A lone tree that was not there the day before stood in the middle of the local baron’s wheat field. A vortex of vultures and crows circled overhead, but none seemed committed to landing on the thorny branches to scavenge the morsels of meat.

Latha, a thin peasant with a thick beard, stood staring at the tree. Its trunk was at least a foot through. The spread of its leaves completely obscured the rising sun from Latha’s view. In the peasant’s hands were bloody scraps of his brother’s clothing, and his eyes were locked on the tree’s crown where the tail of his brother’s liripipe flitted in the breeze like a streamer. His head was still smarting from the previous night’s overindulgence and he wondered if this before him was just a hallucination.

Hoping he was drunk and asleep nearby, Latha shouted his brother’s name, “Gorbar! Where are ya? Ya best not be asleepin in the wheat!”

There was no answer from the undulating stalks. A buzzard swooped toward the tree and struck several branches, knocking something loose that fell to the ground with a thud. Latha walked over to investigate. Sprawled out upon the trampled crop was Gorbar’s four­fingered hand. Latha bent over and picked it up. His eyes grew wide. Color vanished from his face. His stomach heaved.

Latha dropped his jug of spiced wine and sprinted to the village with the hand. His heavy steps kicked up dust as he ran down the lane. He darted past fellow sunken­faced peasants carrying hoes on their way to the fields. Most watched him dart by, others gave greetings and stopped in their trudgings wearing jilted expressions when Latha refused a reply.

The neglected hinges on the door of the apothecary’s hut could not withstand Latha’s sense of urgency. Latha burst in, tearing the door loose. The apothecary, who had studied under the court magician until his taste for strong brew and forest magic bested him, was still asleep on a pile of straw in the corner. Latha laid the severed door against a cluttered table.

An old hound laying next to the apothecary lifted its head casually and let out a hoarse, half­hearted bark.This whisper of a bark woke the apothecary. He opened one beady bloodshot eye and growled, “Latha! What is it, you lout?”

Sweat coursed down Latha’s furrowed face, leaving tracks in the dirt on his cheeks. “Almen!” he said, struggling for breath, “Some sorcery is afoot. Me brother...there’s a tree now where there weren’t yesterday and it’s wearin’ me brother’s clothes. Oh, and look here!”

Latha tossed his brother’s hand at Almen. Once his mind had processed the projectile’s true identity, Almen jerked and sat up. He gave Latha a stern look with knitted brows and reached for a ceramic jug and gulped a swig, then another, sloshing the second around in his mouth before swallowing.

Almen composed himself and said with his brows still knitted as he studied the disembodied hand, “A tree, you say?...And it’s wearing clothes? Where?”

“Out in the north field.”

“What sort of tree?” “One I ne’er seen before this occasion.” The dog had taken an interest in the hand and began sniffing it and licking the blood from the joint. Almen swatted him.

“Let’s see this tree, shall we.” “Please.” Almen stood up and brushed bits of straw from his clothes. He swatted his neck and pinched a flea and rolled it between his fingers before he grabbed a dense book and a hat and started for the door.

“And don’t ya forget, when you see it, it weren’t there yesterday,” said Latha with his finger in the air.

Just before he reached the threshold, Almen turned for another quick drink from the jug. In the field had gathered a gaggle of villagers all muttering amongst themselves. They parted as Almen moved past and fixed their eyes upon the still half­drunk apothecary. Almen approached the tree and began his inspection. Some shreds of clothing still adorned the tree, along with bits of skin, all dancing in the wind like macabre leaves. A breeze wafted the smell of stale blood and nascent decay into Almen’s nostrils and he stepped back.

“What is it?” asked a villager. Almen looked over his shoulder, “It’s a tree. By the looks of it, it seems to have once been Latha’s poor brother.”

“He’s been turned into a tree?” asked Latha, any sense of surprise conspicuously absent from his voice.

“Or a tree has burst out of him, rather,” replied Almen. The villagers spoke amongst themselves, some with more animation than others. “Latha!” yelled a villager from the waist­high wheat, “we found Gorbar’s dog.” The dog lay across the villager’s arms, its body pierced through with an arrow. Almen immediately recognized the dog­­it was his own dog’s favored companion. Almen would catch sound of the animals’ trysts behind his hut when the bitch was restless with estrus.

“The fletchings, there! See the fletchings?” interjected an old peasant who whistled his s’s. “That’s a goblin arrow.”

“How do you know so, old man?” asked Almen. “I fought against the goblins under old King Orthren many a year ago.” Almen put his hand to his lips. “Goblins. Then this must be goblin magic,” he said with authority, though he thought to himself I do not know the foggiest thing about goblin magic .

