“It’s not your lamp,” says the Dwarf stubbornly.
The skeletal man chuckles coldly, quietly. He is dressed in elegant silks of red and black. A large, dark turban gives even more height to his imposing figure. And he carries a golden staff, the end of which is fashioned into the head of a hooded serpent.
His feet do not touch the ground. He stands atop a faded carpet of foreign design that floats a few feet in the air.
“Should’ve known,” thinks the Dwarf, and suddenly he remembers that large shadow in the sky. “A wizard.”
“It certainly isn’t your lamp,” says the skeletal man.
“We found it,” scowls the Dwarf, and he hides the brass lamp behind his back. He wishes that his polearm wasn’t lying uselessly on the ground, but what good are wishes?
“Yes, I’m sure you did,” sneers the wizard. “With a key, I suppose? A key carried by a parrot? I’m correct, aren’t I?” It is a statement, not a question, easily confirmed by the faces of the Wolf and the Dwarf.
“That parrot served me. I am the owner of the key.”
“You?” asks the Wolf. The skeletal man’s voice and smell make the hackles of his fur rise. “You’re the prince?”
That final word flusters the wizard somewhat. “What? No, I was the Vizier to-- what prince?” He subtly points the serpent’s head in the direction of the Wolf.
“We were told,” says the Dwarf slowly, “to help the prince.” He turns the lamp over and over in his hands, thinking how best to fling it into this wizard’s face.
Again the man glares in surprise. “That wasn’t the message,” he says shortly. “It was to help the princess. Help the princess. Stupid bird.” His eyes go distant for the briefest of moments.
“Never mind that,” he resumes, returning to the present. “Since she did not exit the palace with you, I can only assume she didn’t survive. So be it. But at least you recovered the lamp. That’s of more importance.”
“Hey,” says the Wolf. He backs up slightly to avoid the acidic stink of magic. “Why couldn’t you just get it yourself?”
The Vizier says nothing for a moment, but when he speaks again, his voice is sweeter. “The palace,” he says, and the ruby eyes of the serpent flash in the sunlight, “is better protected than one can imagine.”
The Wolf nods slowly, his eyes never leaving the rubies.
“My spells would not work in there,” continues the wizard, and he sways the serpent’s head over to the Dwarf and the Monkey, “so I was forced to call for brave, able-bodied men such as yourselves to find the lamp.”
The rubies shine even brighter, and the Dwarf finds himself nodding. It seems like a reasonable idea. And after all, this wizard seems trustworthy. “And he’s right,” the Dwarf admits to himself, “I am brave and able-bodied.”
“And,” adds the Vizier, “to help the princess, of course.”
The Dwarf vaguely remembers a girl, the dead girl in the palace. He had helped her, in a way, death being a blessed release after the unholiness of the undead. And there were other girls, too, weren’t there?
Snow White, for one, lying cold and alone in her glass coffin, hopefully ignored by whatever creatures, living and dead, might tread in those dark woods. And Cinderella, too, lonely and asleep with only a bonneted dog to protect her. He has to help them.
He blinks away the tears, and the rubies of the staff are just rubies. Slowly, his face flushes as he realizes a spell was almost forced upon him.
“No,” says the Dwarf, and he surprises himself.
“Oh, very well,” sighs the Vizier with theatrical exaggeration. “Then we’ll do this the hard way.”
He only has to think of the Word of Power, but before he can bring the magic into creation, the Monkey has leapt, screeching and scratching, from the Dwarf’s shoulder.
It lands on the wizard’s face and tears furiously with its tiny claws. The Vizier screams and grabs. The Monkey is still too weak to dodge away, and it’s flung savagely to the ground.
The Dwarf crouches and sweeps up his polearm, but already the wizard is floating away on his magic carpet, now a dozen feet in the air, now two dozen.
“What are you going to do, Dwarf?” he shouts, and an evil bolt of magic flies from the serpent’s eyes. The Dwarf leaps across the ground. The sand sizzles and blackens in the wicked light.
“You’re going to die, that’s what you’re going to do!” shouts the Vizier. He elegantly, almost lazily, flicks another flash of light.
The Dwarf sprints, but there is nowhere to run - the only protection comes from the collapsed buildings that have trapped the dead, and the marble palace is too far away. Too far, especially, for a short-legged Dwarf who is being pursued by a flying foe.
More bolts of death drop from the sky. The Dwarf considers throwing the lamp into a pile of rubble and undead, just to create a diversion, when the wizard screams.
He turns to see the Vizier fall from his flying carpet. He flails helplessly, pathetically, but the carpet remains suspended in mid-air. And quickly, too quickly, the wizard collapses onto a jutting piece of foundation. The sand surrounding him turns into a crimson mud.
“How?” says the Dwarf, and he looks around.
The Wolf, hunched over with his paws on his knees, winks weakly at the Dwarf. In between breaths, he gasps, “I huffed… and I puffed... and I knocked him outta the sky.”
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Chapter Seventy-Four
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Pieces of the pirate ship - what little remains after the heart-wrenching fireball - crashes into the water. The splash is barely audible in the aftermath of the explosion.
“Well,” says the Lion. “So much for that.” Head held high, he pads away from the beach.
The Clock stammers and looks back and forth between the destruction and the disappearing form of the Lion.
“Maybe... maybe they’ve survived?” the Clock shouts, but the Lion doesn’t respond, doesn’t even slow down. Within moments, he’s disappeared into the foliage.
