They call me Old Tom, the kids who play in the forest do. “Four-score and more, not an hour more or less. And to deal plainly, I feel that I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and you, but I am mainly ignorant as to what place this is, and for all my skill, I know not these garments, nor I know not where I did lodge last night.” I woke up in a large, hollowed, fallen tree. I wake up every morning in various locations in the forest. I am a person of the forest, have been for many years. The kids know me and tease, but I pay no attention to them.
Even though my recall of more current events is not what it
was, my memory of things past is accurate and clear. The Beckwiths, of whose family I may be a
part, are of great interest to me. I
know the good and the bad about them and tolerate them just the same.
My association with the witch, Hecate, is as old as I am.
The start of it has been long lost in time.
We may even be related. We trust
each other and work together to maintain the unity of the coven. This may qualify me as a warlock, but I don’t
care much about titles.
Now that Christopher Stark is no longer alive, there will be
controversy about the fortune and the disposition of the mansion and the
grounds. Wainwright is insufferable and
Stark is greedy. We shall see how it
pans out. Meanwhile, the dead don’t want
to let go. As for me, “pray you now,
forget and forgive, for I am a foolish, fond old man.”
It may look familiar, King Lear.
