Disney Zombies

Epilogue

2010-06-17T14:39:00.002-04:00

All over the world, all over the worlds, through Doorways and lost kingdoms and the Seven Seas, the wishes of an old woodcarver and an even older wizard take hold of reality, reset the pieces of the chessboard and turn back the book to its opening page.

It is a most exhilarating sensation for all - the living and the dead and the hungry, lost souls - who return to their healthy skins and beating hearts.

The Dwarf kneels with his six brothers before the coffin of Snow White, and for a moment, he mourns for himself and for the loss of sweet Cinderella left behind.

In her tower, Cinderella wakes with a yawn, the taste of apple still on her lips. Remembering her travels with a bald-pated Dwarf and a broken Wolf, she smiles, grateful for the family she found after being abandoned by her own.

Back in his den, the Big Bad Wolf scratches at his now-stitchless chest. Next to him, his son sleeps fitfully, troubled by nightmares of the dark and watchful forest in which he died. Feeling the cub tremble, his father holds him close.

Not so far away, the Little Pig sweeps his house of brick. He wishes his own brothers - singing and loafing away, as always - were half as brave as the wooden puppet who threw stones at the Wolf in that most curious of dreams that might have been.

Deep in the Wildlands, the scarred Lion also remembers his dream - traveling with a little wooden boy and finding peace in a land that never was. From the shadows he watches Mowgli laughing with the gray sloth bear, and the sound gives him pause. Smiling sadly, the Lion dismisses his old notions - how foolish they were - of leading an army of soldiers not made up of flesh and blood.

Worlds away, his two would-be soldiers, the Candelabra and the Clock, stop their eternal argument at the sound of singing - their guest roams once more through her beloved library. The once-lonely castle bustles with excitement at her presence, and the Enchanted Mirror lies forgotten in the Master's chambers.

At the same time, another mirror, the Magic Mirror, is studied by the Queen. She would be troubled by the white strands of hair upon her head if she couldn’t remember the horrible power of the Book, which claimed her as prisoner, even in death.

And deep inside her enchanted castle, the Dark Fairy strokes her Book, the mightiest of all grimoires, its spells both tantalizing and forbidden, and she decides that instead, on this day, she’ll content herself to leave the Spell of Living Death unspoken.

For in the end, even if her chaos and destruction was undone by the Blue Fairy and the Genie, the memories will carry on in people’s nightmares. And, she thinks with a heartless smile, the remembrance of death is so much sweeter than the ultimately empty and worthless curse she once unleashed upon the world.

And in all the world, in all the worlds, perhaps it is only Merlin, so used to living backwards in time, who is untroubled by the reversal of everyone’s fortunes and fates.

Within the courtyard of a quaint castle, he calmly smokes his pipe, the Owl perched on his shoulder. Merlin chuckles quietly to himself. These dreams, he decides, are a fair price to pay, if their lives can be reborn and rewritten with the lessons and sacrifices remembered.

And, he thinks, laughing still - much to the Owl’s annoyance - that he must be a clever magician indeed if he could convince the Dark Fairy to change her mind.

“What’s so funny?” demands the Owl, but Merlin doesn’t answer, and after a while, the two are content to sit in silence and listen to the cheerful and busy song of the world.

THE END

Chapter Ninety

2010-04-26T01:03:00.002-04:00

“Please,” says Gepetto. “Please, take us home.”

The wishing star continues to twinkle, equally oblivious to the thundering storm and the old man’s prayers.

After a long, despairing look into the Enchanted Mirror, the old woodcarver slowly and painfully rises from his knees.

Perhaps in the morning, if the Blue Fairy doesn’t come, when the Blue Fairy doesn’t come, he’ll tell his son that this is their home now, and the wish was granted after all.

The belly of a monster - of a dead monster - isn’t much, but the two are together once more, and that’s all that should matter.

Pinocchio keeps his innocent gaze upon the Mirror, smiling slightly.

“I think it’s working,” he whispers, and holds it up for his father to see. The star shines brightly, as it has for centuries, as it will for centuries.

“I’m sure it is, Pinocchio,” Gepetto says with a sad smile. He tousles the boy’s head, but Pinocchio's wooden hair cannot move. “Now why don’t we go to sleep, and things will be aright in the morning.”

And the old man trudges toward the pathetic planks and pieces of flotsam that protect him from the dead still lurking within Monstro.

The wind continues to howl as another storm churns the Seventh Sea. Monstro groans a dull roar in protest of the crashing waves, towering even over the great beast itself. There is the noise of ever-rushing water, peculiar when heard from within the caverns of Monstro.

Gepetto shivers, and the change in the air causes him to wonder. What breeze would there be in here, inside a creature that no longer breathes, but only eats? Where would the wind come from?

Pinocchio’s smile grows wider. “It’s working,” he says again, and grabs hold of his father’s hand. “She’s coming!”

The storm hits them suddenly, immediately, against the laws of nature and weather, for the typhoon, the hurricane, the rain and the wind and the lightning, it is all there inside Monstro, coursing through its belly.

The wind catches hold of Pinocchio, grabbing him, ripping at him, snatching him from the hands of his father. Gepetto is unable to cry out or scream, for the world has gone silent in a mess of water and wind, and Pinocchio is pulled, screaming, into the darkness, through the inky blackness of the bottom of the sea, and momentarily, the Mermaid is with him once more, holding him close in her soft and sure arms, as the water becomes lighter, brighter, warmer, calmer, the waters of Neverland, within her own little house of treasures, and there is the hook, here is the Mirror in his shirt, he bobs in the cold and dark waters of night, only to fall upwards, upwards and dry and even the explosion of the pirate ship is nothing compared to the rushing of the wind and of the storm and of time, and Pinocchio is pulled, ever so briefly, across the decks of the Jolly Roger, only to swim out once more, touching for a moment the polished gold of the lost Candelabra, and they are on the beach again, all of them, the Lion and the Clock and the Candelabra and the little wooden boy, chasing - or being chased by - those poor, lost, dead boys in their animal skins, and they walk and run past trees and bushes and blades of grass, and there is for one bright and shining moment the Doorway marked Neverland, and the world is so different as they march still, trapped in silent and minute conversations as the wind funnels them ever backward, through another Doorway, to the lonely castle of the Beast, where a rifle shot goes unnoticed and blood drips from the Lion’s mouth into the corpse of the hunter, alive again and walking cautiously out the door, but they rush just as cautiously after him, the Lion and Pinocchio, through empty forests, past dying towns, and the ground puffs up as bullets fly through the air and back toward their owners, unobserved by the duo, and another Doorway, and tears fall into the puppet’s eyes once more when the Lion stalks off into the shadows, for Pinocchio is alone, alone, abandoned by his friend the Little Pig, as he crawls through the top of a Doorway, seeing the Little Pig alive and stout once more, methodically unbricking the Doorway, and there is a moment where he sees the Big Bad Wolf, all teeth and eyes and tongue, away from the Castle of the Door, down the roads of his old lands, hurling rocks at the Wolf, and crying by the side of the road, where the Little Pig departs for his own destiny, leaving Pinocchio to cry and wander and sit by a well, surrounded by the dead, then to find himself at sea once more on that horrible island where boys turn into jackasses, the fun and games and the smoke and the liquor and the boat ride back to his hometown, where people bustle by silently, as that friendly fox and cat advise him not to go to school but to play and enjoy life, then they are gone as well, for Pinocchio is pulled, skipping innocently, into the shop of Gepetto, where he sits at his workbench, and suddenly the storm and wind and magic disappear, sound returns, the sound of the townsfolk, the ticking of the cuckoo clocks, the whistling of his father, well-fed and clean and amazed to find himself hard at work on a toy soldier, and his son leaps into his lap and says:

“It came true, Father. We’re home.”

Chapter Eighty-Nine

2010-04-22T20:53:00.003-04:00

Merlin’s frail and mottled fingers grab the Dwarf’s callused hand. With his other hand, the wizard takes hold of the Wolf’s scratchy paw.

His smile comes across as a grimace, cold and dead in the fairy light. "Stand strong, my friends," whispers Merlin. "This will all be over soon."

They stand before the chamber of the Dark Fairy, a room not bound by the laws of time and space. A room for fairykind, never meant to be seen by foolish mortals. It is larger and darker and truer and yet more of a dream than anything else in this castle.

It takes a moment for the Dwarf’s burning eyes to adjust to the magic. The purple and yellow hues remind him of the poisonous fumes found in caves, or of the acid that is used to foul gold.

“Just tell me what to do,” says the Dwarf. He drops his voice to a growl in the hopes that it will not tremble.

“Hold her off,” says Merlin. “Whatever it takes." He sighs. "Good-bye, my friends," he says, and lets go of their hands.

As one, the Dwarf and the wizard run in opposite directions. The Wolf remains transfixed at the sight before him, at the godlike Dragon in the infinite room.

How dead she is, how horrible. And her serpent stink is amplified by the odor of rotted flesh, of the grave made living, and over all this is the terrible smell of magic - dark, otherworldly magic that doesn’t care about the fates and follies of any mortal.

Merlin, so nimble for a man his age, leaps across the ever-shifting ground and makes for the great Book on its pedestal of bone and stillborn demon. One hand stays by his belt as he rubs the Lamp for his final wish.

The Dwarf rushes toward a comforting glint on the ground - a forgotten Sword and Shield that lie at the Dragon’s twisting feet. They glow with a different light, a light of goodness and kindness, of virtue and truth. These are far nobler, he decides, than the common iron poleaxe in his hand.

The Dragon, the Dark Fairy, the magic, the spirits, all slaves of the Book, remain patient and clever. They sense the waiting power of the Genie, they see him inside his Lamp, already vibrating and humming, and they will protect the Curse.

The Dwarf is nothing. The Wolf is nothing. It is the old man who must be stopped. And the Dragon leans forward, a tower within a cavern, her skeletal mouth snapping and slathering.

Unaware of anything except for the beast, the Wolf has been breathing heavily, huffing and puffing, and before the throne-like jaws can impale themselves upon Merlin, the Wolf blows at the wizard with a mighty gale.

Merlin flies across the chamber, a scarecrow in a nightgown. His hat and spectacles fall to the ground, and yet without them, he appears less silly, less a doddering tutor and more a true wizard.