The Clock takes a tentative step toward the shore, but it does not enter the waters. Even as a human, it never learned how to swim.
Instead, it scans the gentle waves. Could Pinocchio survive so much fire? And the Candelabra, even if it hadn’t been melted by the blast, at best would have sunk to the bottom of the bay.
“Pinocchio!” Its voice is meek and tinny, a pathetic sound against the playful vastness of the water.
Silence.
Farther out, the burning wood is quickly extinguished. Mostly planks, by the look of it. Too big to be the boy. The mast still floats, perhaps made buoyant by the sails. But no sign of Pinocchio.
Still, the fact that some things remain gives the Clock hope. Small as it is, it’s still there.
But the eerie silence of the beach is troubling. The Clock becomes aware, as it always does when alone, that it’s ticking quite loudly. Steadily. Out of place and jarring on the beaches of Neverland.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” it murmurs, worried. “Nothing can harm me.” Even the dead pirates, should they come crawling from the water, would pay no mind to a ticking clock. It’s the Lion who has to worry now.
But isn’t there a story about a crocodile that eats clocks?
The ticking is quite loud. Almost echoing.
“Lion!” shouts the Clock, but the foliage merely sighs and dips in the breeze.
“Pinocchio!” The water laps against the shore.
Silence.
The Clock had never been one for being alone. And it can’t go out into the wide waters to search for its friends. But it can’t abandon them, either.
Several hours later – several exhausting hours later – the Clock steps back to survey its work.
Lying on the shore is a sign, placed carefully above what is hopefully the high-water mark. Black stones, round and heavy, have been set in the shape of an arrow. It points into the foliage and will be ignored by crocodiles or dead men, but invaluable to Pinocchio and the Candelabra.
“Almost done,” says the Clock, its voice full of false cheer. “That didn’t take quite so long.” It looks at its face to mark the time, then frowns. It’s certainly taken longer than that.
And the ticking, still quite loud, still quite echoing, has slowed noticeably.
“Oh, dear,” says the Clock. “I need winding.”
The duty has always fallen to Pinocchio, as the boy is the only one who had hands, but perhaps the Lion can use his claws…
“Lion?”
Silence.
Pieces of the pirate ship - what little remains after the heart-wrenching fireball - crashes into the water. The splash is barely audible in the aftermath of the explosion.
“Well,” says the Lion. “So much for that.” Head held high, he pads away from the beach.
The Clock stammers and looks back and forth between the destruction and the disappearing form of the Lion.
“Maybe... maybe they’ve survived?” the Clock shouts, but the Lion doesn’t respond, doesn’t even slow down. Within moments, he’s disappeared into the foliage.
The Clock takes a tentative step toward the shore, but it does not enter the waters. Even as a human, it never learned how to swim.
Instead, it scans the gentle waves. Could Pinocchio survive so much fire? And the Candelabra, even if it hadn’t been melted by the blast, at best would have sunk to the bottom of the bay.
“Pinocchio!” Its voice is meek and tinny, a pathetic sound against the playful vastness of the water.
Silence.
Farther out, the burning wood is quickly extinguished. Mostly planks, by the look of it. Too big to be the boy. The mast still floats, perhaps made buoyant by the sails. But no sign of Pinocchio.
Still, the fact that some things remain gives the Clock hope. Small as it is, it’s still there.
But the eerie silence of the beach is troubling. The Clock becomes aware, as it always does when alone, that it’s ticking quite loudly. Steadily. Out of place and jarring on the beaches of Neverland.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” it murmurs, worried. “Nothing can harm me.” Even the dead pirates, should they come crawling from the water, would pay no mind to a ticking clock. It’s the Lion who has to worry now.
But isn’t there a story about a crocodile that eats clocks?
The ticking is quite loud. Almost echoing.
“Lion!” shouts the Clock, but the foliage merely sighs and dips in the breeze.
“Pinocchio!” The water laps against the shore.
Silence.
The Clock had never been one for being alone. And it can’t go out into the wide waters to search for its friends. But it can’t abandon them, either.
Several hours later – several exhausting hours later – the Clock steps back to survey its work.
Lying on the shore is a sign, placed carefully above what is hopefully the high-water mark. Black stones, round and heavy, have been set in the shape of an arrow. It points into the foliage and will be ignored by crocodiles or dead men, but invaluable to Pinocchio and the Candelabra.
“Almost done,” says the Clock, its voice full of false cheer. “That didn’t take quite so long.” It looks at its face to mark the time, then frowns. It’s certainly taken longer than that.
And the ticking, still quite loud, still quite echoing, has slowed noticeably.
“Oh, dear,” says the Clock. “I need winding.”
The duty has always fallen to Pinocchio, as the boy is the only one who had hands, but perhaps the Lion can use his claws…
“Lion?”
Silence.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Chapter Seventy-Three
“What the heck is it?” asks the Wolf.
“It’s a lamp, you idiot,” says the Dwarf.
They stand before a small alcove, so nondescript in this delicately wrought throne room that they would have missed it entirely had it not been for the Monkey’s pointing paw.
Now the tiny creature curls around the Dwarf’s neck, combing through his ragged beard for mites. Its eyes dart constantly toward the Wolf.
“This is what we were sent to find?” asks the Wolf. “That’s gonna help the prince?” He kicks at a pillow, then looks at the lamp once more. “That’s it?”
“Looks like it.” The Dwarf’s voice is gray, bitter.