Down the lane thundered Baron Faelath astride a black palfrey tailed by a slew of hounds and retainers on their way to hunt in the near margins of the Deep Wood. The baron spied the throng of

peasants and diverted. He stayed atop his horse as he addressed his flock, “How goes it with all mine here?”

Latha approached with his head bowed, “‘Tis most gracious to ask, m’lord, but... m’lord, we have this tree where just last night used to be me brother.”

“Your brother has turned into a tree?” ask the baron laughing, his retinue echoing the sentiment. “Almen, what do your eyes make of this hokum?”

Almen removed his cap and replied, “M’lord, lowly Latha here speaks in the general direction of truth. I believe it to be goblin magic.”

“Impossible. They’ve all been eradicated or pushed to the west. There’s not been a goblin seen in these parts for some time.”

Almen produced the arrow pulled from the dead dog. “M’lord, a goblin arrow. And the tree, which was not here yesterday, appears to have burst out of Latha’s brother.”

The baron’s dogs roved about, licking bits of blood and flesh off the tree’s trunk. Some put their front paws on the trunk and began barking up the tree. Two others were playing tug of war with some bits of Gorbar. None of the peasants dared reprimand the baron’s prized hunting hounds for their disrespect.

The baron had a long look at the tree and said, “That’s a bizarre tree. Galen, have you ever seen such a tree?”

Galen, the baron’s constable and childhood friend, replied, “No, m’lord. The thorns give it a resemblance to hawthorn.”

“Nevermind. Cut it down. Split the wood and deliver it to the dowager baroness.” All the villagers, save Latha, gave a quick bow of the head and set to fulfilling their lord’s bidding. Faelath looked at Almen and said, “Almen, don’t spread such infectious information. They ever dwell on the edge of panic, beyond the threshold of reason.”

Almen bowed and nodded, gripping his hat firmly with both hands as if were his last morsel of dignity.

The baron and his retinue rode off down the lane toward the forest. The hound master whistled and the dogs followed. Latha stopped a few peasants on their way to fetch an axe and burrows to haul off the wood.

“Pray, fellas, bring the wood to me house. I want to bury it, give me poor, wretched brother his deserved funeral.”

The peasants nodded. One put his hand on Latha’s shoulder and replied, “It’s a surety. We’ll bring ‘im ‘round back and help you lay ‘im in the earth.”

Almen set off in the searing late morning sun. His mouth watered at the thought of his jug of soured ale at home, and he pondered stopping there for a drink before heading to Miss Lorsina’s to check on her sickly son. Since his hut was on the way, he thought the indulgence would not be amiss.

En route, Almen spied some mushrooms that possessed a potent magic. He plucked the lot of them and held them in his hand until he reached his hut, where his dog lay by the door digging at fleas and gnats. The dog huffed at his master as he approached.

“No,” answered Almen, “Goblins. ‘Twas a strange thing I’ve never seen in all my days.” The dog groaned in his throat and looked away and sniffed the breeze. “I don’t care if you believe me or not. Go have a look for your own self, then,” Almen said as he continued into the hut.

Almen leaned over and picked up the door and leaned it against the doorframe. He picked up his jug of ale and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth and talked to the dog, “I’m off to Miss Lorsina’s. I trust you’ll have fetched dinner by the time I’ve come back.”

The dog did not answer. By now even the shade was growing unbearably warm and the dog was panting. Almen grabbed a small leather satchel and a vial. As he left, he bent down and gave the dog a pat on the head.

“Don’t forget about supper.”

Lorsina lived in a peasant’s hut at the edge of her dead husband’s parcel. The late Sir Gawalt had fallen from his horse and landed on his head while on the hunt with the baron. His death outside of campaign meant his widow and children were not entitled to a pension under the laws of the duchy. Before his untimely demise, Sir Gawalt was not a wealthy knight and was often compelled by this circumstance to tend a garden abutting his house for his household’s own consumption.

The house had burned in the spring, and the widow Lorsina moved into a peasant’s hut vacated by plague. Her son, Normand, was frail and sickly before his family’s thrust into destitution. His mother patiently awaited fate’s decision, and entreated the infinite Ether with desperate prayer every chance she found.

Almen knocked on the doorframe. Lorsina sat at her son’s side reading from a warped book. She looked up and greeted the apothecary.

“Good day, Almen. Come in.” Almen took off his cap as he entered, tripping on the high threshold and nearly losing his balance.

“And a good day to you,” he said upon recovering. “What’s he showing today?” “He’s slept most of the day in a sweat, but no shivers.” “I’ve brought elderberry tonic. I’ve mixed it with honey and spirits and spiced it with blessed mint.”