“Two weapons,” says the Dwarf. One enchanted, one made of cold iron. A final test for him, then. One is enchanted to pierce dragonhide, surely, and the other is the bane of fairykind. Which, though, is he fighting, Dragon or Dark Fairy?

He spits and takes up the Sword, though he keeps the poleaxe in his left hand. No need for the Shield, he figures, and he hacks with both weapons at the Dragon’s claw.

She doesn’t notice, and the Dwarf looks up at the ripped chasm where the beast’s innards should be. He nods grimly. She’s dead, like all the others, free from pain and responsiveness, only a mouth and a hunger.

The Wolf watches dazedly, hungrily gulping at the horrible air. Her snaking neck writhes and turns toward the screaming little Dwarf. The air around him buzzes with the tang of cold iron and the hum of good magic.

The Dragon roars a challenge of her own, a raspy, hollow laugh that is more spirit than any corporeal sound, and she breathes a foul yellow fire. The air is poisoned with the horrible scent of burning flesh and hair.

The Dwarf, unprotected by the Shield, screams as he dies, burning, smelted like a jewel, fierce and unafraid. Though the flesh melts form his skin, he hurls his weapons, the Sword and the iron axe. One disintegrates in the wicked blaze, the other flies through the fire and strikes true into the skull of the Dragon, even as the blackened bones of the Dwarf clatter to the ground.

Merlin is at the pedestal. He feverishly reads the Book, running his fingers along the forbidden words and turning the unholy pages. The Genie hovers over his shoulder and reads along. Together, they seem to know what they are looking for, and they turn to an incantation read only once before.

They do not see the claw of the Dragon, a puppet pushed and wielded by spirits and forces from realms beyond. It reaches for the old man. The Wolf has barely the breath to scream, and Merlin is snatched away, surprised and dismayed. He looks down at the Book, but without his spectacles, he cannot read the all-important words.

Silently, Merlin is lifted toward the abyss that is the Dragon’s maw, yet he stares calmly, knowingly at the Wolf.

Before he can decide otherwise, the Wolf runs, ragged and breathless. He doesn’t know where. Surely not toward the foul Book, so full of repellent smells and sounds - for only the Wolf’s ears can hear the screaming of the souls whose flesh provided its pages, whose blood provided its ink - and then the horrible item is in his paws, held aloft over his head.

There is no air left in the cavern, none in his lungs, but somehow he huffs and puffs and blows the Book towards Merlin - away from his life, away from his death, too far to be thrown, too far for anything except his mighty breath. He hardly notices his lungs fill with blood as the wizard catches the Book.

Weakly, the Wolf smiles a fanged smile, despite smelling the old man’s blood and burst entrails, despite seeing the Dragon's clenching claw, despite hearing the snapping and crackling of Merlin’s brittle bones. For over that, he can hear the bubbling, slushing voice of the wizard as he reads the magic words and wishes his final wish with his final breath "to undo the curse from this and from all worlds."

There is a booming thunderclap, a Genie’s laugh, a Dark Fairy's wail, then the magic dies and all goes dark forever.

Chapter Eighty-Eight

2010-04-12T16:31:00.003-04:00

“Pinocchio?”

The old man's voice, so unused to the foul, salted air, is little more than a husk. There's been no need to speak since being swallowed by Monstro.

“Father, it’s me!” Pinocchio sloshes across the briny water, and at first Gepetto raises his stave warily, so accustomed is he to the dangers of this new world. But then he realizes if his son can speak, he must be alive. The undead only growl.

“Pinocchio, my son!” Gepetto drops the stave to his feet and lifts Pinocchio high. Tightly, ignoring the splinters and the rumble of rushing waters, they embrace.

“Oh, Father, I’ve missed you so much!”

"As have I. But you look so different now! You're... different."

Not that it's possible for a little puppet made of pine to actually grow, but Pinocchio has changed since those long-ago days in the shop. His skin is no longer smooth and sanded. He is cracked in several places, and a tiny musket ball is lodged into his chest, but he is alive.

How lucky he is, thinks Gepetto, to be immune to all that has happened.

"You look different, too, Father. You're so skinny!"

Gepetto chuckles. "That I am. But look, my clever boy has found me!” He refuses to let go of Pinocchio's hand. If this is a dream, it's one he will not give up easily.

“I thought I was doomed to spend the rest of my days alone, but now you’re here.”

Pinocchio smiles modestly, and would undoubtedly blush if he were able. “Well, I had help."

“There are more of you?” says Gepetto. He peers across the cavern, but their world is silent save for the eternal rush of water and the inner gurglings of Monstro.

“No, Father, it’s just me. It was too dangerous for my friends to come here.”

“Of course, of course. I understand.”

The woodcarver barely remembers the destruction that led him here. It was a storm, perhaps stirred up by the beast’s tail. There was rain, a heavy crash, louder than the thunder and the waves, louder than anything he ever heard. And then there was the horrible crack of wood – the ship’s mast, perhaps – something struck him in the head, and he woke up within the belly of the beast.

He never encountered any of the other crewmen. What were the odds that any could survive such a journey? And who would walk through the mouth of death for the sake of escorting a puppet to his father?

“But now that we’re together,” Pinocchio says over his father’s thoughts, “we can leave here and fix everything and find the Lion and turn the Beast back into a prince and help everyone!”

“Leave here?” asks Gepetto. He smiles as kindly as he can. “My son, how can we leave? I’m not like you, I’m made of flesh and blood. If we go near Monstro’s mouth, surely he'll chew me up.”

“Father,” Pinocchio says patiently, “you wished for me to come to life. Just wish us out!”

He sits in his father's arms, smiling such a trusting smile, no doubt or despair clouding his painted eyes, that it breaks Gepetto’s heart.

“Father? Why are you crying?”

“Am I?” says Gepetto. “It must be the salt air... it stings a little.” His nose does not grow.

“I can't... I mean, I don’t know if it’ll work, Pinocchio,” says Gepetto. “I, I… There is no wishing star here.” He looks forlornly at the wet walls that make up his world’s sky.

To his surprise, Pinocchio laughs. He reaches within his shirt and pulls out a silver mirror.

With eyes tightly closed, he says, “Show us the wishing star,” and the Enchanted Mirror dazzles with a dark blue light.

“The sky!” gasps Gepetto. He can see stars, twinkling as they always have and always will, indifferent to the suffering of the world, giving light to the living and the dead alike.

One star is greater than the others, yet its light is more subdued. It pulses faintly, as if to sigh and mourn over that which has been lost, and it is to this star that - after an encouraging nod from Pinocchio - Gepetto addresses these words:

“Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight.”

He takes a deep breath, looks at his son, so peaceful and at ease, and gives his wish. “Please,” he says. “Please, take us home.”

Head bowed, he keeps his eyes closed, and he wonders what he'll say to Pinocchio when the wish doesn't come true.

Chapter Eighty-Seven

2010-04-08T13:59:00.003-04:00

“So, you have come,” whispers a voice, cold and beautiful.

The fairy lights fade to nothingness. The Dwarf and Wolf stop cold.

“It’s her,” says the Dwarf. His innards turn to ice, his limbs suddenly frozen and shaking. “The Queen.”

“Stay calm,” says Merlin, his voice unpleasantly loud and booming in the corridor. “She cannot hurt us, and she knows it. Fairy tricks.”

Through the closed, round doors - made of cold iron, the Dwarf observed, one of the few metals sturdy against magic - floats something, someone, though they cannot quite see her with their eyes. That she drifts through such a barrier without any difficulty makes them feel very nervous, indeed.

She is like a spiderweb lost on a breeze. Insubstantial and bare, seen only momentarily in the sunlight. And here in the dark, she is all but invisible.

And yet the Dwarf is certain she only has nine fingers.

“Don’t be a fool,” says the apparition that was once the Queen. She lazily gestures with her insubstantial arm, and a horrible pressure, the weight of a castle, presses against Merlin’s heart.

“Fairy tricks,” Merlin struggles to say. He holds a gray and withered hand up to his chest, and crumples against the wall.

And yet the Wolf suffers most, for all animals are cursed with the ability to see into the spirit world. Her smell - death and blood and magic - is suffocating, worse than the forests of the dead, worse than the rotting giant. The banshee comes closer, ripped and bloodless, cursed and consumed - he would run if his legs would only listen.

“And,” says the Queen as she drifts toward Merlin, “you’ve brought me a gift.” Her hollow eyes fall to the Lamp hanging from the wizard's belt.

“Wish her away,” says the Wolf. He would huff and puff if he could only breathe. His once powerful lungs have shrunk in her presence, and there is not enough air in the room, in the world, to blow away her ghost.

“No,” grunts Merlin. He presses farther into the wall, away from the hungry hands of the Queen. “That’s what she wants, for me to waste it.”

“Give me the Lamp,” whispers the Queen. The wizard turns his sweating face away, but her chill is everywhere.

“Why?” shouts the Dwarf suddenly. He still foolishly holds onto his useless polearm. “What do ya want it for?”

Her spirit turns slightly away from Merlin and floats serenely in front of the Dwarf. To the Wolf’s eyes, she coils like a snake.

“Ya cain’t use it,” he continues, his breath visible. He forces himself to take a step toward the round doors. “Yer dead. Ya cain’t wish for nothin'.”

She hisses, and a brittle pain melts through the Dwarf’s bones. His heart stops mid-beat. But as the darkness closes in upon him, he remembers Snow White and Cinderella, unjustly poisoned by the Queen, and his heart angrily resumes beating.

“Merlin was right,” he says, and he falls against the iron doors. They scrape open. “Ya cain’t hurt us. Yer just a ghost.”

She drifts closer, eyes blazing, and the Dwarf forces himself to laugh a rusty chuckle. “Yer nothin’. Ya ain’t even a fairy trick. Yer just dead and you don’t know it.”

And the Queen’s essence, which subsisted on the power of the Dark Fairy's Book, sees what little remains of her body. Just scraps of her traveling cloak, really, and her bloodless, fleshless hands, still bound to the magic of the Book.

And the chill is gone. Blood flows once more through their bodies, rapidly warming them, and the Wolf can breathe once more.

“Well done, old boy,” says Merlin. He wipes at his forehead with the dirty sleeve of his robe, and calmly walks toward the blackness of the final room.

Chapter Eighty-Six

2010-04-01T10:09:00.002-04:00

There's a most disagreeable feeling - fading, emptying, disappearing - and then just as suddenly they stand before the Dark Fairy's castle.

