A Very Resourceful Boy

Fantasy romance - a Dewayne Hollow origin story.

Claude Lorrain, The Judgement of Paris. Text all rights reserved © Saint-Lazare, 2026.

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The fog erected its floury wall, offering the boy’s eyes only a spectral grain that devoured every particle of light. From the forest around him, he could only sense its primeval aura, and a few shudders that guided his ear. Thanks to them, he soon saw the land give way to a rushing current, that of the Bathtate River. From it rose a few mangroves, trees that seemed to be splashing in the cold water, bare-legged like carefree children. The small human crouched and waited, squinting to see through the sandy shroud, his senses on high alert. Finally, a small echo struck his eardrum; a faint nibble, further upstream. Moving deftly, the boy crouched in the grass and reeds, and discerned the arched silhouettes of abandoned boats. The nibbling intensified, and he smiled. Absorbed in their meal, they had not noticed him. The elflings were indeed gnawing at the boats with gusto, their leafy heads barely protruding from the water, in which their scaly bodies moved like quicksilver. Immobile, the child gave them time to locate him. And soon, small movements stirred the vegetation around him, revealing small, shy creatures. One had a skull like a pine cone; another, with limbs stretched like slender roots, opened a small mouth full of sharp teeth. But he knew they were not for him. From the smallest to the largest, those with foliage and webbed feet, all offered him their friendship. However, before he could play with his sylvan friends, a cry rang out in the forest.

“Master Bevil! Where are you? Oh, I hope that little wildling hasn’t gotten lost!”

He sighed affectionately as the elflings disappeared into the misty greenery. Swiftly, Bevil ran in the direction of Dionise’s voice. He found the old maid at the crossroads between the main road and the manor path, clutching a fox fur stole over her burnt umber shoulders. The art tutor had taught him the name of this pigment, as comforting as the arms of Dionise Obson, who served as a maternal figure to him. She still could not contain her worry when he went to explore the forest which, notwithstanding, had been the refuge of the little orphan for so many years, before the noble Le Bone decided to educate him in their grand house.

“Come on, Master Bevil, you’re practically part of the family now, you can’t hang around in the woods anymore. Think about it, you could be kidnapped by the korrigans! How on earth did you manage to escape Mr. Obson’s vigilance?”

Archilai, the maid’s husband and guard, gave the boy a knowing look from under his helmet as they passed through the gate of the estate. Dionise hurried towards the kitchen, but Bevil lingered in the courtyard when he recognized the art tutor’s voice. Hiding behind a staircase, he decided to eavesdrop.

“Oh, Lord Le Bone, I can’t thank you enough... this meant so much to my beloved Helegor, thank you, thank you...”

Bending, Bevil saw the young woman’s pale, delicate lips kiss their master’s hand through the dark veil she now wore. Lord Le Bone, a man still in his prime, withdrew his hand somewhat awkwardly, and gazed pityingly at his employee. She was now nothing more than a frail, marmoreal frame encased in mourning clothes.

“Listen, I cannot oppose Underhill’s last wishes; however, do you think it wise to erect his tomb above the ancient pagan catacombs? God knows what lies dormant down there.”

“My lord, I fear nothing, for God is with me.”

The two adults parted ways, but the boy silently followed the young woman. Blanche Liripine. The first girl to make his adolescent heart flutter, with her Madonna-like face and her thin fingers, perpetually stained with paint. He observed her in her study, where she had gathered the works of her lover, the village artist, tragically murdered. On her easel, she had assembled the plans for a strange structure, a kind of narrow, almost pyramidal chapel. Bevil recognized Underhill’s signature beneath the sketches.

Soon, the stone version of it rose on the side of Wyston Hill, where the manor was located. Its roof resembled the engravings of Egypt that Lady Thomasina had shown him during her geography lessons. Apart from that, the tomb had no ornamentation or openings, except for an iron door adorned with strange symbols. The boy could hardly get closer to study it, for Blanche almost never left it, kneeling and weeping before its door, beating her chest like a martyr. He had tried to sneak in at night, but strange lights emanating from the catacombs below had deterred him. He had bad memories of all that might lurk beneath the ground of Dewayne Hollow.

His infatuation with Blanche turned to melancholy, and when she announced that she would become a nun at the nearby convent run by Mother Superior Hildegarde, the boy knew that his heart could only heal far from the landscapes which saw him grow up. After all, the Le Bone children and Thomasina had left the manor, and besides, he had always dreamed of visiting his role model, the Doctor Aben al-Hasan, in his distant homeland. Lord Le Bone gave his blessing for him to go and study sciences in the capitals, and to forge his character through his travels. Bevil left Wyston Manor and the forest with a wet face, but one last look at the pointed roof of the tomb left a sour taste in his mouth.