“Blessed mint?” “Yes, it’s mint plucked from the eastern side of a fence post during full moon.” “Will it work?” “It worked on the seamstress Penless.” Lorsina knitted her brows, “But didn’t she pass?” “Yes, but only because she forgot to cross when a black cat crossed her path and she was trampled by a horse. That was out of my hands.”

Almen roused the boy enough to administer the tonic. The boy choked on the liquor’s vapor somewhat, and expectorated a mouthful of phlegm.

“Aha! See, it’s in effect already.” Almen then produced a birch bark container of camphor and spearmint jelly, “Rub this on his chest once the sun is down.”

“Is that all?” asked Lorsina. “Almost...” said Almen. “How might we settle up?” All sense of joy fled Lorsina’s face and she said, “I have no money.” Almen took a long look at the widow’s thin, pale neck. His glazed eyes moved slowly toward her bosom. Lorsina tracked his eyes to their present location and said, “I...I have a hatchet.”

“I, too, have a hatchet.” “How about fresh bread?” “The dog is fetching me dinner.” Lorsina’s lips quivered and she glanced at her sleeping boy who seemed to have visibly improved.

“I suppose I could offer you...something else.” “Such as?” ask Almen, raising an eyebrow. Lorsina stood up and walked into the adjacent room. Almen followed. After a few moments, Normand faintly called, “Mama.” The boy’s call cut the event short. Almen bit his knuckles and cursed under his breath. Lorsina covered her bare breasts as quickly and quietly as she could and hurried to her son. Almen made a grab at her to stop her, but she wrested free. Almen breathed deep and punched the wall, knocking a hole in the flaky daub. He walked out, addressing them on the way.

“Until next time,” he said with some breathlessness, peering at Lorsina, who was avoiding his gaze. “I do hope you feel better, Normand. Mistress, I...pray we may settle the debt at a later time.”

“Many thanks upon you, good sir,” said the boy through parched lips.

The dog sat on its haunches panting in the shade near the door of Almen’s hut. A dead rabbit and a dead squirrel lay at his feet. He gave his master a stern look and emitted a low growl.

Almen stopped within a few paces of the dog and answered, “Don’t judge me, dog. Charity is not an apothecary’s business. Nor is chastity.”

Almen knelt down and asked the dog, “Which do you want?” The dog licked the rabbit. “Damn...I wanted the rabbit. The squirrel’s riddled with warbles.” The dog growled and bared his front teeth. Almen raised his hands in concession and grabbed both the rodents of the forest and field and set to dressing them.

Almen awoke the next morning to his door bursting to the ground. Latha stood in the threshold, his eyes as wide as barrel hoops, his face pallid and coursing with sweat and struggling for breath.

“More trees,” he said. Almen jumped up and grabbed his cap and jug, yelling to his dog, “Fetch us a meal.” The two ran at considerable tilt toward the north field. Almen grew tired and breathless before they were halfway, stopping for a drink from his jug. Latha turned around and admonished him, “You’re like an old man, a worn out plough horse! Come on!”

They ran straight to the middle of the north field, a few dozen paces from the stump of Gorbar’s tree next to the lane. Here, in the midst of the waving stocks of gilting wheat, stood a handful of the same gnarled, bloodstained trees. All had tattered bits of woolen clothing and flesh flitting in the breeze. Blood stained the trampled wheat. Almen took a step and kicked what felt like a rock. He looked down at the obstacle and caught sight of a bodiless head. He shrieked and tumbled into the wheat. Latha came over to see what the matter was.

“It’s a head!” cried Almen. Latha, unflapped by the grim discovery, bent over and picked the head up by the scalp. Clumps of writhing maggots fell out of the neck, and several beetles scurried between the mouth and nostrils. Latha grimaced and said, “This looks like it were Hordram, the baker.”

Several other peasants came over to look. One said, “I saw him last night leavin’ the inn. He was tippin’ every­which­where.”

“Who might the others be?” asked another peasant. “Other inn goers, I’d say,” replied the first peasant. Almen stood up out of the wheat and uncorked his jug and began to chug. “Almen, you look peaked,” said Latha. “I’m unaccustomed to such sights,” replied Almen. The trees beckoned Almen’s attention. He approached and studied the trunks and branches. The limbs and twigs bore thorns bigger than a hawthorn’s or locust’s. Almen investigated the ground

around the trees. The wheat had been trampled down. Tracks of flattened and broken stalks radiated away from the site in the direction of the village.

“What sort of nut would you reckon this to be?” asked Latha, holding a black, glossy nut the size of an acorn he found beneath one of the trees. Latha gave it to Almen who held it up into the sunlight.

The elder peasant who claimed the day before to be a veteran against the goblins chimed in, “That be a grob­nut.”