Behind them is the forest of thorns and brambles, deep and thick and sprawling. The smell of earth and death is all too reminiscent of the many graves the Dwarf has made.

The castle is wreathed in vines that writhe like lazy serpents. The Dwarf doesn’t like it. Such buildings shouldn’t be. He’s never trusted anything made of magic, and he snorts at the dark, eternal stone.

“I do apologize,” says Merlin in his kindest voice, “but I had to have you work out the wish for yourself. It’s one of the problems of living backwards, you see.”

“Are you gonna do it again?” scowls the Wolf. His fur still bristles at the unexpected magic. “You’re not gonna send us inside and then make us figure out what to wish for?”

“No, not this time,” says the wizard, “I promise. Once we reach the source of the curse, I can handle the rest.” He pats the brass Lamp.

"One wish left," says the Dwarf. His voice is dark, accusing.

Merlin says nothing. He studies the sky for a moment, then checks the gray dirt beneath his feet and attempts to smile. It is a bland attempt.

“One wish is all I need," he finally says.

The others say nothing.

"Well, no time like the present. Let’s be off, shall we?” The Wizard resolutely steps toward the exquisitely carved doors, but the Owl alights from his shoulder.

“Oh, no, not me,” says the Owl. It flies toward a withered tree and perches in its highest branch. “I’ll stay out here, if it’s all the same to you.”

The Monkey looks at the castle, at the tree, and then scampers after the Owl. It shrugs ashamedly in response to the Dwarf’s glare.

“Oh, don’t be a coward,” begins the wizard, but the Owl defiantly closes its eyes and pretends to fall asleep.

Merlin sighs. When he speaks, his voice is softer, older. “Oh, very well, stay here. But if we don’t come out…”

The Owl opens one eye.

“Find someone. Let them know what happened to us. The Fairies, perhaps. They'll know what to do.”

The Owl closes its eye with the barest of nods.

The Dwarf takes a deep breath, spits on the ground one final time, and follows the wizard. He looks back toward the Wolf.

“You wanna stand guard out here?” he asks, his voice casual. “I know you animals don’t like magicks.” It’s a minor concession.

“Nah,” says the Wolf, his voice an octave higher than usual. "You know,” he adds weakly, “there might be treasure or somethin’.”

The doors part before them, but the Dwarf doesn’t ask if this was caused by Merlin or by something else.

Once inside, the doors silently close. The Wolf whines, “Now why’d they do that?” He cringes away from everything - the light, the floor, the portraits on the walls.

“To keep us in, dummy,” growls the Dwarf. He grips his new axe - the only item rescued from Merlin's tower - tightly, his hands itching with distaste at the clumsy iron. He doesn’t like the fairy lights, either. They make his eyes water.

“On the contrary,” says Merlin. He walks without hesitation down a wide carpeted hallway, and passes from corridor to staircase to tunnel. “It’s to keep anything else from getting out.”

“What else is in here?” asks the Wolf, but Merlin doesn’t answer.

“Don’t you eat nothin’,” says the Dwarf. “If you eat or drink anything, you’ll be trapped in here forever.” The warning is unnecessary, however. For once, the Wolf isn't hungry.

“Hey, where are we going?” asks the Wolf.

“Down,” realizes the Dwarf. It’s a familiar sensation from his youth in the mountains, although the enchanted rock ruins what would be comforting memories. “We’re descendin’ into the cliff.”

Merlin sings quietly. "Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting for fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk, trooping all together - green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather."

There are windows in these rooms, and the Wolf rushes to one. He throws it open and desperately breathes the air, only to realize it is as false as the light and the illusory skies beyond. The smell burns his nostrils.

“I told you to wait outside,” says the Dwarf.

“I’m fine,” whines the Wolf, though he is suddenly thirsty for water. Real water, flowing in a stream, unsullied by the stink of man or magic. “But do we have to go underground?”

“We do, I’m afraid,” says Merlin softly. “Can’t you feel it? Listen, my friends, and you’ll see. The castle is alive.”

For the Dwarf and Wolf, it’s a sensation they wish they could block out, the pulsing life-force of magic, somewhere deep within, creating illusions both fine and detestable.

This is Merlin’s territory, not theirs, and they are worlds away from any forest or mountain cave.

"Wee folk, good folk, trooping all together..." The song whispers from the walls in a voice old and young, dead and alive.

“It knows we’re here. Oh, yes, it does,” continues Merlin. “Such deep magic from so long ago.

“It makes one wonder,” he continues in a dreamy voice. “Who is the tool and who is the builder? Is it the spellcaster who has the power, or is it the spell?”

The Dwarf and Wolf exchange glances. Perhaps it isn’t just food or drink that can enchant the unwary intruder.

“Merlin…” begins the Dwarf, but he is unheard.

“Perhaps I will know more when I grow to be a young man. But that was long ago for you two. Your past, my future, you see.” He sighs deeply, and a wall fades from sight to reveal yet another descending staircase. Signs and symbols twinkle faintly from Merlin's robes, no longer faded but shining as the sea.

“Perhaps,” he adds, “I will create all this, at the dawn of time, at the height of my youth and power. And now I come, in my senile, inexperienced winter, to challenge my future legacy.”

Merlin looks at his companions, a cruel smirk across his face. The lines around his eyes have faded, and his coarse beard quivers with life. He is taller.

“With nothing more than a Dwarf and a talking beast! This is what comes to fight the Apocalypse? This is all that remains to defeat me?” His words echo in the singing wall.

His smile grows colder, and his fingers brush against the tarnished Lamp hanging from his belt. Merlin jumps slightly at its stirring warmth, and it seems to the Dwarf that the fairy lights dim by the tiniest amount.

“Nonsense,” he says in a much gruffer, wearier tone. “What was I saying? Humbug, whatever it was. Fairy tricks, that’s all.” His voice betrays the slightest of trembles, and he grips the Lamp more firmly.

The wizard sighs. He is old and dusty once more.

Chapter Eighty-Five

2010-03-29T23:59:00.001-04:00

Under the sea.

Beneath the waves, beneath all light, Pinocchio trudges through the silt and the slime. And once again, he finds himself alone.

No, not alone, he thinks, because somewhere in this dark abyss swims Monstro.

The Mermaid was torn by the decision, but she left Pinocchio some days ago. As desperate as she was to find any survivors, it was just too dangerous, they both decided, for her to swim anywhere near the great beast.

“He might swallow you whole,” she said, “but I don’t think he’d do the same to me.”

The thought of other Merfolk in Monstro's stomach is tantalizing but horrible, and Pinocchio swore to tell them about the safe waters of Neverland.

And so he completes his journey on foot, step by heavy step. He doesn’t mind the chains draping from his body - they keep him from floating away. He hopes that Monstro can hear him clanking and clinking, and even now the great beast might be swimming toward him with an open, hungry mouth.

It's impossible to tell how long he's been traveling, now that the moon and the sun and the Clock are gone. Perhaps the Mermaid could tell by the ebb and flow of the waters, but Pinocchio had never thought to ask, and now it's too late.

At least there is some comfort in her words - that whenever someone is lost, they seem to wind up in Neverland - because right now he is most certainly lost, so far from his home.

Even his words - for Pinocchio constantly calls out Monstro’s name - have nowhere to go. Immediately, they are swallowed up by the heavy, black water. Can Monstro hear him? Is he even nearby?

The Mermaid, though she tried to hide it, was doubtful. “He travels the world,” she said. “Always moving, always eating. He could be anywhere. My people, they know… they knew of his patterns, but even then, it involved a lot of guesswork.”

“I think he’s nearby,” she after many days of traveling along a fast-moving current. The fresh wreckage, the ravaged bodies, the scales and bits of bone were too much to suggest otherwise. “But it’s an entire sea to search.”

Yet Pinocchio is nothing if not persistent. In a world devoid of day and night, he has nothing but time. There’s no need for him to sleep or eat, no more tears to shed. There is nothing left - not even the Lion - except for the darkness and the water and, somewhere, his father.

“Monstro?” There is still hope in Pinocchio’s voice, but if his calls have been heard, they go unanswered.

He takes the Enchanted Mirror from underneath his shirt and holds it tightly.

“Show me my father,” he says, and it illuminates the murky water with its magical light.

Gepetto - how old and worried he looks - is once more asleep. Scattered about him are various bits of flotsam and jetsam - bottles, metal pipes, pieces of wood leaning precariously against each other - and the whole area is crisscrossed with rope.

The undead, unused to stealth and subtlety, will not be able to reach him without falling or making noise. Pinocchio smiles at his father’s resourcefulness, when suddenly the room, the cavern, the stomach - whatever it is that Gepetto considers his world - turns and shudders and rumbles.

The old woodcarver falls from his perch and awakes with a jump. The bottles tilt to the side, shattering silently in the Mirror’s reflection, and the driftwood collapses.

Gepetto looks around wildly. He stumbles against a wall and reaches for his staff as it begins to roll away.

Around Pinocchio, the waters swirl and churn, almost as if they are trying to escape the ocean itself. There is nothing to see in the darkness, though this doesn’t stop the puppet from trying.

He can feel it rather than hear it, the harsh rush of a typhoon, the change in the water and the disruption of the tide itself.

Something bellows at him from the right, and Pinocchio is swept away, hit with the full force of a tidal wave. The chains do him no good. Pinocchio flies - who knows how high or how far - still clutching the glowing Mirror.

And Monstro is suddenly upon him - almost as big as the sea - and he swallows Pinocchio up, hungry for something, anything, and only knowing that where there is light, there is life.

Pinocchio is falling, falling, the water crushes him with a roar, and suddenly he realizes there is air, a foul reek of death and decay and salt, but it is air, and the walls press against him, soft yet strong and flapping, and Pinocchio hits the ground, deep inside Monstro.

Chapter Eighty-Four

2010-03-25T23:45:00.000-04:00

"Here?" asks the Wolf. Doubtfully, he sniffs at the air, and it is indeed full of magic.

Once, this castle had been a cheerful - if isolated - fortress surrounded by the savage forest, a perfect place for an adventuresome young boy to grow up. Now, the jousting fields are overgrown with weeds, the farmlands lie untilled, and no fire burns in the hearth.

"Yar," says the Dwarf. "We need a wizard, don't we? And this is where we'll find one. The best. Now hurry." He cautiously steps from the Magic Carpet and through the window of the tallest tower. The Monkey leaps from his shoulder and scampers before him.