Moments before, he’d greedily unlocked the alcove, only to find a tarnished brass lamp, not even big enough to light a room through an entire night.
“Maybe it’s one of those magic lamps,” says the Dwarf. He peers into the alcove, but there’s no secret catch or lever to reveal a better treasure.
“Maybe it stays lit for a long time… but even then, who needs it? Or maybe it burns with the all-consuming fire, and it’ll kill all the dead forever.”
“Those exist?” asks the Wolf.
The Dwarf shrugs and scowls. “Doubt it. Never heard of humans knowing about the all-consuming fire. And if they had,” he adds with grim satisfaction, “they would’ve accidentally burned themselves up long ago.”
“Just like the buildings outside,” says the Wolf, and it grins.
The Dwarf’s eyes widen. The Wolf’s always been a fool, but even fools get it right once in a blue moon. The entire desert city laid to waste, and not by mere fire. Dragonfire, he’d thought, but maybe that wasn’t the case. They didn’t find a dragon within the palace. They found a lamp.
“How does it work?” asks the Wolf. He is salivating again, but only the Monkey notices. It whimpers and tries to hide beneath the Dwarf’s beard.
“Not sure. It’s dangerous stuff. Dangerous but useful. That’s how we made Excalibur, you know.” He brings the lamp closer and studies it sharply, shrewdly.
His eyes suddenly gleam.
“What? What is it?”
“No human made this lamp. It looks like garbage, but it ain’t. It was made to look like this. It’s... you wouldn’t understand, but it’s the finest, most perfect piece of junk that was ever made.”
He holds it high and admires the dents and scratches on its cheap brass exterior. No self-respecting Dwarf would create such an ugly thing, of course, but someone had a very good reason for making this lamp so horrible. Underneath, like a diamond in the rough, hides a perfect piece of craftsmanship.
“It’s fire,” says the Wolf. “It’s your all-consuming fire, isn’t it?”
The Dwarf hesitates and licks his lips. “Could be.” There’s a flint and steel in his pockets, and his hands tremble with the thought of lighting the lamp.
All-consuming fire! The finest, truest fire, that which can destroy anything and everything that isn’t pure. And, they say, that which is forged in the fire lasts forever and can never, ever be broken.
“Best we go outside to test it,” the Dwarf says. “This place would go up like tinder if it gets out of hand.”
The Wolf nods eagerly, and all but pushes the Dwarf from the alabaster palace.
Outside, the Dwarf blinks and scowls at the shining sun.
“Light it, light it!” says the Wolf.
“Not here,” says the Dwarf, and he surveys the ruined city before finally choosing a collapsed hovel. Like the others buildings, it had been destroyed long ago, but he should be able to set fire to the rubble. And, more importantly, it’s far, far from the palace.
“Keep clear,” he says, and firmly unwinds the Monkey from his neck.
It whimpers and points up toward the Wolf, but it goes ignored. The Wolf only has eyes for the precious, ugly lamp.
Quickly, the Dwarf rips some dried weeds from the ground, and moments later has a tiny fire burning.
The Monkey chatters louder and jabs its finger upward, but all the Dwarf’s concentration is on the lamp. He tries to keep his hands steady as he touches the spout to the budding flame.
Then, at the last moment, he puts it on the ground, safely away from the fire, and drapes his beard over his shoulder. “Lot of careless Dwarves probably made that mistake,” he mutters.
The Wolf, salivating openly, tries not to breathe, for his powerful breath could blow the fire any which way.
Still the Monkey points upward and now it shrieks, and finally the Dwarf and the Wolf are aware of the shadow descending over them.
“Pray tell,” comes an elegant, cold voice, “what are you doing with my lamp?”
“It’s a lamp, you idiot,” says the Dwarf.
They stand before a small alcove, so nondescript in this delicately wrought throne room that they would have missed it entirely had it not been for the Monkey’s pointing paw.
Now the tiny creature curls around the Dwarf’s neck, combing through his ragged beard for mites. Its eyes dart constantly toward the Wolf.
“This is what we were sent to find?” asks the Wolf. “That’s gonna help the prince?” He kicks at a pillow, then looks at the lamp once more. “That’s it?”
“Looks like it.” The Dwarf’s voice is gray, bitter.
Moments before, he’d greedily unlocked the alcove, only to find a tarnished brass lamp, not even big enough to light a room through an entire night.
“Maybe it’s one of those magic lamps,” says the Dwarf. He peers into the alcove, but there’s no secret catch or lever to reveal a better treasure.
“Maybe it stays lit for a long time… but even then, who needs it? Or maybe it burns with the all-consuming fire, and it’ll kill all the dead forever.”
“Those exist?” asks the Wolf.
The Dwarf shrugs and scowls. “Doubt it. Never heard of humans knowing about the all-consuming fire. And if they had,” he adds with grim satisfaction, “they would’ve accidentally burned themselves up long ago.”
“Just like the buildings outside,” says the Wolf, and it grins.
The Dwarf’s eyes widen. The Wolf’s always been a fool, but even fools get it right once in a blue moon. The entire desert city laid to waste, and not by mere fire. Dragonfire, he’d thought, but maybe that wasn’t the case. They didn’t find a dragon within the palace. They found a lamp.
“How does it work?” asks the Wolf. He is salivating again, but only the Monkey notices. It whimpers and tries to hide beneath the Dwarf’s beard.
“Not sure. It’s dangerous stuff. Dangerous but useful. That’s how we made Excalibur, you know.” He brings the lamp closer and studies it sharply, shrewdly.
