Arboria Read online

  Arboria: The Land Between the Trees

  Anthony Stefano

  Translated by Ian Stephenson

  “Arboria: The Land Between the Trees”

  Written By Anthony Stefano

  Copyright © 2019 Anthony Stefano

  All rights reserved

  Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

  www.babelcube.com

  Translated by Ian Stephenson

  Cover Design © 2019 Alexis Di Leto

  “Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

  :ARBORIA:

  THE LAND BETWEEN THE TREES

  ANTHONY STEFANO

  Translation: Ian Stephenson

  Original title: Arboria: Le monde entre les arbres

  CHAPTER 1: THE KEY

  The rain was trickling down the window of Alexander’s room that day. It was April, and the sun had not so much as peeked out for seventeen days. The sky was grey and not a single ray of light leaked through. Alexander was alone. It was the Easter holiday and he was playing with his plastic soldiers in his bedroom. They were made of two colours, light green and dark green. He had placed and aligned them in such a way that the battle on his bed seemed imminent!

  “Commander, we’re surrounded! The enemy troops will make their move soon, what should we do?”

  “Captain, order the sub-officers to prepare for battle!”

  Alexander moved his soldiers into a defensive position at the edge of the bed. A terrible fight ensued. The soldiers fell one by one. The gunshots of the toy soldiers could almost be heard, such was the reality of the confrontation in Alexander’s eyes. Soon, there were only two soldiers left standing: the commander of the dark green versus the commander of the light green. The duel was about to begin when, suddenly, a voice from the ground floor – probably from the kitchen – called out:

  “Alexander, dinner time!”

  Alexander ran down the stairs and along the corridor until finally coming to a stop in the kitchen.

  “Yuck,” he complained, looking at the plate waiting for him on the table. “Potatoes again. I hate potatoes.”

  “Stop complaining,” his mother replied, “there are children in the world who are starving to death.” Her name was Maryline and she was a little blond woman with a very protective character. She worked at a supermarket near the house. Alexander scowled, put the fork on his plate and started to eat. The atmosphere in the little kitchen was tense; he and his mother ate without saying a word.

  “Where is dad?” he asked.

  “Hello everyone,” said a voice from the corridor.

  Alexander’s father had just finished work. His name was Antonio and he worked in a large American company that dealt with yellow bulldozers. He set down his backpack and kissed his wife and son.

  “I have some great news,” he said cheerfully. “I just bumped into our neighbour and he invited us to join him, his family and some other friends to spend a few days at a country house in Durbuy.”

  “Great!” said Alexander, “when are we leaving?”

  “In May” replied his father.

  The meal ended much better than it had begun and Alexander’s mother was even pleasantly surprised when he asked for another helping of potatoes. When dinner was over, Alexander’s father sat down in his usual chair, lit a cigar, and started reading an article on mobile phones.

  “They don’t know what to invent anymore,” he said to his wife. “A phone that works wirelessly. You can be at the other end of the world and they will still be able to reach you.”

  “It’s an interesting invention. We wives will be able to reach our husbands at any time.”

  “Yes, yes. It’s an excuse to spy on us, to find out if we have gone to the local bistro for a bit of peace and quiet, for example.”

  Alexander’s mother pretended not to have heard her husband’s comments and switched on the vacuum cleaner. Alexander took advantage of the noise to approach his father.

  “Dad, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, what is it?”

  “Where is Durbuy?”

  His father got up and went to the living room cabinet. He rifled through it for a moment and pulled out a map, spread it out on the table and started looking for the town with his finger.

  “Here,” he said, “it’s here. Durbuy, the smallest town in the world.”

  “Is it really so small?”

  “Yes, it’s not very big, just a few cobblestone streets. The houses are also made out of stone; it’s a medieval town, and you can even visit it by horse-drawn carriage. What’s most impressive is the castle in the town centre.”

  “A fortified castle!” cried Alexander, “that’s cool, can we visit it?”

  “Yes, if you’re good.”