The Wolf looks around and sneezes.

The room is a mess. Creaky, dusty, drafty, musty. Broken brass instruments and inventions - worth little to the Dwarf and even less to the Wolf - lie strewn about. Taxidermied animals hang from the ceiling and casually watch with glass eyes. Shelves lined with pots and cannisters, which the Monkey paws through eagerly. The floor lies spotted with bird droppings, especially over the rafters in one shadowy corner. And books, an entire library of books, so many of them that the floor sags and it’s a wonder the tower still stands at all.

But all that is of interest to them is the figure lying on the large, lumpy bed.

"Hey, you! Wake up,” says the Wolf.

“He’s dead, you idiot,” says the Dwarf, and he throws down his hat in disgust. “The Genie was wrong.”

Upon the bed lies Merlin the Magician. His long gray hands are folded calmly over his chest, his tremendous beard is neatly combed, his mousy robes are stained and creased, and one shoulder is covered in a heavy, blood-soaked bandage.

“He isn’t dead,” comes a low voice from the shadowy corner. A small owl flies across the tower and perches on one of the many antlered skulls that adorn the walls. “Only sleeping.”

“Yar, it’s a spell, I know,” growls the Dwarf. He stumps over to the window where the Carpet waits. “Sleep of death, love’s first kiss. Seen it before.”

The Owl hoots out a chuckle. “Now why would he cast something like that? Look.” It points a wing at the wizard's chest, and they notice a small bit of parchment held in Merlin’s cold hand.

The Wolf snatches it up and holds it to the light (the candles in Merlin’s tower never seem to die). He looks at the words carefully for several moments before admitting he can’t read them.

“We ain’t got time for this,” says the Dwarf. “Come on.” They are all too aware of the Giant’s thundering footsteps, half a kingdom away, but coming ever closer.

“No, wait,” says the Owl, and it plucks the parchment from the Wolf’s paws. It glides through the room and drops the note before the Dwarf.

“I can’t read this either,” he says finally. “It’s backwards.”

The Owl twitters and clucks its beak. “That’s Merlin. He lives backwards in time, you know. He was rushed when he wrote that, and old habits die hard, I suppose.”

Perching on the Dwarf’s shoulder - the Dwarf is too outraged to object - it closes one eye and slowly reads: “’Friends, I am not dead, merely dying. But if you are here with the lamp, all is not lost. Simply wake me with a wish, and we shall set about righting the wrongs of the world.’

“Hmph,” humphs the Owl. “A bit off-meter, I'd have to say, but he didn’t have time to write a masterwork.”

The Dwarf places a foot on the ledge of the window. “Well, we ain’t got any more wishes, so that’s that.” He throws a meaningful look at the Wolf and Monkey, then mutters into his beard something about finding a fairy.

After one final look around him for anything of value - though most of it appears to be junk - the Wolf starts to follow, but the Owl will not be defeated.

“Wait, wait, wait,” it hoots, and flies to the cupboard. "There's another way." It circles near the Monkey, who greedily clutches a pot of dried currants to its chest.

“You want me to kiss him?” snorts the Dwarf. He whistles for the Carpet to circle closer and gives the Owl one last contemptuous glare. “No, thanks.”

“I told you,” says the Owl as it grabs a small bottle, “this isn’t that kind of spell.”

Fluttering to Merlin's bed, it says, “This will wake him up. It'll wake anybody up.” Gently, it drops the bottle upon the wizard’s robe. The approaching footsteps of the Giant cause the bottle to tremble, and the Owl hurriedly sits on it to prevent it from falling.

“Anybody?” says the Dwarf, his voice in a different tone.

“Anybody. Just a drop will do.”

The Dwarf thinks for a moment, then rushes to the bedside. With the wave of a hand, he pushes - not unkindly - the Owl away.

Some dust falls from the ceiling rafters. “Better hurry,” says the Wolf. The ground trembles as the Giant stumbles toward the smell of blood.

Quickly, the Dwarf uncorks the bottle. The label contains a word written in the maddening, spidery letters that wizards seem to always employ.

With a practiced hand, as if he were cutting the finest jewel for Snow White’s wedding ring, the Dwarf cautiously pours a single tiny drop of the shimmering liquid into the wizard’s mouth.

“Like liquid silver,” he thinks, and he wonders if such a thing could exist, and how wonderful it would be if it did.

He casually pockets the bottle, and the liquid wriggles and slithers down Merlin's throat. Almost immediately, his pale face, so different than the smooth and porcelain features of Snow White or Cinderella, and yet so similar in their pearly death, colors and crinkles.

But something is wrong. The Dwarf can tell right away - he's seen it before - by the unfocused, bloodshot eyes of the wizard. Merlin clutches his wounded shoulder with a strangled gasp.

“Hello, my friends, and good-bye,” he whispers weakly, and the edges of his mouth twinkle into a dying smile. His eyes sharpen slightly, and they hold the Dwarf spellbound.

In that instant, he sees wisdom and mirth and such infinity that it even holds the stony heart of a Dwarf in awe. Knowledge deeper than the caverns of the earth, higher than the peaks of the mighty mountains, time of the ages, all pouring and dwindling like a snuffed candle, all ruined by one bite, poisoned into an all-consuming hunger, and yet, still the wizard smiles.

“The lamp!” hoots the Owl, and it nips at the Dwarf’s wrist.

The pain is nothing - he’s used to worse - but the words jolt the Dwarf from his thoughts. He pulls the lamp from his tunic and presses it into Merlin’s unwounded hand.

“Ah, yes,” says the wizard, and he weakly caresses the brass lamp. He sighs with his final breath, and says, almost absently, “I wish to be made whole and healthy.”

The lamp sparks to life. It trembles and twitters and glows like a brass sun and the Genie rockets from the spout, laughing and twirling and dancing.

“Hey, hey, hey!” He laughs, dressed once more in his white coat and odd facemask. “Paging Doctor Genie, paging Doctor Genie,” but he stops short and pops back to his normal self at the sight of the wizard beginning to twitch.

“Oops, sorry!” The Genie claps his hands with a mighty boom, mightier than even the Giant’s unsteady footsteps.

"Quite all right," says the wizard with a chuckle. Already whole and healthy, his skin is pink and his eyes are crisp. He clumsily removes the bandage with one hand.

“Merlin, baby!” says the Genie, now wearing dark spectacles and a shining black suit. “So good to see you, my man! We must do lunch sometime. Why don't my people call your people?”

“Shut up!” says the Dwarf. The ground shakes, and the rotting stink of the Giant seeps into the musty tower. “We’ve gotta get out of here right now. That thing moves fast. Come on, we'll explain later."

“Ever the pessimist,” says the wizard, his voice gently scolding. He hops lightly from the bed and brushes himself off. “Some things never change. Especially Dwarves!” Merlin nudges the Wolf in the ribs and winks.

Oblivious to the earthquake, he reaches for a gnarled leather suitcase. “It’s so good to be back,” he says. “Now then, where are we heading?”

“Away from here!” says the Dwarf. He snaps his fingers, and the Monkey stuffs the last of the currants into its mouth and climbs back onto his shoulder.

“Yes, but that could be anywhere, couldn’t it?” says Merlin. He points at several of his books, and they come from the shelves and waddle toward suitcase, shrinking all the while.

“There’s a Giant coming!” shouts the Dwarf, his voice dwarfed by the echoing footsteps. “Wish it away!”

The Genie looks over to Merlin eagerly. His hands prepare to clap, but the wizard shakes his head with a smile. “I’ve only got two wishes left. Can’t waste them on frivolous things like Giants, my boy.”

The Dwarf doesn’t know which is more shocking - being called a boy or the wizard's insanity. “Then we’ve got to leave!" he sputters.

He seizes a rusty iron poleaxe from a suit of armor and looks out the window. The suit of armor gasps at such impudence, but is ignored.

“I can see that,” says the wizard calmly. He opens the larder and absently throws a chunk of green cheese and a loaf of yellow bread, which the suitcase catches with a gulping mouth. “But wherever do you wish to go?”

The Genie's head goes from side to side, and he says something about forty loves.

“Just wish them all away, then!” says the Dwarf. The sunlight is suddenly blocked from the window, and a milky yellow eye stares vaguely at them. He plunges the polearm into the eye, and it slow backs away.

“Ah, it's not quite that simple, but at least we’re getting closer,” says the wizard, and he nonchalantly grasps a column as the floor tilts suddenly. The Owl flies to Merlin’s shoulder, and the Wolf skids into a corner of the tower. “You wish me to undo the undead, do you?”

“We’re going to die,” thinks the Dwarf, not for the first time, not for the last time. “And all because this blasted wizard wants to teach me some blasted lesson.”

“Yes!” is what he shouts.

“But to do that, I’d have to be at the source of the curse, wouldn’t I, Genie?”

“That’s the way it works, O Bearded One!” says the Genie.

“Then...” says Merlin over the roar of ripping stone and mortar. They tumble against the walls as the Giant tilts the tower his mouth. “I wish for you to take us there.”

Books and pillows and a chandelier and armor and paintings from many years in the future all fall through the window into the Giant’s cavernous maw, but the bodies - with the thunderclap of the Genie’s hands - have disappeared.

Chapter Eighty-Three

2010-03-22T23:48:00.002-04:00

"Faster!" screams the Dwarf, and the Magic Carpet weakly, desperately pushes through the storm with the tiniest amount of acceleration.

"We're dead, we're dead, we're dead," chants the Wolf, and though he doesn't want to, he can't help but glance at the Giant chasing them.

The Giant is a world all unto itself, an unstoppable force, a moving mountain. Its footsteps overpower the thunder, its rot corrupts the smell of the rain. And with every step - every league-spanning step - it comes closer to its meal.

"We ain't dead yet," shouts the Dwarf, but his voice is lost in the piercing wind.

He’s faced Giants before - he knows how they think. A lone Dwarf versus a Giant might be madness, but the brutes were never known for their smarts. Take out its eyes nice and quick, and it'll back down.

A dead Giant, however, is another tale altogether. Even blinded, it will pursue them as long as it can smell their blood - namely, forever.

“Of course,” he thinks, “never fought a giant while flying before.” That must count for something.