His eyes suddenly gleam.
“What? What is it?”
“No human made this lamp. It looks like garbage, but it ain’t. It was made to look like this. It’s... you wouldn’t understand, but it’s the finest, most perfect piece of junk that was ever made.”
He holds it high and admires the dents and scratches on its cheap brass exterior. No self-respecting Dwarf would create such an ugly thing, of course, but someone had a very good reason for making this lamp so horrible. Underneath, like a diamond in the rough, hides a perfect piece of craftsmanship.
“It’s fire,” says the Wolf. “It’s your all-consuming fire, isn’t it?”
The Dwarf hesitates and licks his lips. “Could be.” There’s a flint and steel in his pockets, and his hands tremble with the thought of lighting the lamp.
All-consuming fire! The finest, truest fire, that which can destroy anything and everything that isn’t pure. And, they say, that which is forged in the fire lasts forever and can never, ever be broken.
“Best we go outside to test it,” the Dwarf says. “This place would go up like tinder if it gets out of hand.”
The Wolf nods eagerly, and all but pushes the Dwarf from the alabaster palace.
Outside, the Dwarf blinks and scowls at the shining sun.
“Light it, light it!” says the Wolf.
“Not here,” says the Dwarf, and he surveys the ruined city before finally choosing a collapsed hovel. Like the others buildings, it had been destroyed long ago, but he should be able to set fire to the rubble. And, more importantly, it’s far, far from the palace.
“Keep clear,” he says, and firmly unwinds the Monkey from his neck.
It whimpers and points up toward the Wolf, but it goes ignored. The Wolf only has eyes for the precious, ugly lamp.
Quickly, the Dwarf rips some dried weeds from the ground, and moments later has a tiny fire burning.
The Monkey chatters louder and jabs its finger upward, but all the Dwarf’s concentration is on the lamp. He tries to keep his hands steady as he touches the spout to the budding flame.
Then, at the last moment, he puts it on the ground, safely away from the fire, and drapes his beard over his shoulder. “Lot of careless Dwarves probably made that mistake,” he mutters.
The Wolf, salivating openly, tries not to breathe, for his powerful breath could blow the fire any which way.
Still the Monkey points upward and now it shrieks, and finally the Dwarf and the Wolf are aware of the shadow descending over them.
“Pray tell,” comes an elegant, cold voice, “what are you doing with my lamp?”
Monday, February 15, 2010
Chapter Seventy-Two
Under the sea.
"Witch!" bellows the King of the Sea. He points his trident at her cave and a white-hot bolt of power crashes into the coral. The water turns cloudy and bitter.
"What have you done to my people?" he screams.
Nighttime and darkness bleed into the water. The Sea Witch arrives.
"What do you want, old man?" she spits, and casts an angry look at her home. “I’ve only ever given them their own greedy little wishes.”
"Don't play games with me, Witch," roars the King, and he turns to face her.
She’s never seen the King of the Sea in all his fury, and his presence, his power, forces her to recoil. She thought they'd had an unspoken agreement - she could prey on the fools that came for her magicks, and he would leave her in peace... in return for some matters left unspoken.
But clearly, the agreement has ended.
The King of the Sea still bleeds. Patches of his white beard are stained a brownish red. He's been attacked by something. Not sharks. Barracudas?
The Sea Witch realizes he’s still waiting for an answer, and she feels the first tricklings of fear. There’s something in the King’s eye that brings to mind tsunamis, waterspouts, and death.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Your Majesty. I'm just a simple woman! I would never send anything to attack..."
"Lies!" he screams, and unleashes another bolt in her direction. The Witch sprays more ink and propels herself away.
"No, I swear it!" she cries, all the more frightened because she is innocent, and has no idea what sort of malevolence has come to the Seventh Sea and dared attack its king.
Frantically, she tries to think of any spells that might save her, but she is a specialist in trickery and deception, not raw power. Nothing alive under the ocean can match the King’s trident.
He swims toward her, the golden prongs stained with blood. "Your oath means nothing, Witch!"
She shrinks deeper into the inky shadows of the water, and the voice that begs is quite unlike her usual milky purr. “Please...”
"You've killed my people," he snarls, and he stabs at her with the Trident. Although she raises her powerful, flabby arms to protect her face, she is cut through.
"You've killed my kingdom!" he screams, and stabs again.
"You've... killed... me."
The Sea Witch doesn't answer.
The King of the Sea stares at her for a long time. The water clears of ink and blood and coral. His breathing calms. The rage in his eyes fades into an uncaring, vacant gaze, and his brow unfurrows, free from the pain and suffering of his people.
And then he drifts, slowly, toward the shredded corpse of the Sea Witch, and he eats.
"Witch!" bellows the King of the Sea. He points his trident at her cave and a white-hot bolt of power crashes into the coral. The water turns cloudy and bitter.
"What have you done to my people?" he screams.
Nighttime and darkness bleed into the water. The Sea Witch arrives.
"What do you want, old man?" she spits, and casts an angry look at her home. “I’ve only ever given them their own greedy little wishes.”
"Don't play games with me, Witch," roars the King, and he turns to face her.
She’s never seen the King of the Sea in all his fury, and his presence, his power, forces her to recoil. She thought they'd had an unspoken agreement - she could prey on the fools that came for her magicks, and he would leave her in peace... in return for some matters left unspoken.
But clearly, the agreement has ended.