  “But I’m always good, dad.” Alexander stared at the map again. “What’s that green colour all around the town?”

  “That’s the forest. There must be some really wonderful scenery there.”

  “A forest,” Alexander said, a little uneasy, “I hope there aren’t any wolves there.”

  “No, don’t worry. There are no wolves.” Alexander seemed reassured.

  “And this house we are going to?”

  “According to what the neighbour told me, it belongs to a priest who preaches in an old chapel not too far from here. That’s how he managed to get the keys.”

  The discussion over, Alexander returned to his room to finish the battle he had begun. He had made sure to take the map with him, and he spread it out on his bed, knocking over most of the soldiers. He searched his bookshelves for a book about the town, but he found nothing of interest. His gaze fell on the window; the rain had not stopped even for a moment.

  “I hope it will get better by the time we get there,” he said to himself.

  A few days earlier, in a quiet part of town, a stout, bearded man in glasses, about fifty years old, was waiting outside the doors of an old medieval church. It had been built in the thirteenth century AD and had windows walled-in with stones, a sign that they had been modified many times over the years. Not very large, it could nevertheless hold a hundred worshippers within its walls. The man who was waiting was none other than Alexander’s neighbour, François. He had an appointment with the old local priest. He stood near the door and stared at the entrance to the crypt that was standing in the middle of the well-tended garden on the left side of the church. Two enormous swords were crisscrossed on either side of the entrance; the crypt had something about it that was both fascinating and frightful at the same time. François stepped forwards and walked along the narrow path leading up to the building and examined it. Through a small grate in the door, he could see a stone sarcophagus with an inscription engraved upon it: Count Joseph Tiberian, born in 1600 and died in 1650. Desiccated flowers were scattered all around the sarcophagus. François also noticed a fresco on the stones of the back wall that showed two trees whose uppermost branches intertwined to form a kind of archway. François stopped looking through the grate when he saw the churchgoers leaving the building and looking at him indignantly.

  “Finally, the service has finished,” he said.

  He waited for all the worshippers to leave before he entered the church. An old man wearing a cassock was limping towards him as he passed by the stone columns in the central aisle. This man’s name was Charles.

  “Hello,” said the priest, “it’s been so long since I last saw you, François. How are you?”

  “Hello, father. Everything is fine, thank you.”

  “Well, let’s get straight down to business. You came to talk about the house on the edge of the woods, is that right?”

  “Yes, father. As I said over the phone, I would like to rent the house for a few days for a holiday.”

&n
bsp; “You’ve missed that house, haven’t you? I remember when you were a child, you loved going there to play in the nearby woods.”

  “Yes, it’s true, father. I want to show this house to a few friends and their children and to my daughter, Meredith.”

  “Very well.”

  “Father...” The tone in François’ voice was different; he seemed suddenly more timid. “I would also like to know why the other orphans and I never went back.”

  “That is a very long and sad story. Suffice it to say that old age no longer allowed me to move about so freely and that I was no longer capable of ensuring your safety there. I preferred not to take you all there anymore,” the priest said with embarrassment.

  “Our safety?” asked François curiously. “Safety from what?”

  The priest fixed his eyes on François and stared at him.

  “Alright,” he said, changing the subject, “I’ll give you the keys to the house, but do you remember the golden rule?”

  “Never, under any circumstances, cross into the pine forest near the tree of thanks,” said François like a schoolboy repeating a lesson learned by heart.

  “That’s right. Don’t forget to remind your friends and their children once you’re there.”

  “Of course.”

  The priest retired to the sacristy, leaving François alone for several minutes. His gaze lingered on the pews inside the church and he thought how they must not be very comfortable for the worshippers. A magnificent painting hung near the confessionals; it showed a woman of immense beauty on the background of an old castle built from stone.

  The priest came back to François, the key to the house in his hands.

  “Here is the key. Remember: do not cross into the pine forest.”

  “Yes, father. Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Of course,” replied the priest.

