Dark Fantasy
Date Published: 08-31-2024
J.W. Hawkins' "Tales of the Wythenwood" masterfully blends whimsy with darkness, capturing the essence of dark fantasy and classic fairy tales while infusing them with modern sensibilities. The collection is rich in themes of nature, survival, morality, and the complex interplay between good and evil. The author’s love for rhythmic and descriptive language breathes life into the Wythenwood, making it a character in its own right. Each story, while unique, contributes to a cohesive world where the fantastical and the real intertwine seamlessly.
"Tales of the Wythenwood" is a testament to the power of storytelling, reminding us of the beauty, terror, and wonder that lie just beyond the veil of the ordinary world. Whether you're drawn to tales of cunning foxes, mysterious creatures, or the timeless struggle between light and darkness, this collection offers a rich tapestry of narratives that will captivate and enthrall readers.
Excerpt
The Taker of Faces (Sample from Tales of the Wythenwood)
1.
Tonight is the night, thought the Taker of Faces. She stood within the moonlit forest looking out to a pool, eerie in its stillness. The Taker inhaled deeply, as grace itself walked into the scene, tall and elegant, powerful and strong yet with a step so light that she could imagine that its hooves would not bend a blade of grass as it trod. As moonbeams stained all they touched an otherworldly blue, she imagined them as fairies, half-remembered from childhood tales, come to light the darkness.
Slowly, the stag dipped its noble head to lap water from the pond, tiny ripples breaking its pristine surface. The Taker dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands as the anticipation welled, so giddy did she feel that the trickle of ochre that dripped from her hands to the floor went unnoticed. Then, the stag, ever so slightly, moved its head. Elation filled her, dizzying euphoria that tingled in her toes and heightened every sense, for now, she truly saw it—beauty. For barely a moment, a single, glorious moment the stag’s features were fully revealed beneath the shimmering cobalt rays. Glistening magnificently, its antlers cast a long and mesmerizing shadow. If there was such a thing as beauty in the world, this was it. She ran her fingers slowly down the length of her face, drinking in the sensation of the gnarled and mottled surface. And silently, she vowed that that beauty would be hers.
But, like a burrowing insect, a grain of doubt crawled inside, niggling at the dark recesses of her mind. Intrusive images flittered past distractingly, a gray pelt illuminated in the darkness, yellow eyes shining like flames untamed, a distorted reflection in the water’s mirrored surface. There were sounds too, her rasping tongueless scream played over and over as she relived pummeled the wolf’s tattered corpse with her fists until the skin of her knuckles was bare and ragged. It had deceived her—it was not the one, this time would be different.
Steeling herself, she took the rope from her shoulder, one end had already been secured around the trunk of a tree and hung across its sturdiest bough, before proceeding to lasso its looped end over the stag’s antlers. Immediately it tried to bolt, rearing onto its hindlegs as the rope pulled taut. The Taker found one corner of her crooked mouth, turning wryly upward as she watched the creature thrash in wild desperation. The moment when she could leave her body behind and be reborn in the form of something new felt near, felt tangible—she could almost taste it with what remained of her tongue. Dropping her guard, a short, sharp, mirthful bark escaped her throat. Swinging around, the deer turned to face her, eyes wide, startled and blazing with fury. Lowering its head, it charged full pelt towards the Taker, rearing up once more as again it reached the end of its tether. With faces inches apart the two stood with eyes interlocked, the stag roared gutturally at its tormentor while the Taker bared her teeth in a dog-like snarl, vehemently hissing all the while.
Slowly, without breaking her gaze she slipped one hand into the pocket of her tunic. For a moment she could not locate the item she sought amidst the folds of weatherbeaten leather. Staying calm, she felt a butterfly of elation flutter within her stomach as she grasped a small wooden cylinder, barely thicker than her smallest finger. Deftly, she slipped a second item into the tube and brought it up to her lips and blew. The stag reeled from the sudden sting, back and forth it swung its great head as it tried with all it could muster to dislodge the dart that protruded from its neck.
Now the butterfly truly unfurled its wings within in her and she danced upon the spot, snorting and giggling with childish jubilance as she did. The peak of the mountain she had tried to scale so many times was so near. Over and over the words jigged through her thoughts melodiously—this one is the one, this one is the one.
The glee in her eyes seemed all the merrier as the moon’s rays of incandescent silver glinted mischievously upon them. She knew this part well, watching as the stag’s movements slowed to a mournful trudge. The Taker sat down on the moist ground, licking the blood from her palms like a wounded animal and waited.
She did not have to wait long before all the will in the world was no longer enough to keep the stag’s eyes from closing. Grunting, she flipped the beast to its back and with practiced efficiency trussed its legs with the rope and tipped it sideways onto a crude sled, crafted from branches and twigs knotted together with vine.
Her muscles protested as she heaved her laden sled—but her heart sang. Like a caterpillar, she would soon be transformed, reborn into something pure and beautiful. Glancing down at the mess of twisted labyrinthine scarring that was her hand, she smiled, imagining it peel away like the used husk of a chrysalis. Soon she would be what she was always supposed to be, soon she would be elevated.
About the Author
J.W. Hawkins is a writer of Dark and Epic Fantasy, best known as the author of Tales of the Wythenwood. He is noted for his florid and descriptive use language and use of fantastical allegory that mirrors the empirical world. He lives in the UK with his wife Michelle and two boys Graham and Mark.
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