-2 is a humanoid entity with epidermal features resembling a full suit of Medieval European armor. The entity is capable of instantaneously healing any injury done to it, and responds to all actions performed to or against it in a manner commiserate to its treatment (e.g., aggressive actions result in similar actions performed by the entity on the aggressor; giving the entity a gift results in equivalent generosity). The entity has mainly been observed in the southern and western forested regions of the United Kingdom, and is fluent in archaic and modern forms of English, French, and German, as well as forms of Welsh, Latin, and Cornish.
Variant-3 is an extant resident of the Woods of Anonymity, usually taking the form of an arboreal humanoid figure of varying height. It has been sighted in forested areas previously or currently in close proximity to people with Slavic or Scandinavian ancestry, commonly herding cattle. Although not entirely hostile, the entity is territorial, and can produce a number of thaumaturgic effects.
Addendum: Deputy Director Harold Dyne and Special Agent Benjamin Garland of the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit are to be reminded that, until such time as more information is required for the observation and/or maintenance of SCP-8514 and its variants, the data transcribed in this document is the maximum extent granted to them by the S.C.P. Foundation. They are to consult Special Agent Raven Wesson for additional details.
Garland: They gave that to you?
Wesson: We had an understanding. That, and I got so entangled in their affairs that they must've figured it was easier to let me in rather than keep me out.
(Garland frowns and reexamines the folder)
Garland: And when did you realize that Allen and Ebony were working for the Foundation?
Wesson: Hey, now, you're getting ahead of me. I thought you said you wanted to know everything.
Garland: (sighs and gestures) Proceed.
Wesson: (clears his throat) Can I get some water first? My throat's a little dry.
Dyne: Gimme just a sec there, Wess. (he fills a paper cup with water from the cooler) There y'ar.
Wesson: Thanks, Hare. (he drinks) Ugh. How long's that water been in that closet, Hare?
Dyne: Uh…long enough to get a layer of dust on it.
Wesson: (grunts, shrugs, and drinks again) At least it's wet. Anyway, this Allen kid brings us to his star witness, a local named Vernon Cabal. Big guy, lumberjack, real friendly type. Here's his picture.
(Wesson hands them a photograph)
Dyne: Hmm. Cheery fella. Kinda looks like, uh…what's-his-bucket.
Garland: Yeah. Must've won his fair share of lookalike contests.
Vernon Cabal
"Every single one!" Vernon bellowed, laughing. "Some years, I almost don't even participate, just to give the other fellas a chance!" He grinned at Wesson, eyeing Ebony and Smith only briefly. "So, Feds, huh? I take it this is about that body, yah?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Cabal," Ebony stated. He just laughed.
"Call me Vernon, please, or just Vern. Formalities sit with me like a bad egg." He chuckled and lumbered over to the crime scene. Wesson imagined that if the larger man actually had an ax with him, he's be leaning on it like a hunter smiling at their kill.
"Yah, I've seen this here before, believe it or don't," Vernon said, stirring at the air with his finger. Allen gawked wide-eyed.
"You have?"
"Oh, yah. Hazing ritual common with local fraternities."
"Hazing ritual," Wesson repeated deadpan.
"Yah. There's a frat house out there obsessed with old stories and whatnot. This here is what's called a reenactment. Something about a guy named Wayne and a knight. See, the two of them play a little game. They tell each other two truths and one lie, and if they can't figure out the lie, they put their head on this here stump. Or any old place that's handy. Then the other guy comes in with a fireman's axe and does just a little bitty chop, close enough to scare the other guy but not close enough to do any damage. They keep doing this until both of them figure out the lie, or none of them do. Apparently something went wrong."
"And college kids do this regularly?" Ebony snarled.
"Yah, I suppose."
"But Allen over here says you witnessed this happen," Wesson indicated.
"Yah, from time to time. I see em' do it at night when they think there's no one around. I don't usually see people chopping each other's heads off, though."
Ebony gave Allen a withering stare; Wesson just sighed.
"Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Cabal — err, Vernon. Hey, Smith, you haven't said much in awhile." Smith blinked as if in a daze, attempting a frail smile. She had been fixed solely on Vernon ever since he arrived.
"Sorry, I was just lost in thought." Vernon issued a rumbling laugh.
"You look hungry. Are you all hungry? There's a local diner here that makes the best griddlecakes. How about joining me? Eating's always better with company!"
"Oh?" Wesson said flatly. "Your treat?"
Vernon laughed loudly. "On a lumberjack's paycheck?"
"Thought so," Wesson grumbled. He looked at Smith and shrugged. "So much for my retirement fund."
Once upon a time, there was a fairy who lived in the forest, and loved it very much. One day, a man came into the fairy's forest, weary from his travels, and was welcomed. For three days the man stayed in the forest, giving the fairy gifts, which the fairy repaid in kind: for the first day, a gift of bread, and for the second, a gift of gold. On the third day, however, the man found a linden branch, and thinking it a poor offering, concealed it. The wind whispered truths to the fairy, who confronted the man for his deception. Although the man repented, the fairy made sure the man would never forget his treachery, forcing him to bear the linden he had withheld for all to see. The man later went to see the king, who commanded all of his knights to also bear this linden as a reminder, to always hold true to their Word. As for the man, he went on to do great things, but soon died, as all men must.
As for what happened to the fairy, no one knows.
Dyne: Wess, as much as I appreciate your cooperation, I hope you don't plan on going over every single detail of this lunch you were having.
Wesson: Don't worry, I'll skip ahead. We mostly just shot the breeze, though I will say they had some damn good coffee. Cabal's account was about as airtight as a chain-link fence, so I wanted to do a little more digging in local fraternal practices. I also wanted to find Lotson's missing head, and keep an eye on Cabal, too, just in case. My instincts told me there was more to him than just a jolly red giant. The good news was that Smith and I now had two extra pairs of hands to help with the heavy lifting; the bad news was that the only person I trusted at that table was myself.
Garland: All right, so what did you end up doing?
Wesson: I used my time in that diner wisely. Studying, weighing my options. Smith hardly ever took her eyes off Cabal, raising all kinds of red flags. I figured I couldn't leave her alone with him, so I took her with me for some head-hunting. Allen was definitely the social type, and he had energy to spare, so I had him snoop around the local colleges. I couldn't really put my finger on what kind of person Ebony was, but she seemed composed enough to trust with tailing Cabal. The fact that they went along with my, uh, advice rather than raise any objections set off an alarm or two. Hell, Harry, you've said yourself that getting us stiffs in Eighteen to cooperate is like herding cats.
Dyne: Yeah, I see what you mean. Then what?
(Wesson crumples up his paper cup and tosses it at a trash can, missing)
Wesson: The body was gone when we came back to it. Completely outta there. Nothing left but three notches on a stump.
Dyne: Huh. Did the local authorities pick it up?
Wesson: No, and we sent them on a fine goose-chase trying to figure out where it went.
Garland: That's troubling. So what then?
Wesson: It got dark by the time they called the search off. Allen found us some lodgings and we all turned in for the night.
Dyne: With Cabal?
Wesson: No, he amscrayed. Ebony couldn't get anything outta him. (he stands up to stretch) Hey, you mind if I take a break and walk around a bit?
Garland: Not yet. We want some more details about Smith.