The King of the Sea still bleeds. Patches of his white beard are stained a brownish red. He's been attacked by something. Not sharks. Barracudas?
The Sea Witch realizes he’s still waiting for an answer, and she feels the first tricklings of fear. There’s something in the King’s eye that brings to mind tsunamis, waterspouts, and death.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Your Majesty. I'm just a simple woman! I would never send anything to attack..."
"Lies!" he screams, and unleashes another bolt in her direction. The Witch sprays more ink and propels herself away.
"No, I swear it!" she cries, all the more frightened because she is innocent, and has no idea what sort of malevolence has come to the Seventh Sea and dared attack its king.
Frantically, she tries to think of any spells that might save her, but she is a specialist in trickery and deception, not raw power. Nothing alive under the ocean can match the King’s trident.
He swims toward her, the golden prongs stained with blood. "Your oath means nothing, Witch!"
She shrinks deeper into the inky shadows of the water, and the voice that begs is quite unlike her usual milky purr. “Please...”
"You've killed my people," he snarls, and he stabs at her with the Trident. Although she raises her powerful, flabby arms to protect her face, she is cut through.
"You've killed my kingdom!" he screams, and stabs again.
"You've... killed... me."
The Sea Witch doesn't answer.
The King of the Sea stares at her for a long time. The water clears of ink and blood and coral. His breathing calms. The rage in his eyes fades into an uncaring, vacant gaze, and his brow unfurrows, free from the pain and suffering of his people.
And then he drifts, slowly, toward the shredded corpse of the Sea Witch, and he eats.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Chapter Seventy-One
Wasting no time in his victory over the tiger, the Dwarf jerks the spear-point from its skull. Weapon held before him, he stalks into the throne room, a scowl marring his face.
They’ve come all the way here, to the farthest edges of the hottest desert, to “help the prince.” And what have they found? A city destroyed. A palace unlocked. And a throne room overrun.
He scans the wide and airy room, empty save one person in the corner. Once she was a graceful young woman. Reaching pathetically toward the ceiling, she would climb the wall if it weren’t so smooth. Her fingers constantly pry at the stone, digging for any sort of handhold.
She doesn’t notice that one foot has lost its soft, curly-toed slipper, and most of her blue silks have ripped away. Evidence enough for the Dwarf that she is dead.
But what’s kept her distracted from the living prey that’s come through her door? Doesn’t matter, really. He gestures to the still-cowering Wolf in the corridor that the room is safe.
“Keep an eye on her,” he mutters. “And make sure no one comes in after us.”
Without waiting for an answer, the Dwarf walks over to the scant remains of a body. He has no need to be cautious - its head is missing. Most of it is missing, in fact, probably eaten long ago by the tiger.
Probably wasn’t the prince. Not in those street rags. And his curved sword doesn’t seem special in any way.
Blocking out the scratch-scratch-scratch from the blue-silked woman, the Dwarf takes out the golden key and frowns. All this work, all this trouble, for nothing.
The Wolf chuckles to himself, causing the Dwarf to look up.
“What’s so funny?” he whispers.
“Look,” says the Wolf. He points with one claw up to one of the alcove windows.
“That’s what she’s grabbin’ for - her lunch,” says the Wolf, and then the Dwarf’s eyes make it out. He’d taken it for a shadow, but it’s a small... something. Curled into a tight ball on the small ledge. Beneath, the woman reaches and scratches patiently.
“Oh, for the love of...” the Dwarf snorts and mutters to himself, and moments later cleans her blood from his blade.
He looks up at the shape. “Y’can come down now,” he says, but it doesn’t move.
“It’s too weak,” says the Wolf. His nose twitches - the better to smell with - and he smacks his lips. “Or scared. Yeah, come on down so we can eat you, instead."
The Dwarf gives a disapproving grunt.
“What?” snarls the Wolf. “You had no problems with eatin’ kittens and the like.”
“That was different. You killed ‘em, I just ate ‘em. They couldn’t defend themselves, but that’s the way of the world. Don’t mean I have t’like it.”
It ain’t fair, thinks the Dwarf, but who ever said the world was? None of these people asked to die. No one ever does, yet they still die. And the living have to survive somehow, too, don’t they?
“But that thing,” says the Dwarf, with a turn of his nose at the window, ”it survived. It deserves better. Besides, we got plenty of food and water here.”
“Bah,” spits the Wolf. “He wouldn’t have been more than a mouthful, anyway.”
The Dwarf raises his polearm, blade in his hand, so that the handle taps gently on the windowsill.
“You all right?” he growls, not unkindly.
The creature stirs and looks down at the Dwarf with bulging brown eyes. Then it gazes at the Wolf, who is sniffing doubtfully at a platter of long-rotted fruit.
“He ain’t gonna hurt ya,” says the Dwarf. Balancing the weapon with one hand, he fishes in his pockets with the other. Finally pulls out some pecans - sour, though - he’d found somewhere.
The brown eyes widen even more, and it reaches out with a tiny, stick-thin arm for the polearm’s handle. It takes several seconds, but finally it wraps its spidery limbs around the pole, and the Dwarf lowers it.
“Good boy,” he says gruffly. He takes the waterskin off his shoulder as the monkey desperately eats the pecans. They are almost as big as its head.
“Eat up, but don’t drink too much or you’ll regret it. Just a little at a time does the trick.”
“It can’t talk,” says the Wolf.
“Just keep an eye out,” says the Dwarf.