His body numb from the wind and rain, he forces the Carpet to climb higher and higher. His brief hope of breaking through the clouds is dashed - Lady Luck was never one to favor Dwarves. The Carpet stops, exhausted, at eye level with the Giant.

It reaches for them with a hand the size of a cottage.

The Dwarf pats the Carpet's sodden pile, and wraps its tassels around his gnarled hands.

“Hold on tight,” he shouts to the Wolf.

"You too," he whispers to the Monkey, which clutches desperately to his beard.

“Now drop!” says the Dwarf, and with a shake of the Carpet’s tassels, they fall from the sky.

The Monkey screams, the Wolf howls, and the Dwarf - to his surprise - laughs madly.

The giant swipes at them with its massive hand, and the ensuing rush of wind slams into the Carpet.

It is only Dwarven stubbornness that keeps him from letting go of the Carpet. The rest of his body flies into the air, the Wolf flails like a flag, and their few supplies fall away into the sky.

Now almost at the Giant's waist, the Dwarf leans into the Carpet and shouts, “Now! Through his legs!”

With an uncanny instinct, the Carpet slows down somewhat before going through the bowed legs of the Giant. It rests for one final moment until the huge hands are near - grasping and grabbing and stained with a kingdom’s worth of blood - and then it zooms through.

“And up!” screams the Dwarf, though the Carpet is already traveling upward, back into the sky, somewhat rejuvenated by its momentary rest.

Again the Wolf dares a look behind him to see the Giant bent over, reaching foolishly between his fat legs.

The Giant’s face, so close to the treetops, is suddenly attacked by a flurry of arrows. They fly into his eyes, nose, mouth, nothing more than probing mosquitoes.

It takes some time for the Giant to notice, and then it plunges its hands into the forest, more interested in the many nearby morsels of blood that hide in the trees than the retreating speck of cloth.

“There’s archers down there,” murmurs the Wolf. It cranes its neck to get a better look.

The Dwarf wishes that the Wolf hadn’t said anything, or that the storm would’ve blocked out the words, but Lady Luck was never one to favor Dwarves. He’d heard rumors, long, long ago, it feels, that there had been a refugee camp in the Forest of Sherwood, one ably defended and safe. No more.

He tries not to think of them, the brave and the weak, all taking bow and blade to the hungry mouth and legs and hands of the Giant in a last, desperate, futile battle. And though his hands twist and knot the Carpet's tassels, he does not turn back.

Chapter Eighty-Two

2010-03-18T23:00:00.003-04:00

Calmly, he pads through the forests of Neverland. Nose and whiskers quiver at the scent of his enemies. The smells, though different from the Wildlands, are still familar - life and death, prey and predator.

And yet, everything tastes different from his homeland, or the cobblestoned city, or even the castle of the Beast. This land smells alive, alive in a way even the Wildlands could never hope to be. The bursts of greenery and air from the salt-scented sea combine with a wondrousness, a dreaminess that only exists in memories that never truly were.

He inhales deeply.

The stink of corpses is there, but buried and faint. The plague is here - he's seen that firsthand - but most remains untouched and alive.

Some thing - some things, rather - have marked their territory with tiny spurts of urine. Not that it matters. They are small creatures, their squabbles over territory and shelter are beneath him and hardly worth the hunt.

More interesting are the bits of spoor he finds here and there, smelling of a bountiful diet of fish and berries. Something strange and large. Best to be avoided, if possible.

And the most unmistakable smell of all - the scent of Men. Their marks are faint and aged. They haven't been in this area for some time. Still, he notices a strand of stray hair, long and black, and a bit of worked metal lodged into a tree.

When the wind is favorable, he can smell red fire to the north, and he changes course.

He walks on, ever alert for the crunching of twigs or the throaty groans of the dead, but he remains alone. There is water to drink when he is thirsty, as several brooks make their short journey to the sea, and he’s grown used to being hungry.

In some ways he is lonely, in some ways he is not. He tries not to think of the boy and the pirate ship and the abandoned Clock. Such distracting thoughts are driven from his mind by concentrating on his surroundings - where he is, where he’s come from, where he will eventually stay - and then the inviting shade of the forest breaks off suddenly, and he is amidst familiar grass, long and yellow.

So similar is this wide field to his home that he looks around with a start, thinking perhaps all that came before was a dream or a fantasy, but behind him, like a gentle wall, is the green forest. Ahead of him are the yellow grasslands, and further beyond them are brown, rocky hills.

Truly, this is a land that never was, that never could be.

He stops short. Death is nearby. Even if it weren’t for the smell, the buzzing of flies - how they seem to prosper in this time of plague - gives the intruder away.

The grass, long an ally in the art of concealment, now hinders him, and he bounds from the forest toward the hills. The broken, hungry thing cannot match his speed, and it's a small risk in order to better see his adversary.

It follows, slinking down into the grass, but still visible. In its excitement, its tufted tail, a broken reed, sticks out sharply. A lion, of all things. Male, from the smell. And large.

In no time at all, he’s reached the edge of the yellow grass, and looks up at the sturdy brown stones that grow quickly into a mountain. Plenty of time to choose his spot, which he does with ease.

The corpse lion drags itself on three legs after its would-be prey, closer and closer to the web of its demise. Finally, it looks up, fangs permanently bared - its lips and muzzle have been chewed away.

Calmly, he presses and leans against a heavy rock. It teeters and falls and tumbles, and the dead lion does not blink or flinch, even as the stone crushes its skull.

His enemy defeated, he looks out over the yellow grasslands and lets out a roar; full, mighty, happy. There are, he’s smelled, other lions on this island. Living ones. Females. They should know of his presence.

And with this large male killed in combat, that means a change in the social order. Hopefully, it hasn’t infected the rest of the pride, but he is ready to take care of such a matter.

He thinks of the future. Perhaps the Men, those still living in the north, can be reasoned with, and might use their weapons of metal and wood against the child-corpses that still roam the forests and grasslands and beaches of this island. Perhaps they’re hunting them already.

A smile crosses his scarred face and the Lion roars again. In time, he will destroy the Doorway out of Neverland, tear it apart with his claws, and let no invader, living or dead, intrude upon his island, his kingdom, his home.

Chapter Eighty-One

2010-03-15T11:45:00.004-04:00

The Magic Carpet floats serenely over the rooftops - a sight that would be wondrous, were there anyone to see.

Even at this speed - slow and steady wins the race - the Dwarf can't help but admire how much land they've covered. From the desert kingdom to this silent, nameless city, and soon enough, through the Doorway to their homeland.

The Wolf sulks in a corner, paws folded in front of him. "I want my wishes," he growls.

The Dwarf growls back. "Not yet."

Something about the lamp, something about the Wolf, something about the Dwarf makes him hesitate to hand over his tarnished and perfect treasure. At least, for now.

"You'll get it after all this is said and done," says the Dwarf. "Then you won't have to waste 'em on any necessities." Traces of Cinderella's cunning flavor his words, and he doesn't know whether to smile or frown at how she can manipulate him, even now.

“You know what I'm gonna wish for?” asks the Wolf for the fourth time. He counts them off on his claws. "First, I want all the treasure in the world. Second, I want all the food in the world. Third, I wanna be king of the world."

The Dwarf peers off the edge of the Carpet, and spits. "Well, go and greet yer loyal subjects, your majesty."

Below them, a procession of the dead parades through the cobblestone streets, trailing after the Magic Carpet.

Taking a deep breath, the Dwarf brings one hand to his mouth and sings, “Heigh-ho…” His scratchy voice echoes through the skies. The Wolf, arms still crossed, howls in accompaniment.

“If you can hear us, answer back!” shouts the Dwarf. “Stay indoors! It isn’t safe! But answer back!”

Silence from the city, as it’s been for their entire flight. The random cry from a cat or dog would be welcome, but there is nothing. Even the birds have fled.

“Not even the crickets,” wonders the Dwarf.

“No one’s left,” says the Wolf.

“Course not,” grumbles the Dwarf. “These people were soft and foolish. Couldn’t defend their homes, probably didn’t store up their larders, at least. Probably all starved by now.”

They continue to fly, still at a cautious pace. Someone else in the Dwarf’s position might find the view breathtaking. The girl, maybe. Or Snow White. It is true, this city - so foreign to the Dwarf - spreads out like a wonderful, enormous map, but who remains to see the beauty that once lived here?

All that has been created, all that has been achieved is now lost.

“Hey,” says the Wolf suddenly. “Let’s go check on Cinderella.”

“No,” says the Dwarf flatly, and now it's his turn to fold his arms. The Wolf doesn’t know it, but the Dwarf has purposefully steered them away from the girl and the bonneted dog.

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“But it’s not that far,” says the Wolf. “I can find her. I bet I could smell her if we go a bit lower.”

“No,” says the Dwarf, louder this time.

“Why not?” repeats the Wolf, louder as well.

“Because!”

“Because what?”

“Because it wouldn’t do any good!” says the Dwarf, and he resolutely scans the gray faces in the horde. “What are we gonna do, stay there, waste some of the food and water we left ‘em? They’re fine.”

“Go there,” he adds gruffly, patting the Carpet. He points to a familiar Doorway. “But set us up on that roof first, we’re gonna need you to scout ahead and let us know if it’s safe to go through.”

The Carpet ripples in understanding, and banks toward a high, flat roof, devoid of any windows, stairs, balconies, or nearby trees that the undead could possibly climb.

“Just, you know, say hello,” says the Wolf, his voice uncertain after the Dwarf’s outburst. “Make sure she’s sleepin' all right.”

“We ain’t going back,” says the Dwarf. Stupid creature doesn’t understand. “We gotta go forward. We’ll see her after all this mess is clear. There’s just... there ain’t nothin' more we can do for her.”

If he could, he would’ve built the girl an even finer coffin than Snow White's tomb of glass and gold. Inlaid with platinum, this time, smelted from the doors of the Sultan's palace. Alabaster and marble, take those nice, fancy pillows. It’d be something.

Instead, she must make do with the creaky bed of some poor dead family, locked away in a nursery, sharing fleas and water with some other dead fool’s dog.

“Ain’t fair,” he scowls into his beard. “Ain’t fair.”

“But what if they got her?” presses the Wolf.

“Yeah, what if?” says the Dwarf, and he quickly glares back with reddened eyes. “What could we do about it, ya fool? Nothin’, that’s what. She’s fine. They’re fine.”