“A grob­nut you say?” asked Almen. “Aye, sir. They be carried on the goblin shaman’s person. I seen a shaman swallow one to escape capture by King Orthren. He burst into a tree...quite a sight!”

The old man cackled, bearing two widely spaced teeth. “Why have you withheld this from us?” asked Almen. “I ne’er paid heed to the tree...just the nut.” “So...perhaps we have some executions on our hands, then, carried out by goblins?” asked Almen to the old veteran.

By now half the village had assembled in a semicircle around the trees. The cadence of the peasants’ speech was frenzied. Some prayed to the Ether, the trees, the court magician to deliver them.

Some spoke up, “The goblins will turn us all into trees!” “Arm yourselves!” “The baron must speak to the king.” The thunder of hooves came into earshot. The baron and his retinue galloped down the lane then turned into the wheat. His and his retainers’ horses began to whinny and show fear on approach.

Baron Faelath sat upon his horse with his mouth open, his face painted with an expression of horror and astonishment. His peasants gazed up at him waiting for a response to the sight before him.

“Goblins again?” the baron asked, holding his eyes on the trees. “Yes, m’lord,” replied Almen. He reached the grob­nut up to his master, “This appears to be the device.”

Faelath took it and beheld it for a moment, “This a rotten acorn.” “The old veteran here says it’s a grob­nut. It’s impregnated with goblin magic, m’lord.” “How did you not know this before, Almen? Are you not a Wildern child of the forest?” “Yes, m’lord, only the goblins among us used no magic.” “And what did your studies at court teach you about this?” “Umm...”

Faelath peered down his nose at Almen, who was gripping his cap and blatantly averting his eyes from the baron’s. Faelath tossed the grob­nut at Almen, hitting the apothecary in the forehead with it.

“Cut the lot of them down. Split half the wood between the dowager and the house, take the rest to the village to sell.”

Several peasants replied, “Yes, m’lord.” The baron continued his pronouncements, “There will be a curfew tonight. All residents of the village will remain in their homes past sundown until we find this wayward pack of goblins.”

Peasants nodded and some replied, “Very wise, m’lord, very wise.” Faelath turned to his retainers, “Don your armor and weapons. Ride into the Deep Wood, hunt the beasts down. I want their heads, each and every one of them.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the retainers. The lot of them rode off toward the great house, trampling the wheat in their wake.

Almen ambled to his hut. The sky was clouding over. The widow Lorsina’s breasts came to mind, and he pondered dropping in to collect his compensation for his services rendered. Then the sight of her quivering lip and the aversion in her voice flashed in his mind and he wanted a drink, but his jug was empty. He did not just want a drink, but a dance among the spirits.

The dog had retrieved two rabbits and had already half eaten one out of impatience for his master’s return. Almen set the rabbits on a spit over the fire. As the rabbits were nearing completion, Almen ate one of the mushrooms. Within minutes the mushroom’s magic was in effect. The dancing fire transfixed him. The lapping tendrils of light morphed into snake tongues licking and tasting the roasting rabbits.

One of the logs popped loudly and cast a deluge of sparks flying at Almen and toward the ceiling. In the swirling mass a figure slowly became apparent. It bore vaguely human features at first, then Almen could tell with distinction that it was a goblin.

The fire flared up and the spit fell over. Almen fell off his stool and onto the dirt floor of his hut. A bunch of dried herbs suspended from the rafters caught fire and burned out.

From the flames stepped a goblin, his ruddy face painted in striking vermillion. One ear hung lower than the other, heavy with a bone plug. The goblin wore a thick bundle of necklaces adorned with various animal skulls, and his nose was pierced in the goblin fashion with a hoop ring drawing the nose tip backward. He approached Almen, who was still on the floor, and knelt down beside him. The goblin reached into a pouch suspended from his belt and withdrew a black nut and extended the hand toward Almen’s mouth. Before Almen could react, the nut was half way down his throat.

The goblin sat and watched for a moment, his eyes squinted and his nostrils flared, the goblin equivalent of a smile. Almen looked down at his stomach and from it was growing a tree, the roots

winding through his ribcage and twisting up his spine. A thorny branch exited his mouth carrying his tongue. He jumped up, hoping to run, and pulled his door open with a fury and...darkness.

Almen awoke the next morning. His door was torn from it hinges. On his forehead was a painful lump that oozed blood. He glanced down at his stomach and felt his body with his hands. He fumbled for his jug, which had spilled out, and spied the spit laying on the ground. Both the rabbits had been picked clean.

“Did you do this?” Almen asked the dog. The dog raised his head and returned it to its resting position. Almen rubbed his temples, which throbbed. He glanced up toward the ceiling and saw the burnt herbs. He then noticed that he had urinated all over himself. He had a violent urge for a drink and prepared to make for the inn.