Scarabus; The Shadow Walker

The old man stirred the fire and took a long swig at a jug of mead. Wiping his beard, he turned his attention to the three young faces. Faces that stared back at him through eager and impatient eyes. But the children knew the drill, if they were to be told a tale tonight there was a ritual to observe first.

They watched as he fetched a small plain clay pipe from his pocket. Then, he took a pinch of shempweed from a small hessian sack attached to his belt and tamped it into his pipe. He took his time as he manipulated the shempweed and set the pipe to his liking. Using a twig from the fire he lit the pipe, took a deep draw, and exhaled a huge smoke ring that circled the fire before dispersing on the cold forest floor.

“Now children,” he said with a smile that highlighted a weatherbeaten face, “what tale would you like to hear tonight?”

“Scarabus, we want to hear about Scarabus,” they cried in unison.

“Ah, Scarabus, a shadow walker.” He stroked his beard. “Hmm, perhaps in a year or two, but for now you’re too young to hear such tales.” The old man took another deep draw of his pipe and blew out a likeness of the children’s parents. It hovered above the fire. “Your parents would kill me if they found out. No, you’re too young for tales of such monsters.”

“We won’t tell them, Grandpa. Please tell us about Scarabus.” Pleaded Avelyn, the youngest of the trio but just as boisterous as her two older brothers.

The old man put his finger to his lips, “Hush children, be quiet a minute and listen, tales are always happening. Listen and you can hear a tale of the forest going on right now.”

Silence descended on the camp. At first, the children could hear only the crackling of the fire and the rustling of the leaves but soon they heard it. It wasn’t quite the thump of heavy footsteps, and it wasn’t quite the scraping of a deadweight being dragged over the forest floor, yet it was both of these.

“What is it, Grandpa?” asked Floraun, the oldest boy.

“That, little ones, is the sound of a copse of wanderwood trees, they are following the rains.”

“Are they dangerous, gramps?” asked Tarian, the younger of the two brothers.

“Aye, they can be,” said the old man. “But only if you’re bothering them or camp on one of their rootways, but we’re safe enough here. If you can smell the furrowing of the soil, then you’re too close. Don’t fret little ones, the trees won’t eat us tonight.”

For a while, they sat in silence and listened as the distant trees continued their slow, ponderous journey. But soon the youngsters began to fidget as the sound of the migrating trees lost its magic.

It was Tarian who broke the silence, “Gramps, do you think because we’re old enough to be out here with the wanderwood trees, we might be old enough to hear about Scarabus too?”

The old man laughed, “Ah, young Tarian, always the trier. I think not children, there is a world of difference between some trees seeking water and Scarabus the shadow walker. Instead, let me tell you about a sea voyage where a captain and his crew set off on a three-month journey. But when they came back they were ten years younger than when they set off. Some were mere babes in arms, and one was so young that he disappeared altogether. A strange and wondrous story, perfect for a night like this.”

Avelyn crossed her arms and scowled at her grandfather. “That sounds really boring, we want Scarabus!”

“Well just because you want it doesn’t mean you get it,” he cleared his throat and took a sip of mead. “But, huddle into the fire and I will tell you a tale so strange you’d think I’d made it up. Now, the ship was called the Storm Riser, and it was like no other ship ever built….”

“I don’t care about a smelly ship,” said Avelyn, “I want to hear about Scarabus.”

“We want Scarabus too!” yelled the boys. “Please, grandfather,” they pleaded.

“No, and that’s my final word on the matter. I will tell you about the mystery of the Storm Rider, or you can just go to your tents. The choice is yours!”

The children were persistent though. Avelyn scowled at her grandfather, “I’ll tell maw and paw!” She exclaimed.

“And just exactly what will you tell them, my little duchess.”

“I’ll tell them that you told us about Scarabus,” she said quietly while picking at some imaginary fluff on her dungarees.

The old man’s face darkened visibly, “Why you little….” Then he stopped and his whole demeanour changed quicker than a gnat can blink. He slapped his thighs and guffawed with laughter, his shoulders shaking.

Eventually, he brought his laughter under control and reaching over he ruffled Avelyn’s hair.

“Aye, you’re a chip off the old block right enough,” he said, still chortling.

“Does that mean you’re going to tell us about Scarabus?” asked Avelyn.

The old man sighed, resigned to his fate. “There’s one story about Scarabus that I might be able to tell you. But it’s a tale where he didn’t live up to the reputation of the shadow walkers. I shouldn’t tell you, for it’s not healthy to grow up thinking there is some good in shadow walkers - because there isn’t. But nor is there evil. All there is is a complete indifference to the fate and suffering of others. And that, little ones, is often far worse than evil.”

“Oh, we know all that stuff, maw tells us it every day, and anyway nobody knows whether Scarabus is real or not, do they?” asked Floraun.

The old man gazed at Floraun through the smoke. “That sounded more like a plea than a question,” he said. He paused and stirred the fire for a moment, “but I will tell you this, it doesn’t matter whether he exists or not. Shadow walkers exist and each one is as bad as the next, it is what they are.”

“Well, I think he does exist,” said Avelyn, “What’s this tale about anyway?”