The body that jumped onto the dock at Dewayne Hollow harbor a decade later had the weight of a man, but retained its childlike confidence. Bevil observed his native village, his gaze lingering on each ruin; goodbye to the inn, what a pity for the church. In a few dilapidated buildings, families of fishermen still lived, so hostile they resisted the charm of his spontaneous smile. His heart filled with fleeting memories, the young man set out on the road to the manor. As he was about to pass through the chipped stone arch leading to his home, whispers echoed in the tunnel of vegetation, calling his name. Crouching in the undergrowth, Bevil saw a small gathering of elflings. Their leaves had the skeletal texture of late autumn, and their bark hung like old woolens; they could barely stand. Had they been waiting for him? Horrified, he knelt before them.

“My friends, how can I be forgiven for my too long absence?”

“Bear no guilt, our dearest, this is part of our cycle. We are going to the invisible realm to rest, and we will return. But one of our treasures we cannot take with us, for Nature will have great need of it. Will you be its guardian?”

No sooner had the young man nodded than a cold sphere appeared in his hand. Neither stone nor metal, it emitted a faint rainbow hue, concealed beneath white patches mimicking cosmic clouds. When Bevil raised his head towards his friends, they had vanished. He concealed the artifact in a secret pocket of his doublet, and was about to go on his way when he saw the whiteness of a veil floating above the catacombs. His chest heaved. Blanche. He ran to meet her. However, when he reached the tomb, nothing more than a sobbing patch of fog dissipated. A plaque, embedded in the muddy ground in front of the burial structure, indicated the date of his first love’s death.

The howl that rose from his gut was very much alive. A wail at first, it transformed into thunder, electrifying his entire body with a bestial force. He rushed against the door of the chapel, the stone rival that had stolen Blanche from him, attacking it with his shoulders, his dagger, and pure fury. He had nothing but desecration on his mind, and when the lock gave way, he expected to destroy the heart of this narrow structure in a trice.

His body, though, was released into a much larger space. The darkness, initially total, soon lifted up, and he made out a tall structure of brick and metal as an otherworldly gleam revealed its different levels. Staircases everywhere, balconies intricately carved like black lace, a glass roof, as well as myriads of strange objects and garments.

“Welcome to the Museum of Time, traveler.” The voice resonated, seemingly from nowhere.

Bevil had traveled as far as Asia Minor, visited pagan temples and mysterious buildings, but this, this inspired only absolute terror in him; his mind could not bear it. He turned and ran from the tomb. Alas, the comforting arms of his native forest no longer awaited him outside.

Stone everywhere: wide streets, arches, spires, towers, buildings under construction. A city had sprung up beneath Wyston Hill, buzzing with hammer blows and busy voices. Bewildered, Bevil turned around; the tomb was still there, but now it was encircled by a strange, unfinished hexagonal stone belt.

“My, my, my, so that’s the mystery this strange tomb held.”

Startled, he turned too fast, and all he saw before stumbling in the mud were two adorable dimples in bronze cheeks. A slender female figure rushed over him. Blinking his eyes in the sunlight, he caught sight of the moiré of a silk turban, heard the clinking of a cascade of pearls, and felt the power of two large black eyes seizing him to the very depths of his soul.

Bevil regained consciousness in a room at Wyston Manor. At least, that was his first instinct. But it was different now. Changed. He sat up and realized he was naked. A woman was pouring hot water into a bathtub. When she turned toward him, he looked for something to cover his modesty, and she smiled, without shame or mockery. He recognized her silhouette. From the way she walked into the room, he knew she was the owner of the place, like the Le Bones before her. A long, dense black mane fell over the shoulders of a negligee. She sat next to him, and traced the outline of his tattoos and scars with her confident index finger. Something in the mischievous spark in her eyes reminded him of the incarnation of the goddess Hecate he briefly met as a child.

“Strange traveler, do you have a name?” she whispered.

His blood was ardently deserting his brain, but the young man managed to stammer, “B... Bevil Kottow.” She grabbed his member unceremoniously. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Kalina James. The city you saw is my creation. I call it Dashcombe. Join me in my bathtub.” He did not need to be asked twice.

In the days that followed, Bevil discovered many things. Firstly, the year in which he found himself, 1768, a time of intellectual curiosity, where the world was tamed as much as it was explored. Then, that his hostess was the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy gentleman, raised with the highest education, despite her West Indies blood, to become a bright architect and intellectual. But, mostly, he explored the warmth of Kalina’s skin, the taste of her wetness, the fierceness of her nature. In turn, she cherished his mannerisms, the way he spoke with his hands from his time in Italy, the goofy faces and voices he made, and, above all, the stamina of his hips.

Kalina had many secrets, but she did not want her young and strange lover to be one of them. So, she took him everywhere in the city, to her construction sites, to the parties she attended. She never introduced him, which intrigued the small community. The couple playfully fought to be the center of attention; Kalina won every time, leaving Bevil in the position of observer. He had to guess who, in her circle, had the privilege of witnessing the luscious hair under her turban, spread on her pillow: the French painter, or perhaps the London actress. Her body moved freely in the salons, without corset or prejudice. It made him both proud and crazy, and erased all traces of haunting from his heart.

In more serious settings, people spoke with her in hushed tones about the architecture. About the mausoleum that was to conceal the tomb, but especially about the lodge. At first, Bevil thought it had something to do with that special gentlemen’s club she had mentioned, the Freemasons, but then his eye fell on documents that were familiar to him; engravings of works from the artist Helegor Underhill.