“Now tell me,” he says, as the monkey gazes at him with rapt attention. It sucks greedily from the waterskin as the Dwarf reaches around his neck and produces the golden key. “Do you know what this opens?”
And the Dwarf smiles thinly as the monkey nods.
They’ve come all the way here, to the farthest edges of the hottest desert, to “help the prince.” And what have they found? A city destroyed. A palace unlocked. And a throne room overrun.
He scans the wide and airy room, empty save one person in the corner. Once she was a graceful young woman. Reaching pathetically toward the ceiling, she would climb the wall if it weren’t so smooth. Her fingers constantly pry at the stone, digging for any sort of handhold.
She doesn’t notice that one foot has lost its soft, curly-toed slipper, and most of her blue silks have ripped away. Evidence enough for the Dwarf that she is dead.
But what’s kept her distracted from the living prey that’s come through her door? Doesn’t matter, really. He gestures to the still-cowering Wolf in the corridor that the room is safe.
“Keep an eye on her,” he mutters. “And make sure no one comes in after us.”
Without waiting for an answer, the Dwarf walks over to the scant remains of a body. He has no need to be cautious - its head is missing. Most of it is missing, in fact, probably eaten long ago by the tiger.
Probably wasn’t the prince. Not in those street rags. And his curved sword doesn’t seem special in any way.
Blocking out the scratch-scratch-scratch from the blue-silked woman, the Dwarf takes out the golden key and frowns. All this work, all this trouble, for nothing.
The Wolf chuckles to himself, causing the Dwarf to look up.
“What’s so funny?” he whispers.
“Look,” says the Wolf. He points with one claw up to one of the alcove windows.
“That’s what she’s grabbin’ for - her lunch,” says the Wolf, and then the Dwarf’s eyes make it out. He’d taken it for a shadow, but it’s a small... something. Curled into a tight ball on the small ledge. Beneath, the woman reaches and scratches patiently.
“Oh, for the love of...” the Dwarf snorts and mutters to himself, and moments later cleans her blood from his blade.
He looks up at the shape. “Y’can come down now,” he says, but it doesn’t move.
“It’s too weak,” says the Wolf. His nose twitches - the better to smell with - and he smacks his lips. “Or scared. Yeah, come on down so we can eat you, instead."
The Dwarf gives a disapproving grunt.
“What?” snarls the Wolf. “You had no problems with eatin’ kittens and the like.”
“That was different. You killed ‘em, I just ate ‘em. They couldn’t defend themselves, but that’s the way of the world. Don’t mean I have t’like it.”
It ain’t fair, thinks the Dwarf, but who ever said the world was? None of these people asked to die. No one ever does, yet they still die. And the living have to survive somehow, too, don’t they?
“But that thing,” says the Dwarf, with a turn of his nose at the window, ”it survived. It deserves better. Besides, we got plenty of food and water here.”
“Bah,” spits the Wolf. “He wouldn’t have been more than a mouthful, anyway.”
The Dwarf raises his polearm, blade in his hand, so that the handle taps gently on the windowsill.
“You all right?” he growls, not unkindly.
The creature stirs and looks down at the Dwarf with bulging brown eyes. Then it gazes at the Wolf, who is sniffing doubtfully at a platter of long-rotted fruit.
“He ain’t gonna hurt ya,” says the Dwarf. Balancing the weapon with one hand, he fishes in his pockets with the other. Finally pulls out some pecans - sour, though - he’d found somewhere.
The brown eyes widen even more, and it reaches out with a tiny, stick-thin arm for the polearm’s handle. It takes several seconds, but finally it wraps its spidery limbs around the pole, and the Dwarf lowers it.
“Good boy,” he says gruffly. He takes the waterskin off his shoulder as the monkey desperately eats the pecans. They are almost as big as its head.
“Eat up, but don’t drink too much or you’ll regret it. Just a little at a time does the trick.”
“It can’t talk,” says the Wolf.
“Just keep an eye out,” says the Dwarf.
“Now tell me,” he says, as the monkey gazes at him with rapt attention. It sucks greedily from the waterskin as the Dwarf reaches around his neck and produces the golden key. “Do you know what this opens?”
And the Dwarf smiles thinly as the monkey nods.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Chapter Seventy
“He isn’t here,” Pinocchio says at last.
For hours - much longer than necessary - he and the Candelabra have patiently searched the pirate ship. And though it teems with corpses, Gepetto is nowhere to be found.
“Perhaps the Clock was right,” says the Candelabra, “and your father is waiting in a cave somewhere, no?” He offers a hopeful smile that is lost on the little puppet.
“I suppose so,” says Pinocchio, though there is little enthusiasm in his voice. He flops onto a step crusted over with dried blood and sparkling dust, only scuttling slighty to the side as a pirate lurches by him. With a sigh, he removes the Enchanted Mirror, tucked away safely within his shirt.
“Father, where are you?” he asks, and the Mirror dazzles to life. Gepetto sleeps fitfully, still in his darkened corner of the world. A tattered piece of canvas covers his thin body. Then all goes dark.
“We’ll find him,” says the Candelabra. “We will,” it adds, this time with more conviction. It pats the puppet’s shoulder with one candlestick. “After all, we’ve come so far already!”
“And now we have a ship,” says Pinocchio. He smiles for the first time since coming onboard. “We can sail around looking for him.”
The Candelabra’s smile wavers for a moment. It had probably taken all of these dead men to sail the ship. Four individuals - two without any hands - would make for a laughable crew.