Wesson: Hmm, like how I figured out she wasn't a Fed? All right, that's fair. (he sits down) Actually, it was during that first night. She, uh, came to my room and confided in me.
(Dyne and Garland glance suspiciously at each other, then at Wesson. He rolls his eyes)
Wesson: Not like that. We were both still in uniform. Hell, I still had my shoes on.
Dyne: A-huh.
(Wesson rolls his eyes)
Wesson: Whatever.
Wesson opened the door; Smith stood anxious and subdued.
"Thanks. Sorry for coming here so late."
"It's fine, I'm still a bit too high-strung to sleep. Get you a water?"
"Thanks." He found two inside the mini-fridge; they sat across from each other, only a small table dividing them.
"So what's up? Still worried about that body?"
"Listen, Wesson — umm, Rave, if I may?" He gestured in the affirmative. "Um, yeah. Call me Ronnie. Look, I feel like I should come clean with you. You seem…trustworthy."
"Hmm," he grunted as he shifted in his seat. "Don't you think you're being a bit naive? You've only known me for a few hours."
"Well, I don't have much of a choice," Smith murmured. "I'm short on time and I can't do this alone." Wesson sighed in consternation, so she simply pressed onward. "Just listen, Rave. I'm…not really a Fed."
"I figured," he shrugged, causing her to recoil.
"You did? Um, how?" He sipped from his drink.
"Because Captain 'Big' Edison Horne died of a heart attack a year ago, five years after retiring. Anyone from Forty-nine would know that."
"You said he owed you a dinner."
"That was a test on my part. I needed to know if you were on the level."
She cringed. "And I failed. So why didn't you call me out on it?"
"Because you made me realize this was no ordinary murder. Think about it," he pointed: "I'm sent out here to investigate something far below my pay grade, when suddenly another agent sweeps in, claiming she's here to help. Suddenly the plot thickens, and I'd like to know why. So, I just went with it."
"Yeah, well," she sighed, "I really am sorry. But I have my reasons."
"Don't we all." He mutely apologized, urging her to continue.
"Just listen, and don't freak out: I'm with an organization called the Serpent's Hand. I was sent here on assignment to track down Vernon Cabal. You might have caught me staring at him."
"Might have."
"Yeah, well…that's because…" Smith sighed, deflating in preemptive defeat. "He's what's known as a narrative construct, a living real-life work of fiction. Think of it like…Sleeping Beauty or Peter Pan coming to life, walking around in the real world."
"All right," he replied nonchalantly. "So that would make Mr. Cabal…who, exactly? Hercules?"
"No: Paul Bunyan."
Wesson nodded. "So it isn't just an uncanny resemblance."
"No," she whispered. "I'm almost entirely certain that we spoke with the construct of Paul Bunyan today. I've been sent here to…bring him back with me to the Wanderer's Library, where he belongs. Him and any other…uh…"
"Living manifestations of fictional characters?"
Smith offered a disquieting grin. "You're taking this very well, Rave."
"I'm with the UIU," he waved dismissively, "I see bullshit like this all the time. Er," he gruffly corrected, "not that I'm saying you're full of it, though. So what do I need to do?"
"Find Cabal again and take me to him, alone. I'll handle things from there."
"Do you think there'll be trouble?"
"I'm sure that," she began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Wesson muttered something about it being a busy night and called out; it was Ebony. He glanced at Smith and opened the door.
"Hey," she said, "Allen just called me. He's got a lead. Oh, good, you're both here."
"A bit late in the evening for a lead, isn't it?" Wesson grumbled. Ebony gave him an apologetic expression.
"You did say you were too high-strung to sleep," Smith reminded him. He shrugged and resigned himself to a late night. They set out at once and drove to the location Allen gave them. The road ended close to a long-abandoned cabin, with nothing to see by but the distant glow of the moon and the frantic jerking of a flashlight, provided by Allen.
"What in the world brought you all the way out here?" Wesson demanded. Allen, eyes and teeth flashing with zeal, approached with a small sealed glass tube in tow. He opened his mouth but shut it just as quickly when he saw Smith and Wesson.
"You brought them?" he said to Ebony. Her eyes glinted in warning.
"Yes. Why wouldn't I?"
He blinked, momentarily confused. "Oh, right. That makes sense. Anyway, look! Ash!" He gave the tube to Ebony, emblazoning it with his flashlight. Ebony carefully flicked the glass with her finger. They murmured incoherently between one another for a moment, prompting Wesson to approach.
"What's that you got there? New evidence?"
"Just some ash from a cigar, I think," Ebony said. Wesson snorted.
"You brought us out here in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, right next to the cabin from Evil Dead for cigar ash?"
"Ha!" Allen chirped. "Nice reference!"
"Shut up, Allen," Ebony grumbled. She reached to open her suitcase to store the ash, but stopped short as a low rumbling caused everyone to jump. They froze. Another rumble. Another. The forest shivered black in the darkness. Birds screamed as their sleep was broken. Another rumble. The tube was forgotten as all the agents drew their firearms.
"Shit," Wesson growled, "now what?"
The forest trembled again. The veil of branches was parted as a massive hand pierced their boughs. Something emerged: gargantuan, nearly as large as the trees themselves, wispy and thin with vaguely humanoid features. Next to it was an enormous bull, coals for eyes and fire for breath, horns like spears, muscles rippling with titanic power. Wesson's eyes flared open in astonishment but he kept his cool.
"Stay calm, all of you," Ebony intoned. "No sudden movements."
The creature's body cracked and split, issuing a noise like moaning wind, like breaking branches, like stones smashing against one another. It was, in defiance of all sense, speaking.
It then advanced, the bull roaring at its side, the world shuddering with every step.
Ebony cursed and everyone opened fire. Wesson ran as the bull's horns carved trenches into the soil. Ebony dove, dropping her weapon, as the tall wood-creature swung. Allen roared and continued to fire.
"Go! I'll cover you!" The attack barely served as an annoyance, but it got the creature's attention. Ebony scrambled for her firearm as it stormed after Allen, pealing like thunder. Allen stumbled, the creature lunged—
And just as suddenly, stopped. Its immense limbs raised, covering what appeared to be a face, and it made a gurgling sound akin to revulsion. Allen just stood there gawking.
"Wait," he said softly. Before the large creature could recover, he reached into his pocket and took out a packet of salt he had removed from the diner. His fingers slipped trying to open it, but in no time a hail of white granules sprayed in the air. Allen lashed the tiny packet like a whip as he shouted:
"Bastard! Asshole! Hellfire and damnation! Shit-faced!"
The tall creature groaned, and to the amazement of everyone there, withdrew as if offended by the vulgarity, slipping into the darkness of the forest with its companion in tow. The night's silence returned as if nothing had happened.
"Wesson," Ebony called, securing her firearm, "you okay?" He nodded, covered in grass and dirt though he was.
"Yeah. You?"
"I'm not hurt. Allen, how about you?"
Allen stood amazed, hyperventilating.
"Allen!"
"Holy shit!" he roared, walking ahead as if in a daze. He stared at Ebony and Wesson, livid with excitement. "That was a goddamn leshy!"