One evening, he pinned her to the bed. “Why are you so interested in 1558? I was there. With those who drove out the Great Evil. There’s no way you’re bringing it back!”

For once, she observed him without smiling, but her chest rose and fell feverishly. “You are ready to know the truth.”

She helped him get dressed to go out. As always, he discreetly slipped the sphere of the elflings into a secret pocket. Kalina led him through the night in the finished city, enjoying a well-deserved rest. At the lodge’s door, she looked around before knocking with a code. The interior of the building disappeared into darkness, and only a few masks shone in the candlelight.

“Dear friends,” she murmured. “This is Bevil Kottow. He’s a time traveler who experienced the events of 1558. Darling, the city plan of Dashcombe is directly inspired by a sigil I found in ancient documents, linked to the goddess Hecate. It’s the masterplan of our secret society.” She gestured toward the small group of anonymous figures. “They are descendants of people you knew, who fought the demon Tutfater. Since your century, our society has been working to ensure they never return, and that nothing ever emerges again from the cursed crevice of Dewayne Hollow.”

The young man digested the information. But something troubled him. Kalina gave him an encouraging look, and handed him a candlestick. Bevil inspected the room. From the outside, the lodge looked narrow. But like the tomb, its interior seemed immense. This time, though, it consisted of corridors filled with cold drafts. The walls were made of copper, engraved with esoteric symbols.

“A magical labyrinth,” his lover explained. “Based on an ancient plan. A refuge for all our allies, in the future. No demon will be able to reach them there.”

“And no one will leave it either,” added a man’s ironic voice.

The masks and flames turned alarmedly toward a figure. The stranger tore off his clothes, revealing weird tattoos, and he shouted incantations. “Traitor!” screamed Kalina. A violent wind rushed into the lodge, and the corridors changed their position. “The door! The door!” cried voices. The copper walls were indeed closing in, blocking the exit. The terrified members of the group ran through the endless labyrinth, but they could find no way out. Screams echoed in the darkness, along with macabre sounds. “Don’t let go of my hand!” Bevil screamed to Kalina. But the wind became a tornado, and projected the young woman against a corner. He saw the walls close in on her like a cage, and only had time to read on her lips ‘Find me’.

His body arched against the wind, Bevil tried to attack the metal. He felt something burning his chest, and, reaching up to it, he saw that the sphere of his sylvan friends was shining. He grabbed it, and suddenly, he was back on Wyston Hill. Not a breath of air, just the soft sound of nocturnal insects. And before him, the tomb. A surge of hope. All he had to do was go inside and return to the day he had met Kalina to warn her. Without hesitation, he entered the funeral monument.

This time, he bravely defied the vast Museum of Time and prepared to turn his back on it to go back through the door. “You always rush in headfirst, you young fool.” The same voice as during his previous visit. But this time, it came from a body. The body of an enormous tiger. His powerful muscles rippled beneath his ochre fur, gleaming in the strange light. He placed himself between Bevil and the door.

“I am Aion, god of time and guardian of this place. You think you can go back and change events. Classic illusion of mortals. No one changes the past.”

“But… I must save the one I love... she will die if...”

The tiger reared up, and with his powerful paws, forced Bevil to kneel before him. He then gently rested his forehead against the human’s.

“Bevil, the magical world chose you at birth. We love your chaotic energy, but you’ll have to listen to us.”

The young man had initially thought that Aion’s voice echoed through the tall building, but now he realized many voices were speaking at once. Thousands.

“We, the ancient and forgotten gods, created this world and we protect it. We watch over every creature, from the smallest elfling to the greatest wyvern, including the mercurial humans. Your beloved is safe in the labyrinth we inspired to her, and Hecate will keep her alive. Your quest lies in the future. You must find the remaining members of the secret society, and most importantly, another of our chosen ones. For the ultimate threat is in her timeline.”

Releasing his grip, the tiger led Bevil to a rack of odd clothes. Once the young man was dressed, Aion made sure with his large paw that the sphere remained in its secret pocket, and turned towards the door.

“Don’t forget, you are Bevil Kottow, a very resourceful boy. Nothing and no one can resist you.”

Suppressing a nervous laugh, the young man ruffled his brown hair, and stepped out of the time-traveling tomb.

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If this text has intrigued you, know that it is part of a larger universe, that of Dewayne Hollow, a collection of dark fantasy short stories AND a role-playing game, both of which you can discover here.

Originally, Bevil Kottow was only intended to be a functional NPC in the first campaign of my TTRPG, Dewayne Hollow: Dark Origins. However, he won so much affection from my beta testers that he developed a strong personality, to the point that RM Greta suggested I write his own story. How do you like it??? Don’t hesitate to comment, like, and restack to spread the love for my young scoundrel.

This resourceful boy, as well as other characters and elements mentioned in this text, may be found by attentive readers and players in my already published stories, my game campaigns, and other stories to come... keep your eyes open, subscribe!

And if you feel so inclined, help me make a living from my art with a donation on my Ko-Fi.