As he looks about the mess of ropes and sails, hope brightens Pinocchio’s painted eyes. “We could,” he says, and he pushes the wheel tentatively. “I bet the Lion knows all about ships.”
Unsure how to respond to this, the Candelabra simply murmurs, “Hmm.”
“And I could be captain!” says Pinocchio. Grabbing a ragged hat from the floor, he puts it over his head and turns the wheel a bit harder. “And you could be in charge of the cannons! And the Clock could sit in the crow’s nest, and the Lion could be my first mate.”
“Now, now, let us not be too hasty, mon ami. First we must get these men to abandon ship, oui?”
“Aye-aye!” says Pinocchio, and before the Candelabra can say anything else, he clatters about the sticky deck, pushing and pulling at the dead men.
Somewhat ruefully, the Candelabra allows the boy go about playing pirate for a little while longer. It waddles to the other side of the ship - port? starboard? - and flickers its wicks twice. Away on the shore, the dark figure of the Lion watches. The Clock, so minuscule, waves its hands in recognition of the signal.
The ship suddenly lists to the side, and the Candelabra nearly falls overboard.
“What happened?” it shouts.
Pinocchio, wide-eyed and baffled, guiltily hides his hands behind his back. The final link of a chain snakes behind him and rattles over the side of the ship into the calm waters below.
“I don’t know!” says Pinocchio. “I didn’t touch anything!” His nose stretches considerably.
The deck of the ship levels itself and begins to tremble. The wood creaks painfully. The pirates, agitated by the sound and motion, begin to scratch at the bloody, dusty floor.
“What the devil?” says the Candelabra, and it looks over the edge of the ship. The water is falling. Or, rather, without an anchor to hold it down, the ship is rising.
“We’re flying away!” says Pinocchio. His face contorts into a mask of grief and despair. “I don’t want to fly away! I want to find my father!”
The Candelabra looks around in shock. The pirate ship can fly?
Several of the crew stop scratching and lurch to the prow. They eagerly look ahead of them - perhaps smelling blood in the air.
The sails still billow, and without the weight of the anchor, they pull the ship forward, away from Neverland, into the bright and briny seas beyond.
“No!” wails Pinocchio. “I don’t wanna go! Not without the Lion!”
“We don’t have to,” says the Candelabra. It looks back at the beach, so far away, and can’t help but wonder what the Clock would say to this. “We can jump.”
“Oh, right!” says Pinocchio, and he grabs at the Candelabra, who shakes him off.
“You go first, I will catch up,” it says, smiling its most charming smile. “We’ll meet on the beach.” It feels some relief that its nose doesn’t grow.
When Pinocchio hesitates, the Candelabra adds, “Trust me. You will find your father.”
After gazing downward to watch Pinocchio safely hit the water (“And why wouldn’t he?” thinks the Candelabra), it rushes across the deck, down into the hold.
It doesn’t quite remember the tales of Neverland - is it difficult to find the island, or difficult to leave? Isn’t it just following the second star to the left and straight on ‘til morning? It might take only a matter of days for this ship to randomly hit that course.
And the idea of thirteen dead men on a flying ship, sailing over or crashing through any protective walls, the very thought chills the Candelabra.
Some of the crew vacantly hold their swords, though they’ll most likely go unused. Judging from their bloody beards, their teeth are now their weapon of choice.
And the possibility of unleashing more of the dead onto the world, the Candelabra can’t allow it. Maybe, it thinks, as it approaches the small barrels of gunpowder, they will sink in the ocean... but more likely, they’ll survive. Broken and battered and chattered, but still dangerous.
However, it’d be better to have them stranded in Neverland, where there’s probably none still living, than unleash them onto the remnants of the world.
The Candelabra crouches next to a pyramid of barrels, extends one candlestick to a second pyramid, and thinks its flames can reach. It makes one wish for Pinocchio, one for the Master, and one for the Lion - who will probably encounter these pirates if they ever reach shore.
Flicking its wick, it wonders what the Clock would say about this, and then the Candelabra sets fire to its destiny.
For hours - much longer than necessary - he and the Candelabra have patiently searched the pirate ship. And though it teems with corpses, Gepetto is nowhere to be found.
“Perhaps the Clock was right,” says the Candelabra, “and your father is waiting in a cave somewhere, no?” He offers a hopeful smile that is lost on the little puppet.
“I suppose so,” says Pinocchio, though there is little enthusiasm in his voice. He flops onto a step crusted over with dried blood and sparkling dust, only scuttling slighty to the side as a pirate lurches by him. With a sigh, he removes the Enchanted Mirror, tucked away safely within his shirt.
“Father, where are you?” he asks, and the Mirror dazzles to life. Gepetto sleeps fitfully, still in his darkened corner of the world. A tattered piece of canvas covers his thin body. Then all goes dark.
“We’ll find him,” says the Candelabra. “We will,” it adds, this time with more conviction. It pats the puppet’s shoulder with one candlestick. “After all, we’ve come so far already!”
“And now we have a ship,” says Pinocchio. He smiles for the first time since coming onboard. “We can sail around looking for him.”
The Candelabra’s smile wavers for a moment. It had probably taken all of these dead men to sail the ship. Four individuals - two without any hands - would make for a laughable crew.
As he looks about the mess of ropes and sails, hope brightens Pinocchio’s painted eyes. “We could,” he says, and he pushes the wheel tentatively. “I bet the Lion knows all about ships.”
