Short Stories For The Poetic Soul

-Fawkees-

Fawkees was a mage. Often his name was pronounced wrong, people calling him things like 'fox' or 'fawk-ess' even though it was 'fawk-ease' like 'HerculES'.

Seeing as the townsfolk didn't take too kindly to his kind, fawkees lived deep in the forest of a bog, with nothing but his robe and magic white crow mask to protect him from the poisonous smog that would at times arise.

But that's not the worst part.

They say he's immortal, in that he cannot die unless killed. He can die by a bullet and a knife, but not age. Ridiculous, I used to say. But it was just a few years ago that my opinion changed entirely.

I was but a small boy, no older than seven. It was after class, and it was not to far until Halloween. We had just been told the story of fawkees, the one from so many centuries ago. In fact, they say he was alive during the dark ages, and many would come to him as a last resort out of desperation.

You see, fawkees was not an evil mage. But even so, he was not a kind and benevolent one either. Fawkees was still much of a grumpy old man, so when people came in saying, 'I apologize for what my people have called you, and acted towards you, please sir fox, please help my son heal from this illness!' He would grumble and stand up, place his book on the table near the wooden, splintered chair, fold his hands behind him and say, 'my name is fawkees, as in Hercules, get it right. If I heal your son, you must do something for me. Is that clear?'

The person would nod their head vigorously, and fawkees would go to the town, many would ridicule him and the person in question, and fawkees would ignore it all, heading to the poor boys house.

After the healing, the boy would sit up from his once sick and pasty position on the bed, the parents and siblings would hug the poor boy, cry tears of joy, and fawkees would stand there in the corner, a bored expression seeable, even through the mask.

The being that had first come to him would go to fawkees, ask whatever they could do for him, and fawkees would simply say, 'don't seek me out again. Don't speak of this occurrence. If you're truly grateful, you won't come back.' And with that, he would turn away and head home.

Me and my friend did not believe our teachers story at all. It was preposterous! Balderdash! Hogwash! How could a single man, despite any amount of medical experience, cure a boy of a chronic illness in less than two hours, all by himself, with no equipment?

But when walking home, my friend tripped and landed on his ankle in a strange way, crying out in pain as he clutched his backwards foot.

Unable to do much else, I cried out for help.

But there was nobody there.

Once again I cried out, begging anyone, ANYONE, to save my friend from his anguish.

A light mist came into view, but I did not question it in my hopes to calm my friend down as their ankle welled up in pain.

The mist became a thick fog, choking my sight in a cloudy white.

I held my friend close as I cried 'help...' one last time...

Before a hand patted my shoulder. It felt leathery, like a glove, and when I turned, I found my assumption to be correct. A gloved hand was on my shoulder, black as the ink on a page. It was sturdy, looked male.

I turned around fully, still clutching my friend, shaking. The hand was removed, and I looked up at the face of the figure.

Except it wasn't a face.

It was a mask.

A white crow mask, with a black hood surrounding it.

The mask wasn't a hardened clay, but a pristine, blemish free, pale white glossary mask, with two dark eye holes with no eyes to be seen.

I was frozen with fear.

It was fawkees.

He leaned down without saying a word, and put a hand on my friends ankle, which instantly went counterclockwise back into position, as if it had never been broken at all. My friend had passed out and was sleeping soundly, but I was awake, my mouth gaping at the leg in shock.

I turned towards fawkees.

'Thank you.' I said in a small voice.

Fawkees turned to me, and you know what he said?

...

'Boy.'

I looked up at him, he was taller than me on my knees, in his knelt down position.

'Don't seek me out. Don't speak of this occurrence. If you're truly grateful, you won't come back.'

And I was.

So after the mist cleared, I shook my friend until they woke up, and unsurprisingly, he had no memory of the occurrence, but strangely enough... they didn't even remember falling. Or feeling the immense pain, enough to make them pass out.

I thought hard on what he said. What fawkees said. And I never sought him out. How could I? I didn't know where he was, and... he had asked me not to seek him out. Sure, my curiousity got to me at times, like, how was he even alive after all this time? But... I never sought him out. I respected his wish to remain in solitude. Imagine what the government would do if they had him. Oh jeez.

Hm?

You don't believe me?

Alright. Don't believe me then. Doesn't effect me at all.

I don't even know why I told you this story in the first place.

Maybe I just wanted someone else to know before I passed on? Who knows.

But if you ever run into fawkees, please remember it's fawkees as in Hercules, and after he helps you once, don't seek him out again. And... don't tell anyone I told you this. Please. I don't want to know what he could do to you and myself.