A depiction of SCP-8514, Variant-3
Once upon a time, there lived a kindly old fairy in a city concealed beneath a well. This fairy loved the city, but it seemed to have changed overnight. Where once the fairy saw friends and loved ones smiling, there was gossip, cold stares, envious whispers, malice. The fairy knew that their friends were jealous, because they did not have what the fairy now possessed: they did not have a Name. Growing discomforted with their behavior, the fairy left the sylvan realm of the nameless, and returned to the forest, where it could be away from the spiteful eyes of its friends, and listen to the wind and the water and the leaves instead.
Unfortunately, the soothing song of the woods was broken that day, for a group of men had gathered to cut down the trees. The fairy knew that it was the habit of men to claim parts of the grove for themselves, but only at need, and would leave gifts for the fairy in exchange. These men, however, hacked and burned without pity or pause, without regard or remorse, leaving nothing but the lamentations of the fallen. This enraged the fairy, and it used its great magic to transform into a mighty warrior. It set upon the men with great anger and furious vengeance, using the very weapon they had wielded against them, and did not stop until every last fallen oak, beech, chestnut, willow, and pine was accounted for. With justice meted out, it returned to its original form, and secluded itself in the woods to bask in its victory.
The next day, men returned to claim the bodies of their fallen comrades. Many of them left gifts for the fairy — not out of love or reverence, but in fear. The fairy took them all the same, and was proud of the power it now wielded. There would be no whispers of jealousy here: only emboldening terror and respect. Here, at last, it could have a home, for it now had a Name, and what more beyond that could it want?
The years waned. Stories began to spread of the creature, of its malice and mystery, of how it could be offended or appeased. Stories also began to weave of the Warrior, the arbiter of nature's vengeance, keeping eternal vigil against the iniquities of the civilized world. Men still cut and burned and cleared the forest, but many also tended and cared for it, loving it as the fairy loved. It came to pass that these men would wear sashes woven with linden, identifying themselves as friend and ally, a ward against the warden. The fairy wondered at these men, and whether they were truly of the same kind as those who spread destruction. It meditated upon these matters in solitude and silence, passing into the mists of legend, to be remembered only in whispers.
It is said that no one has seen the fairy since.
Dyne: What the heck's a leshy?
Wesson: A Russo-Scandinavian forest spirit.
Dyne: Oh really? What was it doing in central Minnesota?
Wesson: I dunno, maybe it migrated with the Swedish. That area's filled with their descendants.
Dyne: Hmm. What about that large bull?
Wesson: Pfft, hell if I know. Allen was the expert on these things. Apparently they're cow-herders.
Garland: Hmm. Do you know why it ran off?
Wesson: Allen said it was because of his clothes.
Garland: (snorts) I didn't know forest spirits moonlighted as fashion police.
Wesson: He was in a hurry that morning and wore his socks and underclothes inside-out. Apparently, that's the best way to keep a leshy at bay. He also told me they don't like salt or foul language.
Garland: Well then you should be their worst nightmare, Wess. You're nothing but a disheveled pile of salt and profanity!
(Dyne and Garland both laugh. Wesson grumbles)
Wesson: Moving on… We regrouped and decided to do a quick search around the area, just in case. We actually did discover something, believe it or not.
Garland: Like what?
Wesson: That Agent Smith was missing, and she took that ash with her. My guess is that she slipped away in all the excitement. Not our finest moment.
Dyne: I'll bet not. I'm guessing you didn't get much sleep that night.
Wesson: None whatsoever. We spent the rest of the night looking for her, and most of the morning as well. We even split up.
Garland: Hmm. Rookie mistake.
Wesson: (sighs) What can I say: I was agitated, exhausted, and wasn't thinking straight. Looking back on it, that was probably an excuse for Eb and Allen to have a little powwow behind my back. You know, weighing if they should keep using me to do their dirty work, or cut me off, wipe out my memory, and stiff me with the hotel bill.
Dyne: Which they didn't.
Wesson: (shrugs) I proved too useful. But they had one last bit of fun at my expense before that.
Garland: (chuckles) This I have to hear.
Wesson: Yeah, I thought you'd be interested.
It may have been the lack of sleep, the encounter with the leshy, the unexplained loss of Smith, or simply the fact that Wesson still hadn't eaten yet, but the park seemed dim, hazy, dreamlike. Wesson tried to keep his balance, but the ground felt spongy, like it was churning underneath him, and the air was difficult to breathe. Birds cackled as trees slapped him with their leaves; stones sprang out of nowhere to stub his toe; puddles bubbled up from the grass to saturate him. He found a dew-soaked bench and laid his coat across it so he could sit in peace; as he did so, a hornet landed on his hand.
"Whaddyou want?" he grumbled. He shook it loose and eyed it carefully, but was distracted by a large shape moving in the distance. His sleepless indignation was immediately discarded as he sat up, wide-eyed, staring at the object. It moved like an enormous river, weaving with effortless grace through the bracken, Job's Biblical behemoth come into the world to terrorize — or rule — or liberate…
Wesson rose, forgetting his coat, and drew closer, heedless of any danger. The shape turned and evaded him, but a second figure followed, an accomplice or parasite or…or shepherd. This was no tree-spirit, though, but a figure almost human, seemingly stone but covered completely in moss. It followed close behind the behemoth, making no more noise than its ward, ignorant of its surveyor.
Not wanting to risk drawing its attention, Wesson halted only a few steps into his venture, content to stand and observe. He made no move, save to blink, and bit his lip to assure himself this was real. Even so, he was noticed: the moss-man jerked its head, focusing on him, and breached the gulf between them with a lordly stride. Wesson stiffened but remained still. The moss-man carried with him a shield, and a great battle-ax, its head hewn into helm. It made a sound, perhaps a speech, but Wesson didn't understand any of it.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," he stated calmly. "If you're some spirit of the Dakota or Chippewa, I'll be happy to leave you in peace. I'm just here to solve a murder."
He eyed the ax.
"It's a nice park," he added, perhaps foolishly. The moss-man slowly raised a hand — it could have been a gauntlet — pointing at Wesson, speaking again. Wesson sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't understand you. I'm just another ignorant human who might be—"
"Behæs."
"Yeah," he sighed. An even stupider idea crossed his mind, and he stretched his hand out, palm facing up. "Um…pax?"
The moss-man grunted. "Videbimus quod."
"So you speak Latin. Good to know. Umm…" Wesson awkwardly hemmed, but was spared further discourse as a commanding voice called out:
"Drop your weapon! Hands on your head, knees on the ground! NOW!"
He sighed. Ebony. "You two have the worst timi—"
"You too, Wesson!" Allen barked. "Hands up! Don't move!"
"Oh, come on," he groaned, "seriously?" He half-turned, observing that Allen and Ebony were definitely serious, and made an indolent show of compliance. Allen disarmed him while Ebony kept her eyes on the moss-man. It had not let go of its ax.
"Last warning!" Ebony shouted. "Disarm or I'll put one right in your fairy face!"
"I'm pretty sure a bullet won't do you much good, Eb," Wesson mumbled. Ebony smirked.
"It will if it's a thaumaturge-infused bullet with an iron casing."
Whether out of defense or defiance, the moss-man advanced, its ax glinting emerald in the sunrise. Allen got off one round, which stopped the creature, but seemed to do no damage. It regarded the wound in its chest with nonchalance and shook its head. Its voice came out in undulations, an earthquake of retribution, and raised its weapon to kill. Allen backpedaled as Ebony opened fire, but the creature deflected the shots with its shield, growling.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Wesson darted between them, an improvised arbiter. "Hey now," he said, "let's not lose our cool, all right? Like I said, none of us want to cause any trouble! We're just here to solve a murder! Okay? Lay off the guy, he's twitchy." Wesson stared intently at the moss-man, arms outstretched, anxious to see what would transpire. The creature slowly calmed down, lowered its weapon, and grunted. It jammed a rust-green finger at Wesson once again:
"Behæs."