Unsure how to respond to this, the Candelabra simply murmurs, “Hmm.”
“And I could be captain!” says Pinocchio. Grabbing a ragged hat from the floor, he puts it over his head and turns the wheel a bit harder. “And you could be in charge of the cannons! And the Clock could sit in the crow’s nest, and the Lion could be my first mate.”
“Now, now, let us not be too hasty, mon ami. First we must get these men to abandon ship, oui?”
“Aye-aye!” says Pinocchio, and before the Candelabra can say anything else, he clatters about the sticky deck, pushing and pulling at the dead men.
Somewhat ruefully, the Candelabra allows the boy go about playing pirate for a little while longer. It waddles to the other side of the ship - port? starboard? - and flickers its wicks twice. Away on the shore, the dark figure of the Lion watches. The Clock, so minuscule, waves its hands in recognition of the signal.
The ship suddenly lists to the side, and the Candelabra nearly falls overboard.
“What happened?” it shouts.
Pinocchio, wide-eyed and baffled, guiltily hides his hands behind his back. The final link of a chain snakes behind him and rattles over the side of the ship into the calm waters below.
“I don’t know!” says Pinocchio. “I didn’t touch anything!” His nose stretches considerably.
The deck of the ship levels itself and begins to tremble. The wood creaks painfully. The pirates, agitated by the sound and motion, begin to scratch at the bloody, dusty floor.
“What the devil?” says the Candelabra, and it looks over the edge of the ship. The water is falling. Or, rather, without an anchor to hold it down, the ship is rising.
“We’re flying away!” says Pinocchio. His face contorts into a mask of grief and despair. “I don’t want to fly away! I want to find my father!”
The Candelabra looks around in shock. The pirate ship can fly?
Several of the crew stop scratching and lurch to the prow. They eagerly look ahead of them - perhaps smelling blood in the air.
The sails still billow, and without the weight of the anchor, they pull the ship forward, away from Neverland, into the bright and briny seas beyond.
“No!” wails Pinocchio. “I don’t wanna go! Not without the Lion!”
“We don’t have to,” says the Candelabra. It looks back at the beach, so far away, and can’t help but wonder what the Clock would say to this. “We can jump.”
“Oh, right!” says Pinocchio, and he grabs at the Candelabra, who shakes him off.
“You go first, I will catch up,” it says, smiling its most charming smile. “We’ll meet on the beach.” It feels some relief that its nose doesn’t grow.
When Pinocchio hesitates, the Candelabra adds, “Trust me. You will find your father.”
After gazing downward to watch Pinocchio safely hit the water (“And why wouldn’t he?” thinks the Candelabra), it rushes across the deck, down into the hold.
It doesn’t quite remember the tales of Neverland - is it difficult to find the island, or difficult to leave? Isn’t it just following the second star to the left and straight on ‘til morning? It might take only a matter of days for this ship to randomly hit that course.
And the idea of thirteen dead men on a flying ship, sailing over or crashing through any protective walls, the very thought chills the Candelabra.
Some of the crew vacantly hold their swords, though they’ll most likely go unused. Judging from their bloody beards, their teeth are now their weapon of choice.
And the possibility of unleashing more of the dead onto the world, the Candelabra can’t allow it. Maybe, it thinks, as it approaches the small barrels of gunpowder, they will sink in the ocean... but more likely, they’ll survive. Broken and battered and chattered, but still dangerous.
However, it’d be better to have them stranded in Neverland, where there’s probably none still living, than unleash them onto the remnants of the world.
The Candelabra crouches next to a pyramid of barrels, extends one candlestick to a second pyramid, and thinks its flames can reach. It makes one wish for Pinocchio, one for the Master, and one for the Lion - who will probably encounter these pirates if they ever reach shore.
Flicking its wick, it wonders what the Clock would say about this, and then the Candelabra sets fire to its destiny.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on
Above the ship, a shadow flew
The flying Boy drew near
Coming forth, no doubt, they knew
To save his fairy dear
The cannons primed and fastened
A sovereign was the prize
Offered by the Captain
For a shot ‘tween the Boy’s eyes
Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on
The cannonball flew squarely
He fell into the sea
And though a cheer grew fairly
It died as they could see
His figure from the water
Filling crew with dread
He flew on, keen for slaughter
Alive, yet also dead
Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on
The Boy, the corpse refused to fall
His hunger was so great
Ignoring blade and cannonball
He fell on the first mate
And fed, despite the screaming
From first mate and from crew
A horrid nightmare dreaming
The number of dead grew
Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on
And cutthroat fought his brother
One living, one undead
And one would claim another
Immune to steel or lead
A desperate feast and battle
Beneath the windless sails
Fought without word or rattle
For dead men tell no tales
Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on
On bended knee, the Captain
Begged of the fairy true
To take away the deathless Boy
And spare his sorry crew
To her esteem, she tried her best
As ‘round the deck she flew
Too close she came, just like the rest
He bit her clean in two
Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on
Replacing hook for cutter
The Captain joined the fray
And there, without a shudder
He made the dead Boy pay
“The coin is mine! At last he’s done!”
The Captain laughed and cried
But of his crew, not a soul heard
For to a one, they’d died
Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on
The deck awash with dust and blood
They backed him to the mast
A mutinous crew, a hungry flood
They reached upon their last
With one last bullet blackened
And gun upon his chin
His final words to his dead mates:
“You shan’t have me! I win!”
Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on.
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