He turns around quickly and repeats to himself, more for his own benefit than the Wolf’s. “They gotta be,” he adds quietly.

Chapter Eighty

2010-03-11T23:32:00.003-05:00

“You’re a mermaid!” says Pinocchio. He points unnecessarily at her tail.

“Of course!” she laughs.

“You’re… Maybe you can help me!”

“By finding your friends?” The Mermaid swims back from her alcove of treasures. “Is this one of them?" She holds a copper kettle. Perhaps this is his clock or the - what's that word again? - candle's stick.

“No, no, no,” says Pinocchio absently, and he takes her hands. “You see, I’m really looking for my father. I mean, we all are. My friends and I. And all we know is that he’s near where the mermaids are, so maybe you... What’s wrong?”

The girl gently pulls away. Her wide, clear eyes cloud over. “This is where the mermaids are, now. And I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen your father. Or any surface-dwellers, for that matter.”

Nonplussed, Pinocchio shakes his head and reaches into his shirt for the Enchanted Mirror. “No, look.” He squints his eyes shut for a moment and thinks of how much he wants to be with his father again.

Light dazzles from the Mirror, illuminating the alcove, and the Mermaid peers at the image.

An old man kneels. He holds a candle. A stout cudgel rests against his knees. And he scratches and scrapes at the lichen on a dark, ribbed wall. When he has enough dark-green shavings in his hand, he brings them to his mouth. The Mirror goes dark.

“That’s him! That’s my father! And I’ve seen him fighting off dead mer-people, so you must know where he is, right?”

Her eyes grow cloudier, and she stares without seeing into the vacant Mirror. When she responds, her voice has lost some of its melody.

“I think I do,” says the Mermaid, and Pinocchio leans forward, smiling.

“I came from there, you could say,” she continues, mostly to herself. “I wanted to stay, but I was sent away by my father. And I got lost.” She remembers the rushing waters, the screams of battle, the tide pushing her away.

“And when you’re lost, this is where you end up... in Neverland.” The Mermaid picks up a fork and idly runs it through her ethereal hair. “Which isn’t so bad, I suppose. It’s mostly safe here. And at least I’m not alone. But the other mermaids aren’t like me, so I keep to myself nowadays.”

All this goes unheard by Pinocchio. “So, where’s my father?” he asks, a little too loudly.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and gently lays the fork back amidst her meager treasures. “But your father is inside Monstro.”

Chapter Seventy-Nine

2010-03-08T15:23:00.004-05:00

The Dwarf has spent several long moments pondering his next wish - after hearing the Genie's explanation of the rules and ignoring the increasingly horrible suggestions from the Wolf - and finally he speaks.

"Can you help him?" he asks, his voice oddly gentle. He points toward the dying Monkey.

“Aw, poor little fella,” says the Genie, and he is suddenly covered in a white tunic with a white paper cap on his head. A mask covers his nose and mouth and rubber gloves pop into place over his hands.

“Ol’ Doc Genie will have you good as new,” he whispers to the Monkey, but then looks up shrewdly at the Dwarf. “If that is your second wish.”

“Yar.”

“I’ll take that as a yes!” says the Genie. A flurry of magical light - through which it seems several Genies appear and disappear, all dressed in strange white outfits, some of them with long, blonde hair, and much odd beeping - and the Monkey’s head un-bruises, its ribs reconnect, and its body plumps slightly to a healthier weight.

“Bingo, bango, bongo, no tips, please,” says the Genie, and he laughs. “I’m not a mohel.”

The Dwarf stares at him blankly, and the Genie pulls at the collar which appears about his neck. “Tough crowd,” he says. “What is this, an audience or an oil painting?”

“Third wish,” says the Dwarf loudly, and the Wolf nods eagerly. “Can you get rid of the undead?”

“Yeah, yeah!” says the Wolf. “Do that! Then get to my wishes!”

“Sorry, Charlie,” says the Genie, now a spectacled, hatted fish. “I can’t kill anyone, even if they’re already dead. Them’s the rules.”

“I figured,” grumbles the Dwarf. He slaps the lamp thoughtfully against his hand. “But can't ya just undo it? Whatever caused this mess in the first place?”

“Oh, if I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I’d be a millionaire!” says the Genie. His expression - full of such foreign words like "nickel" and "millionaire" - is lost on the Dwarf, but he understands its meaning.

“I wish I could - get it, ‘wish’? No, you see, buddy,” says the Genie, and he drapes an ethereal arm around the Dwarf’s shoulders. “Maybe I could do that. Maybe...” He stretches that word out for several seconds.

“There's probably a loophole, and maybe we can work around it. But turn back time? That’s tough stuff! And I’d have to undo some serious magic! Damn it, Jim, I’m a genie, not a Hercules!” The blue-skinned arm buffs up and now belongs to a handsome man in a tunic and sandals.

“That’s big-time! And that ain’t easy, no-sirree-bob, it ain’t! And I can’t do that all by my lonesome. I’m just a small-timer! A nothing! A minor-leaguer!”

“So unless,” he continues, now sporting long hair and a beard and speaking in an unfamiliar accent, “the wish came from a powerful spell-slinger, someone whose magic could boost me up to an eleven,” the Dwarf has no idea what sort of contraption the Genie morphs into, “I’m afraid I can’t grant your wish.

“And even though you have a funny hat and a funny beard,” adds the Genie, “I don’t think you’re a wizard.”

The Dwarf fumes, and the Genie continues, “But... do either of you happen to know a powerful wizard?”

Together, the Dwarf and Wolf turn toward the crumpled corpse of the Vizier.

"It all makes sense," grumbles the Dwarf. “Right at the moment when it’s too late to do anything about it.

“A wizard sends us to retrieve his lamp. Right?” He scowls and sputters. “But he doesn’t tell us what he’s up to. Why should he? So what do we do? We kill him. We ruin our only chance of undoing this entire mess.”

“We ain't licked yet,” says the Wolf, and the Dwarf stops mid-rant.

“What do you mean?” he says, suspicious of any hope.

“Don't you remember the Queen?” says the Wolf. “Couldn’t she make the wish?”

“Oh, yeah,” says the Genie, and he becomes a female version of himself. “I’m not gender-biased! Either sex will work.”

“The Queen," growls the Dwarf, and he spits on the sand. "I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her. You'd go back to her? After leaving you to die, and doing what she did to Cinderella?"

“Yeah, well, beggars can’t be choosers,” says the Wolf.

"I ain't no beggar."

The Dwarf sits on the carpet, his feet dangling over the edge. He ignores the Monkey jumping onto his shoulder, the Wolf panting impatiently, and the Genie ticking like a clock and humming a catchy tune.

Finally, he says, slowly and carefully, “For my third and final wish, Genie, I want you to give us a list of all the people still living who are powerful enough to wish away the undead."

The Genie's smile grows and grows until, like a Cheshire cat, only his grin remains. "Great wish," he says, and he disappears amidst a sheaf of paper.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

2010-03-04T18:30:00.003-05:00

“Let the buzzards have him,” the Dwarf says to no one in particular. For good measure, he spits on the Vizier’s corpse.

The Wolf hopefully sniffs at the body.

“Forget it,” says the Dwarf. “He’s full of poison.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” says the Wolf. He can still smell the bile-like tang of magic - it would make for a most unappealing meal. “What about his magic stick, though? It could come in handy.”

He takes the golden staff from where it lies on the sand and aims the serpent’s head at some stones.

“Bang, bang!” the Wolf commands. He flicks the staff wildly. “Open, sesame! Shoot!” But the ruby eyes remain flat and lifeless.

“Leave it alone,” scowls the Dwarf. “Probably cursed. And I don’t want that thing in my sight.”

“So much for the all-consuming fire,” says the Wolf, and he tosses the staff onto the Vizier’s broken body.

Nearby, the Monkey lies motionless. The Dwarf gingerly picks it up, and his frown darkens. Too many bones are broken, and what can he do? Mending wounds had been Cinderella’s specialty.

“Black magic,” he mutters. “You see what’s wrong with people? They get so greedy, their hearts go black, and they turn into that.”

The Wolf isn’t listening. He stares up into the sky at the Vizier’s carpet. He whistles, and the carpet’s edges perk a little. With a bit of coaxing, it floats down.

“Can you believe that fool?” complains the Dwarf. He takes his woolen cap and turns it into a sling for the Monkey. “Willing to kill over his blasted lamp. Doesn’t he know we’re all in this together? Why’d he want it for himself?”

He looks over to make sure the Wolf is paying attention, then scowls. The Wolf - now sitting atop the carpet - is delighted and nervous as he floats over to his companion.

“Greed. That’s all it is,” scowls the Dwarf. “Pure, stinkin’ greed.” He gently lays the Monkey on the plush carpet, and pulls out the dingy lamp to look at it in disgust.

“Yeah, yeah,” says the Wolf absently. “But what does it do?”

“I don’t know!” growls the Dwarf. He turns it over and over in his hands. “Wish I did, but I don’t.”

But then he does. Something clicks in his mind, and the lamp buzzes and trills. It nearly jumps from his hands, but the Dwarf holds it close.

“What the heck?” says the Wolf, and he sits up to watch the dancing lamp. Smoke wafts from its spout. It doesn’t have the reek of bile that had followed the Vizier’s magic, it smells like something… good, something better, something more, like a cloud or baking bread or the moment before dawn.

The smoke - or is it steam? - does the exact opposite of normal smoke when it dissipates in the wind. It thickens, grows, comes together, becomes more real, and suddenly it is a glowing, grinning blue figure.

“That’s your first wish!” says the Genie. His smile makes up nearly half his size. “You now know just what the heck this lamp does!”

Chapter Seventy-Seven

2010-03-01T23:56:00.000-05:00

Something brushes the wooden cheek of PInocchio. He stirs slightly at the touch. Everything is cloaked in a comforting, blurry darkness. He is cold and wet and feels... strange. Light. Almost airy.

Then the half-remembered images of swimming and falling and and fire and a deafening crack that tore apart the sky flood through his memories, and he gasps.

Only there is no air. He sputters and chokes and coughs out the mouthful of water, bitter water.

Then that thing - a pair of hands - touches his cheek once more, hands that are small and smooth and strong, reaching beneath his arms, and Pinocchio is flying. Is he flying? He's lifted, carried through a blanket of blue darkness, and above him the sky lightens like an egg, more and more, until he breaks the surface of the water and hungrily, desperately gasps for air.