Then without any further ado, it slipped into the darkness of the woods and was gone. All three agents loosened a sigh of relief.
"Not too bad there, Wess," Allen admitted. "I guess I owe you one."
"Yeah, no kidding," he spat: "and since when do Foundation agents shoot first and ask questions later?"
"What are you talking about?" Ebony said indignantly.
"I mean you're with the SCP Foundation. I've known since yesterday afternoon."
"I think the lack of sleep is affecting your brain, Wess," Allen pointed. Wesson rolled his eyes.
"Look, you can think I'm stupid all you want, just don't treat me like I'm stupid, all right? I knew you were Foundation from the scars in your forearms." Allen and Ebony stared quizzically at each other, so Wesson explained: "When Eb came back from the bathroom during lunch, I noticed a very distinct scar on her forearm before she rolled her sleeve up. It's from where they implant your microchip tracking device. Look, I've seen them before."
Allen and Ebony exchanged another silent, disquieting expression.
"I guess there's no point in subterfuge anymore," Ebony relented. There seemed no point in brandishing guns, either, so they holstered them again.
"Can I have mine while you're at it?" Wesson said. Allen glanced at his partner.
"I dunno. The Foundation and the UIU are, um…"
"Ambivalent relations, I know. Look, we don't have to be friends, but we don't have to be enemies, either. I'm willing to cooperate if you'll trust me — or do you really think I'll shoot you in the back?"
Allen considered it carefully. Gingerly, he reached for Wesson's sidearm, turned it, and hovered it before him.
"Like I said, I owe you one."
"Thanks," Wesson said as he took his gun back, "and don't worry about it. These things happen all the time in our line of work. I'm guessing the Foundation's angle is containing that leshy — and maybe that armored green guy as well."
"More or less," Ebony confirmed. "We received reports from civilians about a giant blue steer wandering around. Allen and I were sent from two different MTF squads—"
"Hogtown Garrison and the Green Stags," he interrupted. Ebony nodded.
"To investigate. So yes, it would seem we are on the same side. At least for now."
"That's good enough for me," Wesson exclaimed. He walked over to his discarded coat, flapping the dew out before donning it again. "By the way, I don't suppose either one of you is a linguist? That guy, or…that thing said something to me that stuck out. Does 'Behæs' mean anything?"
"It's Old English," Allen answered. "It loosely means 'vow', or 'oath'."
"Hmm. Is it weird that that somehow makes sense?"
"In our line of work?" Ebony remarked, raising her eyebrow. "The abnormal is normal. Still, a man in green armor speaking Old English in central Minnesota—"
"Oh my god!!" Allen roared suddenly. He stood gawking and grasped his head in dramatic surprise. "Vernon Cabal!"
"What about him?" Wesson said. Allen's eyes bulged frantically.
"Don't you get it? VERNON — VERDE — GREEN! CABAL — CABALLERO — KNIGHT! Vernon Cabal is that Green Knight!"
Ebony sighed in disgrace, covering her face with her palm. "Shut up, Allen."
"That is a pretty big stretch," Wesson grunted as he crossed his arms. He scrunched his face in grim consideration. "Still, Smith was keen on tracking him down. She claimed to be part of this group called the Serpent's Hand; does that mean anything to you two?"
Allen and Ebony gave each other a concerned expression.
"Yeah, it does," she said. "I think Mr. Cabal bears another investigation."
A depiction of SCP-8514, Variant-2
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy named Otcovský Strom, Father Tree, who heard about a New World across a vast ocean. The men who ventured into Strom's woods, whether in villainy or friendship, spoke of a tribe called Suehans who cut down trees so they could sail across the ocean. Drawn by the promises of adventure and curiosity, Otcovský Strom used its magic to assume Milesian shape, and sailed with the Suehans until they reached the New World.
It followed them west, across great plains and mighty rivers, finding forests to the north that sang a bittersweet song of familiarity and freshness. It also found a Story there, woven by the Milesians of a man who escaped destruction in favor of paradise. Otcovský Strom wished to learn more, so it continued to assume Milesian shape and begged its companions to teach it to read. Strom was an adept student, and soon learned that the Story was called "The Pilgrim's Progress", a title which resonated with the fairy down to its purest essence. When asked who first told this tale, Strom was informed that the author's name was Bunyan, and it kept this name close to heart.
And there, in that forest of the New World, it is said that the fairy remains to this very day.
(Dyne, Garland, and Wesson are eating take-out together)
Garland: I think I know where you're going with this, Wess. You went and found Vernon Cabal, confronted him about all this, he reveals himself to be this Green Knight…
Dyne: Or the leshy.
Garland: Or both. And Wayne Lotson's killer, by pure silly cosmic coincidence. The two Danas report to the Foundation, they draw up that article (he gestures to the folder), then Smith shows up, takes Cabal-nee-Bunyan into custody, and you wrap a big bow around it.
(Wesson continues eating)
Wesson: Hmph. I keep getting Lo Mein and Chow Mein confused. I wanted the one with thicker noodles.
Dyne: Next time just order mixed Asian vegetables. It's better for you anyway.
Wesson: Yeah. Or General Tso's.
Dyne: Mmm. Too spicy for me. What did you get again, Gar?
Garland: (sighs) Talking to myself here.
Wesson: I heard you. You're about half-right there, Ben. You got the parts about the Foundation and Smith showing up, but the rest…mmph. What did you get, by the way? It looks good.
(silence)
Wesson: Looks like chicken.
Garland: It's bourbon chicken. So who killed Lotson?
Wesson: (he continues eating) Gimme a moment. What did you get me to drink again, Harry?
Dyne: Unsweet iced tea.
Wesson: Mmm, good man. (he drinks and sighs in contentment) That is some damn good tea.
Garland: Don't let me interrupt you or anything.
Wesson: Almost done, promise. (he continues eating)
Dyne: Ben, let me try some of that. I've never had bourbon chicken. You want some of my shrimp?
(Garland sighs and exchanges part of his meal with Dyne)
Everyone agreed that finding Vernon Cabal was their next priority, regardless of how big a role he was playing. Going on fumes, a rushed breakfast, intuition, and an unhealthy dose of curiosity and obsession, they split up to search the park. Wesson called in a few favors and had the park rangers form a perimeter around the entire area, as well as every hotel, cabin, and trailer park; he took to the woods while Allen directed the rangers and Ebony combed the rivers.
"Where the hell am I gonna start?" he muttered, sighing and plunging his hands in his coat pockets. It had been relatively warm the last few days, but an unusual chill was creeping in. Wesson girded himself for a long day and started walking, taking to the trails first. Noon came and went, with only a brief pause for a mushy overpriced club sandwich, and dinner wasn't any more dignified, a rushed bowl of dry spaghetti and meatballs held in a noisy cafeteria. Cabal still hadn't been found when they lost the day's light, and Wesson was too weary to continue the hunt despite their urgency. He only had time to shower and set his alarm before crashing and blacking out.
