Titan: The Dark Path

The Boy and the Woods

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

The world was broken here. This place was alive with darkness so old it knew God by name. Wind blew through the woods like drawn breath and back out again, exhaling. Trees withered and swayed. The leaves rustled with a low thrush, a hiss moving through the dark wood.

People knew somehow. They followed the bad feeling in their guts. They stayed away. Towns sprang up far from the deep woods, except for one. Years ago, they made use of the wood from the forest in a mill. The wood was often bad, twisted and full of knots. It was worse than they knew. The mill had since burned. It was now shuttered and alone, claimed by the woods.

A young priest used the last of the mill's wood to build a church. The holy place stood between the edge of the woods and the small town nearby. The church had kept evil at bay for a time. The priest was old and weak now and so was his church. But Evil grew stronger with age.

Memories faded with time. These days no one much remembered the old mill or what had happened there. Folks stayed away from the woods because it was what they had always done. They went to church always entering in the front and never going out back. Only the priest dared to go back there, but even he took care not to linger. The woods stared back if one looked too long.

Things were simpler here. It was a way of life that had been lost just about everywhere else. Everyone knew everyone else in town. The townspeople gathered often. There wasn't much else to do. The nearest mall and movie theater were an hour away. Perish the thought.

On a late spring day, there was a festival in the field across from the woods. There were tents and tables and small rides for children and families that stood bold and bright against a warm, cloudy sky and the mostly green, woodland surroundings. A low hum of chatter and laughter hung in the late spring air. It was quiet and small next to the silent, oppressive woods. Sound died between the trees.

A column of light opened up through the moving, shifting clouds. The sun's glare caused Kate Madeline to shield her eyes. She stood with her brother, Lyle, on the edge of the festival grounds near an outcropping of trees. Kate held her other hand over her brother's brow to shield his eyes as well. Her cinnamon skin was fair and make-up free. She was lean and curved but didn't play it up. She wore casual jeans with an old, button-down plaid shirt over a tank top. Her dark accented hair was practical—up and tied with a band to keep it out of the way. Kate worked at her father's diner.

Her brother, Lyle, was handicapped. He could not walk and his mind was that of a child's. He could not speak save for simple sounds, but he was congenial and very much aware. He made an affable noise when Kate touched his brow. His eyes followed her hand.

Kate smiled at him so he could see it. There was so much of their mother in his light complexion. She touched the cross dangling around her neck and felt an unbidden swell of emotion. Her cheeks reddened. The backs of her eyes burned and she blinked tears away. Lyle smiled back at her and she laughed with a sniffle as she wiped under her eyes with the back of her hand. She returned her steel gaze back to the festival, defiant, the emotion controlled.

There were children laughing and playing in the soft green grass just outside the festival grounds. They were playing tag or simply chasing one another; Kate couldn't decide. One mom, Sylvia Gage, hovered nearby. Sylvia waved to her husband in line for a homemade pretzel at the tent not far away. Her husband was Neil, but Kate always called him Mr. Gage. Their boys, Hunter and Max, were two of the kids playing. Kate knew all of the other kids' names, too. She stared out at the festival grounds and knew everyone else's name and face. That's how it was here.