  “I’ve never seen this painting before. It is wonderful.”

  “Thank you. As I grew older, I found a new passion... painting.”

  “So you painted it yourself?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Who is that woman?”

  “It’s a very sad story. She was someone I met a long time ago. As soon as I saw her I knew she needed my help because she was following the wrong path. Unfortunately, I was unable to put her back on track. When I left her, she no longer looked like this portrait. The expression on her face had grown severe and all compassion had left her forever, I think.”

  “And this castle, where is it?”

  The priest looked embarrassed.

  “In my imagination,” he said vaguely.

  François understood that the conversation was over. He bid farewell with a shake of the priest’s hand and left the church. Now he had to warn his friends.

  Two weeks later, all of François’ friends were invited to a meeting to prepare for the trip. The adults gathered around the table, sipping some delicious Italian wine.

  “I’ll take care of the drinks,” said Jean, holding up his wine glass. “There will be alcohol, soda, water and wine of course,” he said, contemplating his glass. “Cheers!” And he swallowed a big mouthful.

  Jean was François’ best friend; they had met at school. One day, Jean, who was tall but a bit puny, got into a fight and it had been François who had got him out of trouble. Being fairly heavy, he had rushed into the fray and knocked the other pupils to the ground. They had remained the best of friends ever since that day.

  “I’ll bring the meat,” said Antonio, Alexander’s father. “Is there a barbecue?”

  “Yes,” François replied, “there is a huge barbecue in the woods not far from the house.”

  “I’ll manage the cleaning products and maintenance,” Denis said.

  “Great idea,” said François, finishing his glass of wine.

  “Should we bring dishes?” asked Alexander’s mother.

  A woman who had remained silent until then lit her cigarette.

  “There’s no need,” said Margareth, exhaling smoke. “All the necessary things are on site.”

  “My wife is right,” said François, “there will be plates and glasses.”

  “Toilet paper,” Carole said, laughing.

  “I had forgotten about that little detail,” said François. “Your wife is very far-sighted,” he said to Jean. He laughed and poured the last drop of wine in his glass down his throat.

  The meeting went on as the adults continued to hammer out the final details. The buzz of their deep voices came out of the living room and drifted up the hallway to the landing at the top of the wooden staircase.

  In Meredith’s room, the children were playing with a tape recorder and recording their voices. Meredith, Hope and her little sister Amy had dressed up as hippies. Alexander hadn’t dressed up at all.

  “Come on, Alexander,” said Hope, “have some fun, dress up.”

  “No thanks.”

  Hope was Jean and Carole’s daughter. For a thirteen-year-old, she was a giant of a child. She had been a full head taller than Alexander when she had been his age. Amy was the youngest in the group. She was eight years old and seemed to be a real troublemaker.

  “I’ll tell mum,” she said, looking at her sister.

  She had just overheard a conversation where Hope had confessed to Meredith that she had kissed a boy. Alexander turned on the television and flicked through a few channels.

  “Hey, look girls, Mystères is on TF1.”

  “My dad never lets me watch that,” said Meredith, “it’s too scary.”

  “If you watch it, I’ll tell your parents,” Amy said.

  “If you do that,” said Hope, “I’ll tell everyone that you wet the bed yesterday.”

  “It’s not true,” said Amy.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Listen, Amy,” said Alexander, “if you don’t say anything to the parents, we’ll let you watch the show with us.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I promise I won’t say anything.”

  They all settled down on the bed as the show’s theme tune started up. “Good evening viewers, on tonight’s programme: a bleeding house, poltergeists, and a mysterious lady in white who haunts our roads.”

  Amy fell asleep in her sister’s arms. Alexander, Hope and Meredith were too afraid to sleep.

  “Every time I watch this show, I sleep in my parents’ bed,” said Alexander.

  “Me too,” Meredith replied.

  “I don’t, it doesn’t scare me,” said Hope proudly.

  Suddenly, the door flew open and Hope screamed.