The next day was bright but bone-cold, wisps of cloud escaping with every breath. Wesson picked up right where he left off, keeping in touch with Allen and Ebony as he eliminated one possibility after another. There was still no word on Smith — or the leshy, the behemoth, or the moss-man — and any trace of Lotson's remains were lost with her. Wesson had vaguely entertained the idea of Cabal or Smith being responsible for the body's removal, but unless they genuinely had magic powers, and were able to be in two places at once — they had been with him in the diner when the corpse vanished — then it was just another dead end. He was trying to figure out why that cigar ash was so significant when the distinct sound of metal striking wood diverted his attention.
Tok. Tok. Tok. Tok.
He followed it, the day warming as he chased what he hoped would not be his death-knell. Tok. Tok.
He heard the rush of water. The smell of cooking. Someone singing. Tok. Tok.
A cabin next to a river. A skillet over a fire. A pile of logs strewn carelessly. An axe being raised and lowered. A man in red plaid. He stopped singing when he noticed he had company.
"Rave. G'morning."
"Morning, Vernon. You, uh, camping here?"
"Yah, kind of. I live here a few months outta the year. When I get sick of the place, I usually head west to Oregon, then down south to California, or I wind my way around B.C., Alberta, and Saskatchewan. Uh, that's British Columbia."
"Right. Sounds like quite the pilgrimage."
Vernon paused, then placed a log on a stump. He cleaved it perfectly in two with one blow.
"Yah, sure is. I like to travel. But I also like to feel settled, y'know. Sometimes it's good to rest your bones."
"You mind if I join you?" Vernon grinned, clutching his ax: perhaps in pride, perhaps in preparation.
"Cutting logs?"
"No, just to sit down. I feel tired as hell."
"Sure. You can borrow that chair over there." He indicated a large, handmade wooden chair that sapped all the strength out of Wesson when he sat in it.
"You gonna be okay?"
"Yah, I don't mind standing." He cut another log, then tended to the skillet. He grinned proudly at Wesson. "Almost done. You had breakfast yet?"
"Yeah, at the hotel."
"I don't really care for their food. Too artificial. There's nothing like cooking a meal outdoors, over an open fire, especially if you just caught it yourself an hour ago."
"Hmm," Wesson shrugged. "You lead quite the masculine life, if you don't mind my saying."
Vernon laughed loudly, cleaving another log.
"Sure do!" he bellowed, then resumed singing: "Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium, Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!"
"Quite a life," Wesson murmured to himself. He coughed. "Listen, Vern, about that body we showed you the other day, the one with the missing head."
"Yah? You find out who did it?"
Tok.
"It's gone."
"Who, the killer?"
"The body. Completely gone, no trace. Some weird things have been going on here, Vern."
"Oh yah?" he said nonchalantly. Tok. "Well, this part of the country is pretty old. Anishinaabe territory. Countless generations of men and women, thousands of years before European settlers. That kind of history has an effect on the land, if ya don't mind me getting too spiritual."
"Not at all."
Tok. Tok.
"Speaking of the Anishinaabe, they have a legend about Red Lake. They say it was formed when a trickster god fought a giant. It was one of them battles that took three days and three nights, y'know. In the end, the trickster god won by slapping the giant with a fish he pulled out of a river. He landed right flat on his bottom, and that formed the lake."
Wesson chuckled softly. Vernon laughed as well, but there was danger twinkling in his eyes.
"Yes, sir," he murmured, "that sure was a good fight."
He split another log. Another. Another. Tok.
"You ever see or heard of," Wesson began, when he was interrupted. A large steer, larger than any he had seen, meandered into view, wisdom and patience in its dull dark eyes. Vernon stopped what he was doing and caressed the steer's head.
"Hi, Babe. Yah, I've got company today. Yah, I know, it's a shame. I wish it could've gone on a bit longer. But I had to do it. It would've killed the others. Yah, I miss him, too. But he'll be all right, don't you worry."
"What would've killed the others, Vern?" Wesson called. Vernon pointed his thumb at the lumber pile.
"This here dogwood. It's got a disease that would've spread to the whole forest if I hadn't chopped it down. Ya gotta do that sometimes, clear away the dead and dying, or the ones choking out new life. It hurts, but you gotta do it, because it'll hurt more if ya don't. It's one pain or the other. Just be sure to give back what ya took. Plant two trees for every one, and plant em' proper. There's the joy, the other side of the coin. Pain and joy."
He scratched behind the steer's ear and sent it away with a firm pat.
"Vern," Wesson said, "have you ever seen or heard—"
"I killed Wayne Lotson." He turned around, no longer smiling, large enough to block the rising sun, clutching an ax drenched in the blood of trees. "Is that what you want me to say? Is that why you came here?"
"Is that a confession, Vern?"
The two men stared at each other in silence.
"Your meal's burning, Vern. Tend to that first, then we'll talk."
He grunted and shuffled over to his skillet. "Not quite the last meal I had in mind."
"I'm not here to kill you, Vern, I just want the truth. Look, I don't know why you're mixed up in all this. You, Lotson, Agent Smith, cigar ash…there's some forest-spirit and a man running around in green armor…"
Vernon scooped the fish onto a plate, drizzling it in fat. When he stood, a suit of green armor had taken his place. Wesson stared nervously.
"Ah."
"Shall we play a game, Raven Wesson?"
Wesson rubbed his neck. "I'd rather keep my head, if it's all the same to you."
"I invoke the Binding of Words. You once swore an oath to me, an oath that you only came here to solve a murder. Now you make an oath that you were not sent to kill me, and that you only seek the truth. I wish to bind you to your word."
Wesson considered his words carefully.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Are you the sort of man who breaks his word?"
"I try not to be," he admitted quietly. He stared at the Green Knight in resignation. "What do I need to do?"
The Knight drew close. "Place your hand on my ax and make the oath. Then the game begins."
"Seems easy enough," he murmured. The Knight remained motionless as Wesson did as instructed. "Um…I'm no good with flowery words."
"It is enough that the oath is yours."
"All right," he sighed, then cleared his throat and bound himself. The Knight nodded when he had finished.
"For every truth you tell, I will take one step backwards. When I reach my campfire, you are free. Deceive me once, and your life is forfeit."
"Just like back at my old fraternity," he scowled helplessly. "All right, um…I was sent here to investigate the murder of a man found decapitated in…damn it, I forgot the name of this park. Uhh…decapitated in this particular area."
The Knight took one step back.
"I came here alone. I joined up with a woman named Rhonda Smith, and two others, Dana Ebony and Dana Allen. I'm the only one from the FBI, though. The two Danas are from the SCP Foundation, and Smith's…"
Wesson considered his words carefully. He eyed the Knight. The truth.
"Smith claimed to be part of the Serpent's Hand. I have reason to believe she was lying."
Another step back.
"What reason is that, Raven Wesson?"
"Her eyes kept changing color," he gestured. "Sometimes blue or red or yellow or…like, a rainbow kaleidoscope. And she never touched silverware, or…or anything that had any iron. Always wore gloves instead. Kind of a weird detail, but…"
Another step back.
"And I ain't gonna kill you. That's not my job. I don't even think I could, even if I wanted to."
Another step back. The Knight was almost at the campfire.
"If it turns out I killed Wayne Lotson, and you can prove it, what will you do?"