“Are you all right?” says a voice, and Pinocchio can finally see, free from the confines of the ocean’s depths.

It is nighttime, but the full moon shines silver light over the water. It reflects and sparkles, a million tiny mirrors...

“The Mirror!” says Pinoccho, and he pats frantically at his chest. He smiles in relief as he feels the golden handle, still safely tucked into his shirt.

Beyond him lies land, presumably still Neverland, but of the pirate ship or his friends, there is no sign. How did he get here? What had happened?

“You're alive!” says the voice. “I’m sorry, I, I didn’t know you were real.”

Pinocchio turns around, splashing slightly, and he realizes he is still being held. The hands belong to a wide-eyed girl, more beautiful than any he’d ever seen. Her red hair flows and swirls and cascades down her shoulders with the ease of the ebbing tide.

“Hello,” she says, and chuckles in spite of herself.

“Hello,” says Pinocchio, somewhat shyly. “I am real. In a way.” How long ago he’d wished to be a real live boy. And now, a wish like that would be secondary - not to mention foolish - to his true heart’s desire.

“I found you under the water,” says the girl. “I thought you were a doll, and I took you with me. But then you started coughing, and I realized you're a land-dweller. But you seemed fine for hours beforehand.”

But Pinocchio is only half listening. He’d never thought about breathing, or why he didn’t need to - just as he didn’t need to eat or drink or sleep - but the gasp and accidental inhalation of water must have triggered something.

“Where are my friends?” he asks. He scans the surface of the water, but there is no sign of the Candelabra. And off in the distance, the Lion should still be waiting on the beach. But no one is there.

“Friends?” asks the girl. “I didn’t see anyone else. A ship had sunk, and I was just looking around for anything interesting. For my collectibles.

“Oh,” she adds, suddenly realizing. “You must have been on the ship. I’m sorry, I really am, but... I didn’t see any other people.”

“They weren’t people,” the puppet blurts. “They’re like me. One is a candlestick. And back on shore there's a clock. And a lion!”

Confusion clouds her face. “I don’t know what those words mean,” she says. “A lion? Like a,” she searches for the proper word, “giant... cat?”

“Yes," he says, incredulous. Who's never a heard of a lion?

“I’m sorry,” the girl says again. “But there was no one like that.”

“Oh,” says Pinocchio. He tries not to think about being left alone again, but it’s hard. The last thing he remembers is finding the pirate ship and being so happy, so close to finding his father, and now...

“There were some other things I found,” adds the girl quickly. “Maybe one of them is your candle’s tick. Or the clock.”

Pinocchio blinks, and feels a little better, a little warmer, at her smiling, hopeful face.

He nods, and she chuckles again. “Take a deep breath!” she warns, and then sinks into the water.

Pinocchio tries not to breathe as they speed through the murky blueness, down and deep. Then he realizes he doesn’t need to breathe at all, and watches eagerly.

The girl swims as fast as a bird flies, it seems, and Pinocchio is soon surrounded by her dancing red hair. And though he can only make out wavering shadows and the occasional glistening scale, she moves without any hesitation.

At last they come to a cave - an underwater cave! Maybe the Clock was right! But immediately, Pinocchio can tell this isn’t the same place as Gepetto’s shelter.

There’s no air, for one, and it’s too, too dark. How the girl can see anything is a mystery.

“Let’s see...” she says, looking around. Bits of metal and other items lie atop the coral. Some rest upon the natural ledges in the walls.

“It’s not much of a collection,” she says, and swims from shelf to shelf. “Just what I‘ve found since coming here.”

She looks at several of the items, then grabs one and brings it to Pinocchio. “Is this your friend?” she asks, and holds up a large, silver hook. It gleams in the murky light, elegant and menacing.

“No,” says Pinocchio. “That’s a hook.”

“Oh, right! A hook.” She darts over to another section of the cave, and that’s when Pinocchio let's out a bubbly gasp.

Instead of legs, she has a fishtail. Just like the creatures he's seen in the Mirror, the girl is a mermaid.

Chapter Seventy-Five

2010-02-25T23:46:00.002-05:00

“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.”

Chapter Seventy-Four

2010-02-22T22:54:00.002-05:00

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.

Chapter Seventy-Three

2010-02-18T23:30:00.003-05:00

“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?”

Chapter Seventy-Two

2010-02-15T23:27:00.003-05:00

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.

Chapter Seventy-One

2010-02-11T23:38:00.002-05:00

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.

Chapter Seventy

2010-02-08T23:41:00.002-05:00

“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.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

2010-02-04T10:40:00.002-05:00

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

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.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

2010-01-28T14:45:00.002-05:00

Within the palace, it waits.

Patiently, impatiently, mindlessly, it paces about the throne room, listening, smelling the intruders as they come closer.

Long ago, it would have thought only to defend the Sultan and his daughter, but those days have gone with the rest of the world. Now, its body and mind withered beyond death, it thinks only of flesh and blood.

Living flesh and warm, thick blood.

It’s been too long since its last meal, since the Man.

And the Man had opened the doors, scimitar at the ready, focused on the enemies he could see, never thinking about the one he could not. Then it leapt, and the Man was dead, ribboned flesh and spurting blood, and the palace was silent once more.

Now, beyond the doors, they breathe. Their hearts thump at a maddening tempo. Claws skitter on the polished marble floor. They speak with quiet voices, proof of delicious life.

And their smell, stronger than the desert sun, flesh and fur, is overwhelming, all-consuming. It presses and pushes against the cold, closed doors.

They will come. They always do, they always will, and then, with a pounce, they are dead.

At last there is movement. The doors swing outward, and something small and brown leaps past the doorway. It pounces, all tooth and claw, ripping and tearing and swallowing the tiny mouthful - a leather collar, awash with the scent of Dwarf sweat and kitten fur - before it can hit the ground.

To its side, shielded by the door, it hears a guttural gasp, the heavy trod of foot, and then the Dwarf charges forward, a long stick of iron in front of him, and he pushes the point into its eye, deeper and deeper.

It hisses and writhes, fangs pulled back in a grimace of anger and hunger. The weapon digs deeper into its skull, and it can no longer quite control its claws to swat at the handle.

Already, it is fading, weakening. It lies down stupidly, tugging its head backward, and the Dwarf takes that moment of hesitation to pull back the spike and swing the axe blade down upon its skull.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

2010-01-25T20:41:00.002-05:00

“I’m afraid I cannot go with you, Pinocchio,” says the Lion.

He stands with his fleshless companions on the diamond-white shores of Neverland. With the blue sea before them and the green jungle behind, the Lion thinks it could be a beautiful island... were it not for the plague.

The four of them - Lion, puppet, Candelabra and Clock - focus on the grand and miraculous pirate ship anchored in the bay.

“Are you sure?” asks Pinocchio.

“Yes, unfortunately. I can see them scurrying around - no, don’t strain your eyes, dear child, we’re too far away - and I would be more hindrance than help in this situation.”

“But,” says Pinocchio, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“And I don’t wish to leave you,” purrs the Lion, and he is surprised to realize he isn’t lying. “But your duty is to find your father, not defend me from the dead.”

He surprises himself even more by hoping that the woodcarver is alive and on the ship, as unlikely as that may be. The dead men prowling the deck would not miss such a target.

“You’re right,” says Pinocchio, and he looks between his three friends and the pirate ship. “He’s my father. I should go alone.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” says the Candelabra, and it hops forward on the sand. “If your father can help the master, I will help you. That’s what we are here for, no?”

“And I’ll stay here,” says the Clock, his eyes warily following the figures onboard the Jolly Roger. “To remain with the Lion,” he adds quickly. “And,” he adds again, “I’m quite sure he’s not there anyway, but in a cave.”

“Well...” says Pinocchio, “we’ll be quick.”

“I’ll be right here,” says the Lion.

And it’s strange. Pinocchio hesitates for a moment, but then he hugs the Lion’s dark mane, and the Lion rubs his scarred face against the puppet’s frame. Surely just to mark his scent.

But it is strange. They somehow know that they won’t see each other again. And in Pinocchio’s short life, he’s lost so many people so suddenly - his father, his conscience, the Little Pig - that he cannot leave the Lion without a proper farewell.

“Be good,” he says. “Be careful.”

“I will and I am,” says the Lion, and he watches them walk into the ocean, Pinocchio clutching the Candelabra in his trusting hands.

Chapter Sixty-Six

2010-01-21T23:45:00.001-05:00

Once it was known as the City of Wonder, the Jewel of the Desert, the Land of Riches and Adventure. Now, muses the Dwarf, it’s just another Kingdom of the Dead.

Standing amidst the ruins, for once the Dwarf is pleased. Hands on his hips, he surveys the wreckage with a satisfied nod.

The City of Wonder has been thoroughly destroyed. Every building has crumbled upon itself, trapping hundreds of peasants and merchants and other ordinary people, all withered and hungry for flesh.

He thinks briefly of what Cinderella might think of all this, and the smile melts from his face. She’d pity even the dead, kind-hearted as she was.

“Well,” he says to the Wolf, “at least we won’t have any trouble findin’ the prince.”

Only one building still stands in the Jewel of the Desert: the Sultan’s palace. All white alabaster and marble, inlaid with gold and precious blue jewels, it stands fat and round and ready to withstand a thousand armies.

The Dwarf nods again. It’s a good, faultless construction. A bit too fancy, and more garish than anything he’s ever seen, but it certainly took survival into consideration. And survive it has.

“Be careful,” he warns, as they walk closer to the mighty palace. “There might be a dragon about.”

“Dragon?” says the Wolf, and he stops short. He looks around wildly and sniffs at the searing air. “You never said nothin’ about a dragon!”

“What do you think burned everything down?” says the Dwarf. He tries to chuckle at the animal’s ignorance. “I told you, this warn’t caused by no ordinary fire.”

He continues slowly across the sand, being careful to keep some distance between himself and any wreckage. You never know when some clenching claw might snake through.

Finally, they stand before the platinum doors. Though they’re gilded and carved with all sorts of ridiculous designs, the Dwarf determines they’re still as solid as a mountain.

He knocks heavily with the butt of his spear-axe. The thud echoes dully, causing the Wolf to cringe.

“What are you, crazy? You wanna wake up the dragon?”

