Sight had been the first sense to return to Vilmos’ tortured world. The other senses followed at a pace of their own accord—except pain. Pain it seemed had always been there, overshadowing the sense of touch. Taste came in the form of a pasty film that covered his tongue, which as he rubbed it away made his stomach sour. A vague odor came to his nostrils, the smell of his own sweat. The last sense to return was hearing. Rapid breathing burst upon him and Vilmos started.
“You are truly the evil one,” Vilmos repeated in hushed tones.
The sound of stifled, irregular breaths fell upon his ears again. Realizing the sound was not his own, Vilmos shrank back into the corner. He would not have been amazed to see the dark-faced one sitting beside him—this he expected—yet as he turned, meeting a warm smile, he nearly wet his pants.
“Mi-do-ri, is that you?”
The tutor, seated at a chair next to the bed, stared intently at him. The expression on her face was one that Vilmos did not recognize, one completely out of place, a look not of dismay or terror but of understanding and approval.
Vilmos pinched himself to ensure he wasn’t somehow still dreaming, and then asked excitedly, “What are you doing here?”
The teacher answered with words he had not expected. “Watching you, Vilmos,” she whispered softly.
In reaction to his anxiety, she shuffled the chair away from him.
“Why didn’t you wake me? I was having a terrible, terrible dream. I was probably even talking in my sleep.” Vilmos halted only for an instant to intake a breath. “I do that sometimes, just go on and on and on about nothing. The dream was scary, I think.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Midori, “we both know you were not sleeping. I am a friend, Vilmos; there is no need to fear me. I am here to help you.”
“Then was it real? Did it really happen?” asked Vilmos with renewed vigor in his words.
Midori glanced at Vilmos’ hands and the blood dripping from his shoulders. “If you believe it occurred, then it did. If you believe…”
“I’m afraid,” admitted Vilmos, “are you here to take me away?”
“No, Vilmos, I will not take you away, nor will I let the black priests take you away.” She moved the chair closer to the bed once more. “I am here to help you.”
“I don’t need any help. Please just go away,” said Vilmos feeling suddenly brave.
“I can’t go away Vilmos. You need my help more than you know.” Midori glanced nervously out the window. “Vilmos, you are very special. All you have to do is trust me and let me help you. Can you do that?”
Vilmos nodded. Midori touched a dark yellow stone to the palms of his hands. “It is a healing stone,” she said, “it will ease the pain.”
“Is it magic?” asked Vilmos warily.
“In a way, perhaps,” said Midori, upturning warm green eyes to ease Vilmos’ fright, “but this stone comes from the temple of Mother-Earth.” The stone began to glow bright yellow, then slowly dulled to charcoal gray. The pain gone from his hands, Vilmos suddenly noticed the sharp throbbing of his shoulders. “I am sorry. The stone’s power is gone, but I could not have undone that anyway. I must go now. Will you come with me?”
“Wh-wh-where,” stammered Vilmos, “are you going?”
“I am going to meet someone. A very good friend, who is special like you. He has waited a long time for you to be ready.”
An internal voice told Vilmos if he were to leave now he would never be coming home again. “Midori, I am afraid.”
The gentle woman offered Vilmos her hand and hesitantly he accepted. Her touch, sympathetic and soothing, put Vilmos more at ease. He looked up into her soft green eyes and suddenly worries and reservations about her intentions faded away. He would go wherever she would take him.
“We have to move swiftly,” Midori said as she led him from the house. “The woods are a strange enough place with the light of day, let alone without it.”
They had just reached the edge of the village when the sound of drums burst into the air. Midori began to run all out, dragging Vilmos behind her. “Hurry, hurry,” she said. “They come.”
They made the trek from the village to the dark wood at a record pace, Midori dragging Vilmos behind her. Coming to a path, they took it. It was a seldom-used path, so it was largely overgrown with weeds and underbrush, but still visible to an observant eye.
High overhead the sky was turning dark and yet they followed the little trail. Many questions flooded into Vilmos’ young mind. Where were they going? What of his mother and father? What of the bear? What of the drums?
Several times he tried to speak, though no words ever escaped his lips. He simply followed as Midori led him along the tangled trail, holding tightly to her hand. A sickness was welling up from his stomach. He felt the whole of the world was suddenly somehow different and the feeling didn’t end as the trail did, coming to an abrupt end near the forest’s edge.
The two emerged from the forest’s shadowed darkness. The sun had already sunk low on the horizon in front of them. Soon it would be night. A large meadow spread beyond the forest’s veil and soon they found themselves trudging across it. Vilmos could not see beyond the meadow’s brink due to the rolling hills beyond it. He wondered what they would find on the other side, or perhaps if their destination lay beyond the hills, somewhere off in the unseen distance.
Determined now to quietly follow his silent companion, trudging on tired and sore feet, Vilmos began to wonder if they would ever stop to rest or sleep. His answer came as they marched up into the soft, rolling foothills beyond the meadow. They quickly found themselves on a rocky precipice overlooking the most beautiful sight Vilmos had ever seen—the deep valley of his imagining.
“Hello Vilmos,” simply stated a strangely familiar voice.
Vilmos was startled by the sudden appearance of the other. He stared at the peculiar, tiny man for a time. His skin was the color of rough leather; the face deep set with wrinkles that covered its entirety was the best indicator of his great age; hair long and black with whispers of gray neither accented nor subtracted from his appearance of age and wisdom. Vilmos stared into eyes as silver as the moonlight, and found the man had a special energy about him. It seemed like an inner flow of light and it intrigued Vilmos, and perhaps beguiled him.
Vilmos finally responded with a timid, “Hul-lo.”
“I am Xith,” spoke the man in a clear unwavering tone, “shaman of the great North Reach, perhaps the last of my kind, the last of the Watchers.”
“How do you… Watchers? There is no such thing as a Watcher. That is only legend.”
“Ahh, yet here I stand before you and you better than anyone else should know it to be true.”
Vilmos searched his mind. The words appeared to be true, but how could it be so. The tiny man who stood before him could not possibly be a Watcher—Vilmos quickly discarded the thought. He would not judge others so hastily anymore. He had already learned his lesson once before about incorrectly judging people.