"I honestly don't know," Wesson murmured. "God as my witness, I don't know. It's not like I can arrest Paul Bunyan, or whatever you are. Uh…I'd probably report it to my bosses at the department. It'd be in their hands then. Not my problem."
The Knight's hands clutched tightly to the ax handle.
"You are a slovenly, apathetic man, Raven Wesson."
"Yeah. I'll own up to that. It's gotten me in trouble before. But I think it's saved my sorry hide a few times, too."
The Knight relaxed its grip and took another step back.
"Dana Allen must pay for what he did to me. I must have justice. What do you say to that?"
"Look, it was an accident, okay? You went after us, the guy got excited, he fired a shot… He's a good agent, he's just wet behind the ears. He doesn't deserve — look, if you're that upset about it, I'll take his place, all right? Leave Allen alone and do what you have to do to me. I'm old, tired, washed-up, I stopped caring about everything a long time ago, I got nothing to lose…"
"Do you bind yourself to that?"
Wesson swallowed. Nodded.
"Yeah. I do."
The Knight gestured to the stump. Wesson took a deep breath. Approached. Stared down. Went to his knees. Placed his head down. Waited.
Tok.
Watched as a log split in two and fell over.
"And that's the last one for the day," he heard Vernon say. The other man laughed softly and helped Wesson stand. He rubbed his neck.
"Not sure what to say to that," he admitted quietly. "I guess it wasn't a coincidence after all."
"What wasn't?"
"Your name. Allen thought it had something to do with the Spanish translation for Green Knight."
Vernon chuckled. "And here I thought I was being clever. Maybe I should've used a different language." He smiled, but his smile faded just as quickly. Danger sparked in his eyes.
"Drop your weapon, Mr. Cabal. I'm placing you under arrest."
Wesson sighed. "Are we doing this again, Allen? How long have you been there, anyway?"
"I came in right before he tried to kill you."
"He didn't…" Wesson grunted, exasperated. "Could you just relax? I'm starting to get deja vu here."
"I'm not pointing the gun at you, Wess. Only Mr. Green Knight here."
"Feels like you're pointing it at me."
Allen adjusted his aim. Now there was no question.
"Arrest, eh?" Vernon grumbled. He chuckled and walked over to a large sequoia. He touched the bark, caressed it, put one arm around it, and uprooted the entire tree in a single motion. He rested the trunk casually on his shoulder. "All right. Arrest me!"
"Wow," Allen whispered. "Just like Lu Zhishen in The Water Margin!"
"Shut up, Allen," Wesson grumbled. Cabal shoved the sequoia back in place, root and all, waiting for Allen to make his move. He never got the chance, as Wesson felt the steely barrel of a gun nudging against his spine.
"You know, I'm getting real tired of people pointing guns at me!" he yelled. Cold feminine laughter answered him.
"I'm flattered you noticed my eyes, little Raven. It's just too bad they were my downfall. I'm rather fond of them."
"Hi, Smith," he sighed. "I guess that bit about the Serpent's Hand was a lie."
"What better way to gain your trust than to swap out one lie for another? Just admit you're deceptive…"
"And people tend to believe you," he finished. "Smart. So I guess the Seelie Court has business with Mr. Cabal as well."
Smith chuckled. "Very perceptive, Raven. Did my iron aversion give me away?"
Allen suddenly spun around, shifting his aim.
"Drop it, Smith! Or whatever your name is!"
She laughed. "And give up my Milesian shield?"
"Do what he says, Sidhe," came another voice. Smith bit her lip. She hadn't noticed Ebony coming in from behind, still armed with her Fey-killing weapon. "We can handle this peacefully or we can have a perforated fairy on the ground. I'm fine either way." She gestured to Allen and Wesson. "Stay cool, both of you. I got this."
"Yeah," Allen taunted, "this is a real Mexican stand-off, isn't it? We're all gonna act like three little Fonzies here—"
"Allen!" Ebony roared. "Shut…up!"
Dyne: Wait, hold on. (Wesson stares impatiently at Dyne) What the heck is a Milesian?
Wesson: It's the Fey word for a human. It means "sons of Mil", whoever that was. May I continue?
Garland: Yeah, don't interrupt him, Harry. He's just getting to the good part.
Wesson: Thank you, Gar. Oh, by the way, remember that ash? That was all that was left of Wayne Lotson. Ebony filled me in on that later.
Dyne: So he was cremated? (silence) Sorry, I won't interrupt anymore.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who was a mighty lord of the forest, whom men feared and paid homage to.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who sought justice for evils committed, who held men to their oaths, and whom men wove into their Stories.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who watched men cut down the forest, and men who planted anew.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who went on a long pilgrimage, finding a New World.
Once upon a time, there was a fairy who read a book about a pilgrim, and felt that it was their own.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who did not understand the way of the world, or those who inhabited it, so it walked as a man and gave itself a man's name.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who read a holy book, and saw itself in an apostle who had once enjoyed a life of renown, but then found purpose anew, and so they took the apostle's Name.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who became a giant, whose Name spread across the New World.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who fought a god, and met their match.
Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who realized that they wanted a simple life, and so they took another name, and hid in the forest, where they live to this very day.
Whether or not the fairy lived happily ever after, no one knows.
Rhonda Smith was in a bad spot, and she knew it. There would be no victory for her here, no way to accomplish her mission — not yet, at least. Best to cut her losses and try again some other time. Maybe when there weren't so many humans around.
"Well?" Ebony demanded. "What'll it be, Sidhe?"
"Better decide soon," Wesson murmured. "The Foundation's not afraid to sacrifice others. How about you?"
Rhonda Smith chuckled coldly as she pressed the gun into Wesson's back. "Don't worry, Raven, I'm not going to kill you. Do you know why?"
"Because I'm not worth wasting a perfectly good bullet on?"
"There is that," she admitted. "But I'd rather not have any of your filthy blood splashing on me. Too much iron content, you know. Besides, I kind of like you."
"Good to know someone does," he murmured. Rhonda Smith laughed, slowly backing away. Allen and Ebony remained on guard.
"However," Rhonda Smith added, "since I can't have you following me…" She then arced her gun and fired, shooting Allen in the foot. He crumpled immediately, howling.
"AAAAOOOOOOWWWW!!! Mother fucker!!"
"Babe!" Vernon shouted at the same moment. Before anyone could react, a massive blue bull stormed across the campsite. It pierced its horn through Rhonda Smith's torso and rammed into a redwood with the force of an earthquake. Rhonda Smith cried out but still had enough sense to grasp the tree and meld into it, disappearing. The redwood slowly teetered and crashed to the ground, dislodging from the bull's horn.
Allen was in too much pain to offer any comment.
"You'll be all right, Allen," Ebony assured him, her own face a sheen of cold sweat. "Just lie down, I'll call for backup."
"Easy for you to say," he managed. He roared again but settled a bit as Ebony applied bandages and painkillers. Wesson drew his sidearm.
"You two stay here, I'll go look for her. Vernon, could you—"
"It's fine, Rave," he said, holding Wesson back. "Just let her go. I'll deal with her on my own time. It's my problem. You make sure Dana's okay. Babe'll take you to the main road if you want." Allen couldn't offer any objections, so he was hoisted onto the bull with Ebony at his side. When they left, Vernon issued a grim chuckle.