  “Well then, children, did you have fun?” asked François as he entered the room.

  “Oh yes,” they all said at once.

  “Well, the meeting is over now. It’s time to go back to your parents.”

  François left the room with Meredith in tow. Alexander turned to Hope, who was trying to wake up her little sister.

  “I’m not afraid,” he said, mimicking Hope’s voice.

  “Shut up!”

  CHAPTER 2: THE HOUSE AT THE EDGE OF THE WOODS

  The month of May finally came and with it the first pleasant weather. The schools had closed their doors for three days for the Ascension. Alexander’s father took their dog Malica, a wonderful old English sheepdog, to his brother’s house so she wouldn’t be alone. Despite her large size, the dog was a real teddy bear and often came in search of hugs. Alexander’s uncle promised to make her favourite chocolate sandwiches for her every day.

  “In the car!” Alexander’s father said.

  “Darling, are you sure we haven’t forgotten anything? It would be a shame to have to come back home.”

  “I’m sure. I double-checked our bags; stop worrying and get in the car.”

  Alexander climbed in the back of the Toyota Celica. His mother climbed in too, settling into the passenger seat. The car was grey; it was the model with the headlights hidden in the bonnet, the ones which popped up and out whenever t
hey were turned on. It had broken down one day, a rare thing for a car of that type. The pipe leading into the muffler in the exhaust system had been punctured, but Alexander’s father had replaced it with a fence post and welded it to the muffler. He was proud of his repair work, not least because the inspectors never noticed a thing during the mandatory technical inspections. There was a roar, and the car set off.

  “Dad, how far is it to Durbuy?” asked Alexander.

  “We’ll be on the road for about an hour. Okay, let’s have a look at the map to see where we’re going.” (SatNav had not been invented yet.) The trip was going quite well; Alexander admired the changing scenery through the window with a dreamy look as “Missing” by Everything But The Girl played in the background. There was nothing but fields and forests in the distance, as far as the eye could see, and from time to time he saw horses or cows moving about in the pastures along the side of the motorway. After half an hour, Alexander asked that question which has the gift of annoying every parent:

  “Are we there yet? Is it far?”

  “No,” his father answered, “another fifteen minutes.” (In fact, they had only reached the half-way point.) At that time, mp3 players did not exist and laptops were priceless. Alexander did not have much to distract himself with, except for maybe a Walkman with a cassette of 1990’s greatest hits, but unfortunately, the batteries had died.

  “Dad, is this town really so good? Are there any merry-go-rounds or fairgrounds?”

  “I don’t think so,” his father said.

  Alexander lowered his eyes with a look of disappointment.

  “But there are other things to do,” he added quickly.

  “Like what?” asked Alexander with a confused expression.

  “There’s a castle to visit. It was built by a Count in 1640. They say that he went mad with grief when he lost his wife, and jumped from the highest tower of the castle.”

  “That’s kind of sad,” said Maryline.

  Alexander agreed. He sat back again and looked through the window. Finally, they left the motorway and turned on to a small country lane. The car turned a few minutes later and followed a path through a forest, the road winding more and more. Suddenly, the forest thinned out and a huge wooden gate appeared. It was rounded, had no barriers, and was made entirely of wood carved on both sides with various motifs. After crossing through the gate, the family spotted the house; it was an old bungalow built out of blue stone with a chimney poking out of the roof and completely surrounded by trees. Alexander’s father parked the car in front of the house and started to unload the suitcases. Alexander stepped out of the grey Toyota Celica and stared at the house in front of him. It was beautiful. It sat on a base of slate stone. It had two large windows, a wooden front door that also had a window in it, and two brown staircases leading up the base. Fields spread out as far as the eye could see in front of the house, while a small lawn separated the back of the building from the surrounding woods. There was also a small shed on the left side that probably contained all of the tools necessary for maintenance, as well as a kind of makeshift shelter off to one side where the chopped firewood needed to heat the house had been collected. It was François who was the first to welcome the guests.