"I guess he really did pay for what he did to me. Heh." Wesson sighed and holstered his gun.
"Okay, Vernon — or Paul, or Leshy, or Green Knight, or whoever you are — I think it's high time you come clean with me. You held me to my word, now I'm holding you to yours."
Vernon was silent for a moment as he considered what Wesson was asking. Stiffly he nodded his head.
"Fair enough. It all started when Wayne Lotson came to visit me — but that's not his real name. He lost that, a long time ago. Same as the rest of us."
The shade of the woods helped assuage summer's heat. The pilgrim passed his hand over the sentinels of the forest, feeling the life they exuded. This one was young and eager; that one firm, stretching, growing; here, an august elder, playing with the wind; there, one quietly sleeping, drinking deep the draught of the sun. He soon found what he was looking for: one who was bent, gnarled, selfish, their growth stifling others. Even as he set his ax to it, though, the pilgrim felt a twinge of sorrow. It must be done, though, for the forest proper to live, so he set to his task.
Tok. Tok.
He ended its suffering mercifully, and only at the point where the guardian's growth had gone wrong. In no time at all it would resume its proper course, and would, perhaps, thank him. Meanwhile the wood would fetch a good price, perhaps being made into a cabinet or doorway, maybe even a toy, or…
"So it's true," a voice called out to him: "Otcovský Strom is out chopping down the forests he once swore to protect." He turned, thrilled with excitement, knowing that tone from anywhere. The only thing preventing him from embracing One Who Was Greatly Longed For was their accusation.
"Old friend!" he exclaimed. He hesitated, his words stuck in his throat, caught between adulation and guilt. He swallowed. "You look very well. It has been too long."
"Only for you," retorted One Who Measures Differently. "Your account of time has changed. You've assumed Milesian shape for too long."
"Scarcely three-hundred of their years, and a handful more," the pilgrim replied defensively. "I was avenging the forests you accuse me of destroying for nearly twice that time."
One Who Remained Without Name approached the pilgrim, feeling his clothes, pulling on his beard.
"Is this what being Named does? Drive you from your home, cause you to forsake your people?"
"I was given Name," he whispered. "I could not refuse."
"No. But you could have remained."
"And done what, friend?" the pilgrim snapped, pushing away. "While away in councils of war and invasion? Let the memory of the past fester inside me, as disease festers inside these roots? Sit idly as my loved ones glare at me in envy? I…" He faltered, choking, leaned against a redwood. "I could not stay. To remain would be to invite stagnation. The seed that lingers in the ground does not grow."
"But the root remains firmly planted," countered One Who is Bitter. "You ripped yours away, turning your back on those you claim to love."
"There are woods aplenty here," the pilgrim muttered. "And t'was here that we met." The pilgrim finally managed a smile. "Met and fought."
"Hmph," the Former Resident grunted, smirking. "I'll wager you still have bruises."
"None so painful as the ones I dealt to you."
The Once-Bruised Friend smiled, nodding wistfully. But that feeling passed. "I was once as a god in this realm. The people did me reverence, gave gifts. I even had…my own Name. But it has been forgotten. Yours…remains."
"I've had many names," the pilgrim sighed gruffly. "Otcovský Strom and Apostle-Pilgrim brought me fame, Verde-Caballero brought isolation. These days I am content with the latter." The pilgrim turned to his friend, touching their shoulder, recalling ancient camaraderie. "Why have you come? To judge me? To rekindle our friendship? If it is war you wage, I no longer have the heart."
"I have been directed to retrieve you."
"For what purpose?"
"To come home."
"Then I ask again," the pilgrim grumbled impatiently, "why are you here?" The One Sent to Retrieve gawked, stuttering, but could not answer.
"We will talk. You will tell the others how to acquire Names of their own. We will… You will be great again."
"I no longer care for greatness," Apostle-Pilgrim stated. "As for how to acquire names, I do not know. T'was a free act of Milesians."
"As was their robbery of our station!"
"Aye," the Verde Caballero sighed. "They have taken. They took our Names and they took the woods. But they give as well, often out of love."
"Or fear," One Whose Blood Still Boiled reminded him. Father Tree withdrew.
"I say again, I do not have the heart for war. I have killed enough already. Let me regrow now."
One Who Had Lost their Name eyed Otcovský Strom's ax.
"Regrow," it stated coldly. Paul Bunyan sighed. Their eyes met. "I invoke the Right of Contest," the Friend from the Other Realm stated coldly. "We shall wager on it. You will be my prize."
Father Tree stared in horror at his friend. Did he even know what he was asking? To invoke something, anything, was to bind one's self to it. It could never be broken, only fulfilled.
"I do not wish to play games. Leave me to my work. There are trees dying in these woods."
"Name your prize," the Invoker of Contests commanded. The One with Names sighed.
"My freedom. My life is yours to command should I lose."
"And mine is forfeit should I lose."
"Old friend, do not—"
"What do you think they will do to me if I return empty-handed?" the Frightful Visitor hissed. Their eyes met again, each pleading in desperation. "I would rather trust your ax over their sentence. Please."
Paul felt himself grow cold. He nodded.
"Tell me your rules."
"We shall each speak two truths and one lie. Whoever cannot distinguish the lie loses the contest. As I made the Invocation, and set the rules, you will begin first."
The Green Knight swallowed. Cleared his throat. Felt his ax weigh heavy in his hand.
"The first name given to me was Otcovský Strom, 'Father Tree'. I have never slain a man bearing linden. You defeated me using the tusk of a boar."
"The third statement is a lie. You made it too easy." The Other Contestant drew a deep breath. "The people who once named me are still alive. My children ask about you regularly. I still think of you as a friend."
"The Anishinaabe are no more. That was the lie. We are at stalemate."
"Then we begin again."
"My friend…"
"Begin again!" he snapped. The Apostle-Pilgrim shrank. He felt sick, helpless, defeated.
"I came here with a tribe called the Geats. I had mushroom and potato stew for lunch today. I can read Milesian letters."
The Invoker of Rites curdled its face in contemplation.
"The first is the lie."
Paul nodded.
"You are the only fighter who has ever matched me in combat. I do not envy you. I came here over a bridge of ice."
"You truly envy me?" he whispered. The Envious One cast its face away.
"You have a Name," it growled. "How could I not? Begin again."
"How long will we do this, old friend?" Paul sighed.
"As long as necessary."
He shook his head in despair. "I have a companion I've named Blue. Countless people in this country know my name. I love you."
"You couldn't possibly love me," the Old Friend spat. "Not after what you…" It gasped as it saw the horror in Father Tree's eyes, the quivering mouth, the tears. "No!"
The contest was over.
An age, it seemed, passed before either of them moved. The One Who Had Doomed Itself approached the remains of the tree its friend had felled, placing its head on the stump.
"I Invoked the Rite. I lost the Contest. My life is forfeit. Fulfill your end of the bargain, Otcovský Strom."
Paul tightened his grip on the ax. Trudged countless distances to the stump. Raised his judgment.
"By rite of victory, I deliver to thee thy proclaimed judgment. In this, the Invocation is fulfilled."
He swung down. Tok. Missed.
"Coward!" the Condemned hissed. "Have you lost all sense and pride? Does your Word mean nothing to you? You have bound yourself! Fulfill your obligation, Apostle!"
Paul wept. Tried again. The tears blurred his vision. Missed.
"There will be others," the Old Friend swore. "When I am gone and my body becomes the Cold Ash, another will take my place, and another, and another. They will forever be at your elbow. Demonstrate to them that you are a Sidhe, or else consign yourself to the realm of Shadows and Air. I command you in the name of Paul Bunyan, and every other Name you were given!"
Paul took a deep breath. Cleared his vision. Held true to his self. Braced.
Leaned in. Took his friend's hand.
"Gawain," he stated. "Your Name is Gawain! Do you hear me? You are, and have always been, Gawain, Son of Lot!"
The One Who Had Been Newly Named Gawain froze, mouth gasping, eyes glossing over with tears. They fell freely and a shudder of happiness washed over him.
"It is…a difficult name to pronounce in our tongue. Give me a simpler one, like yours, my friend."
Paul swallowed. Held Gawain's hand tight. Trembled. "Just Wayne, then. Wayne, Lot's son."
"Wayne Lotson," whispered he. He smiled, nodding, closed his eyes. "I am Wayne Lotson now. It is good. Thank you, my friend."
And so the fairy kept his word, and Wayne Lotson parted from this world.
Wesson shook his head in disbelief. "Damn, that's messed-up."
"Yeah," Vernon replied. He absently caressed the a split log. "I paid a high price for my freedom. But, now you know the truth."
Wesson nodded. He couldn't really think of anything else to say.
"The Celts used to believe that the head was the seat of the soul," Vernon remarked. "When I burned Wayne's in a pyre, I imagine his soul went off to Annwn, our afterlife. I was…going to retrieve his ashes when I ran into you all that night. Sorry about that."
"No need for apologies," Wesson said, clearing his throat. "The ashes ended up in the right place."
Vernon nodded solemnly, and there was silence between them.
"So how do you think your superiors will handle this?"
Wesson shook his head. "The way I figure it, we don't really need to get involved with Fey affairs. A fairy killed another fairy after agreeing to, uh, terms, and that's all there is to it. Case closed. God only knows what the Foundation will do." He chuckled stiffly and kicked the dirt. "Probably keep an eye on you, at least. I can't imagine them trying to keep Paul Bunyan locked in a cell."
"I'd just bust out anyway," Vernon muttered, smiling grimly.
"Yeah, probably. Smith's out of our hands, too. How're you gonna handle that?"
"Hopefully better than I handled Wayne Lotson."
Wesson nodded his head. There didn't seem to be anything else to add. He stood and stretched; Vernon approached him, extending his hand.
"Don't forget, Raven Wesson: you gave me your word. I'll hold you to it."
"I appreciate that, Vern." They shook hands; Wesson winced. "Hell of a grip you got there, Paul!"
Bunyan rumbled with soft laughter as he released him. Wesson turned his back and waved as he made his way back to the main road. As he turned a corner, he heard someone humming softly to themselves.
Wesson: And that's it. The Foundation was already on the scene by the time I met up with Allen and Ebony. I told them everything that happened, and they let me keep my memory and gave me that folder as thanks. They even paid for the hotel. Then I flew home, wrote up my report, filed it, and then you two called me out to have our little chat. Oh, thanks for dinner there, Ben.
(Wesson drinks from a paper cup)
Wesson: Is there anything I'm missing?
(Dyne and Garland look at each other)
Dyne: Uh, no, nothing I can think of. You, Gar?
Garland: I'd say that's about as concise as we'll get. Go ahead and take tomorrow off, Wess. We'll let you know if we have any further questions.
Wesson: I appreciate it. Just another notch on the belt, eh fellas?
(He tosses his cup at a garbage can and misses. Wesson walks over and puts it in properly)
Wesson: And that is why I don't play for the NBA.
Once upon a time, there lived a lumberjack in the forests of Minnesota. One day, as he emerged from his cabin to greet the rising sun, he received a visitor.
"We meet again, Father Tree." The lumberjack sighed, waving feebly.
"Hi there, Rhonda Smith. Sorry about last time. How's your injury?"
"Forgotten. I've had worse. Your companion…"
"Babe," he answered. Rhonda smirked.
"He's quite loyal to you. Turning against a fellow Sidhe is a very serious affair."
Father Tree nodded solemnly. "That it is, Rhonda Smith, that it is indeed. I assume you've come for me as well."
"I'm not going to invoke anything," she assured him. "Wayne Lotson was…impulsive. Desperate. I'm not so easily frightened. If I fail, my punishment won't be so…severe."
"You shouldn't be punished at all," he remarked, lifting his axe to profile against the sun. He touched it gingerly, though the iron alloy burned him. "I left our home of my own free will. I have Names now. I don't want to go back."
"Why?" she whispered. He set his axe down and began piling logs together for a fire. He had but to touch it and a spark ignited. Carefully he laid a skillet over the flame, holding tight to its wooden handle.
"Well, I'm at peace here. I know my way around. I go places, meet people; I care for the forest, cutting down diseased trees, clearing out dead ones, planting anew. Win contests."
"Don't you miss your home?"
"Home is where the forest lies," he stated. He cracked a few eggs over the skillet. "Hungry?"
She made a face. "For burnt chicken embryos?"
He chuckled. "Don't knock it till' you've tried it. I'll eat anything except beef." He nodded at the giant steer, which had now sidled up to Rhonda Smith, wanting to be scratched. She did what it wanted and whispered some words in their ancient tongue.
"Maybe it's a generational thing," Father Tree muttered. He gingerly removed the eggs from the skillet and onto a plate, eating daintily. "I was one of the old-timers, someone who actually had a Name before…before losing it. I remember going into hiding, and staying there, planning and dreaming my life away. I no longer walked in the woods, or bathed in rivers, or spoke to the animals, or listened to the wind. I no longer curried wonder with men, or found gifts at my threshold, or heard my name in Stories. I guess what I'm trying to say is that…I wasn't alive. I was just a Something that didn't have a name, waiting for the day when we'd…I don't know.
"When I received my Name, I realized what a fool I had been, how wrong I was about the Milesians — some of them at least — and I realized that, even if I stayed, everything had changed too much. I had changed too much. Being Named gives you a special perspective. There's a kind of beautiful stagnancy in that lost realm, Rhonda Smith, but I chose growth, running rivers, breezes blowing, life and death, pain and joy…and I paid the price. That's the best way I can describe it."
Rhonda crossed her arms, glancing away in contemplation. The wind picked up, blowing away the scent of eggs, supplanting it with the fragrance of an early autumn.
"And now, I think, you have a choice of your own to make." Paul Bunyan smiled at her, his large eyes twinkling. "Wayne was right, you know: others will come after me. You were the next in line."
"To try and bring you back?"
"To have a Name. Even if you stole it, it's still a good one." Grunting, he stood, taking his ax in one hand and leading the steer with the other. Rhonda called out to him.
"You're still giving up a lot, you know. The great lord of the forest, the arbiter of nature's justice, the embodiment of the pioneer wilderness… And now you're just a regular lumberjack?"
The fairy who had left his home to find peace looked back at Rhonda Smith and smiled.
"Yeah. I'm a lumberjack. I'm okay with that."
And then the fairy walked back into the forest, and some say he lives there still.
A statue depicting SCP-8514, Variant-1
Raven Wesson left the office, shifted his coat, and walked down the hallway to the elevator, softly whistling Ode to Joy.