The Dwarf snorts. “Yar, as a matter of fact, I do. There’s gotta be a reason why it didn’t burn down the palace, ya fool. This place,” he knocks again, louder, “is probably the first safe building we’ve seen since, well, forever.”

The Wolf’s ears are still pricked up. “I ain’t convinced,” he growls. “I don’t like dragons.” He smells the air again, but tastes nothing but the hot, unforgiving desert.

They stand there for a moment, then the Wolf says, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Open the door.”

“I can’t open this door! It’s built to keep out invaders.”

“But you got the key,” says the Wolf.

“Bah.” From around his neck the Dwarf produces the slender golden key - the red parrot’s dying gift. “Ain’t no way this key,” he says, “could open a door that size. Especially since it doesn’t have no keyhole.”

“Then what do we do?”

The Dwarf sighs loudly and wipes the sweat from his brow. “Ain’t ya supposed to be the Big Bad Wolf? Huff and puff and blow the doors down!”

The Wolf steps back and eyes the massive doors, but quickly sneers. “I’m still wounded, remember?” He scratches at the scars criss-crossing his body, remnants of Cinderella’s surgery. “You want me to pop my stitches?”

The Dwarf’s muttered answer is inaudible. With an annoyed grunt, he presses his callused fingers against the metal, feeling with expert hands for a secret catch or lever.

However, the door swings easily inward.

“It wasn’t locked,” says the Wolf.

“Yar,” grumbles the Dwarf.

And though neither says it, they both find it quite disturbing that such a secure palace has been left unsecured.

Chapter Sixty-Five

2010-01-18T10:15:00.003-05:00

“Defend me, Pinocchio!” screams the now-sheepish Lion.

He perches atop a tree, a dead tree that is surrounded by dead boys wearing animal skins. The Lion has come to expect safety on higher ground, but these children remember how to climb.

Perhaps they retain some skills from the animals they wear. Perhaps climbing is so common in Neverland that it’s become second nature. The reason isn’t important - all that matters to the Lion is that they don’t touch him.

The little puppet grabs on to the child in the skunk skin, but the dead boy doesn’t register the weight at all. It doggedly grabs and pulls itself up the trunk of the tree, Pinocchio dragging behind.

Likewise, the efforts of the Clock - tugging pathetically on a fox tail - go ignored.

Six dead boys, worse than hyenas, the way they giggle and grin with broken teeth. Desperately, the Lion climbs even higher, until he reaches the top of the tree.

His teeth and claws powerless, he has only one option. He waits until their filthy, reaching fingers are just inches away from his paws, and he leaps.

The dead boys grab uselessly at his tail, and once he’s gone, they simply let go of the tree and fall.

But while the Lion lands gracefully and is already bounding away, the children collapse in a heap and scramble over each other. The Candelabra touches his wick to their skins and hair, but they are much too damp to be set aflame.

The Clock takes the fox tail and ties it to a thick root. The boy in the fox skin never notices. It reaches and strains toward the retreating Lion, its feet digging gashes into the soil.

Pinocchio has less luck with the skunk tail - the boy is bigger and stronger, and the skin rips a moment later. It staggers after the Lion, still hooting and giggling.

“They won’t stop!” says Pinocchio. He grabs the skunk-boy by the leg, but it stumbles on. He stands in the rabbit-boy’s way, but it walks right over him, milky eyes always focused on the Lion.

“I know, I know!” chimes the Clock.

“We need rope!” says the Candelabra. He gestures toward the vines that hang from the trees, but without fingers or hands, there isn’t much he can do besides give orders.

Deeper in the forest, the Lion finally turns to look behind him. There’s enough distance between himself and the children that he can gather his bearings, catch his breath, and formulate a plan.

Unfortunately, one doesn’t come. He has no hyenas to sacrifice, and his fleshless army is proving useless once again. These children are hunters, as dangerous as the dead bander-log of the Wildlands, and if the trees cannot save him, what can?

His fangs and claws are nothing. At best, he would break their necks with a swipe of his paw, but they could just as easily bite him. And a small bite, even the tiniest scratch, means death.

Still tired, the Lion bounds away. His kind is built for short bursts of speed, not long-distance runs. And even then, physical work has never been his specialty. With the last reserves of his strength, he plunges into a white-tipped river and swims to the other side.

His natural weapons cannot fight the dead, and, cursed as he is without hands or fingers, he cannot build any. Instead, as always, he must rely on his mental powers, and it is true, he can think and reason unlike any other.

Quietly, the Lion paces up and down the riverside. The soil smells clean, so he marks the territory. He should be safe here. He climbs into a tall, healthy tree and watches the rushing water.

He’d hoped this land might be free from the curse of death, that it might be full of children who never grew up and other meals to enjoy. Instead, as elsewhere, he is the prey.

It takes some time for the dead boys to reach the river. His companions, still tripping legs and bashing with sticks, have slowed them considerably.

The Lion, perched in his tree, roars. They look up.

The children show no hesitation. They walk straight into the river, still focused and reaching for his flesh, even as the current whisks them away, faster than the Lion could ever wish.

Future chapters of Disney Zombies will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays.

Chapter Sixty-Four

2010-01-13T23:03:00.003-05:00

“It’s hot,” grumbles the Wolf.

“Shut up,” scowls the Dwarf.

He removes his cap - now an itchy, stinking, wet mess of wool - and wipes the sweat from his brow. He’d throw the damned thing away, but the sun would burn his bald pate quicker than the wink of a cat.

Stupid sun. The bane of all Dwarfs. “Is it any wonder,” he thinks, “that we live underground in the dark, cool shelter of the Earth? What’s the sun ever done for any of us? Bah.”

The Dwarf - nearly blind from the glare - blinks again. He hopes the buildings in the distance aren’t another mirage. They pop up now and again in this eternal desert - houses and homes with their graceful roofs and their solid walls. But they only melt into the harsh, hot air as the two trudge closer.

They’ve been traveling for a long time. Too long, and neither one thought to bring extra water. They expected (although the Dwarf has learned never to trust the humans to do anything that made a lick of sense) the Doorway to be like the others - it would lead them near civilization, near where they wanted to be.

But here? Out in the middle of nowhere? Humans live like this? Humans choose to live like this? It boggles the mind.

In the sky, he spies with his beady eye another one of those desert mirages. Just a big, black speck. Or maybe it’s a vulture, waiting for them to collapse. Or with their luck, it’ll be a hungry flying elephant. Or a witch, back from the dead.

The Wolf pants pathetically and keeps licking his snout. The Dwarf had tossed him a button to suck on, but he’s pretty sure the animal ate it.

They plod on, too stubborn to collapse in the heat.

The Dwarf has bigger, better, brighter things to complain about than the sand in his boots. Neither is accustomed to the terrain, and they move slowly. Too slowly, should any predators - living or dead - come after them, but that’s a fish to fry once it’s landed.

“Looks like we found it,” says the Wolf. Although the shifting sands have covered any road or trail, they stand amidst the beginnings of walls. All crumbled. Small buildings, by the look of it. Collapsed.

“Yeah, but what found them?” The Dwarf looks at the broken, destroyed stone. It’s too solid of a construction to just fall under the desert climate. And there are too many scorch marks.

“Burned,” he says. “Look.” He points at the various huts, but this isn’t the mark of a fire. Not any that he’s seen before. It doesn’t feel right.

“These houses didn’t burn down,” he finally says. “They exploded.”

“Who cares?” growls the Wolf. “The prince wouldn’t live in these shacks, anyway. He’d live in a castle or somethin’.” He continues waddling through the sand with his lopsided, uncomfortable gait.

The Dwarf begins to follow, but something makes him stop. A sound. Scrabbling, scratching against the stone ruins. Too insistent to be a trick of the gritty wind, too strong to be an insect.

“D’you hear that?” he says. “Someone’s in there.”

The Wolf shrugs. “Leave it. It’s dead. They’re all dead. They can’t get out."

And now that the Wolf has mentioned it, the Dwarf can’t not hear it. From within each destroyed building, something stirs. And, while he doesn’t like leaving enemies between him and the Doorway, it’s not worth the effort to dig each of ‘em up and run ‘em through.

It’s just too hot.

Chapter Sixty-Three

2010-01-10T20:13:00.003-05:00

For several days now, the Clock and the Candelabra have argued over where mermaids might be found, and the Lion has long since learned to simply block out their petulant voices.

He instead entertains pleasant memories of eating the Man, or of his brother’s death. Happier times.

Pinocchio frequently interjects with images from the Enchanted Mirror, but the visions of Gepetto only add to the debate.

“My dear child, I must insist,” insists the Candelabra, “that your father is on a boat somewhere. Look at his location! Water everywhere, no open sky. Trust me, Master Pinocchio, we won’t find him on land.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” counters the Clock. “They are mermen, you fiery fool! And look at all the others coming at him: fish, fish of all kinds! Would they flop up onto some boat, even dead as they are? No, I assure you, Monsieur Gepetto is under the ocean... perhaps in a cave of some sort.”

“If that’s the case,” the Candelabra retorts, “and I’m sure it isn’t, how are we to find him? Tie weights to ourselves and search the Seven Seas?”

“The Lion will come up with something,” Pinocchio adds. “Right?”

“As always,” the Lion responds absently. “I’m thinking about it right now.” And he remembers the taste of the Man’s blood.

He’s come to realize that he is no longer leading little pride anymore. In fact, he hasn’t for some time. With his thoughts elsewhere - yet with his ears and nose always poised to catch the approach of the dead - Pinocchio has taken to leading their quartet through the forest.

It annoys the Lion greatly that the puppet would take on such responsibility - especially since the boy doesn’t know anything about anything - but he concedes it’s better than him having to fake it for a while.

His reveries are broken by the joyous shout of Pinocchio. “This is it!” he calls, after pushing aside a thicket. “I think,” he adds.

They stand in front of another Doorway, graceful and magical and somehow fitting, though it stands in the middle of nowhere and should be as obtrusive as, say, a lion wandering with a puppet and two pieces of furniture.

“This is what, exactly?” the Lion asks lightly.

“Well,” concedes Pinocchio, “this might be it.”

In a way, the Lion privately admits the boy is right - any Doorway out of this horrible land is a suitable destination, regardless of where his father might dwell.

The Candelabra studies the words carved over the frame, but for once it remains quiet.

The Lion allows the silence to grow until the boy has felt suitably embarrassed, and then asks quietly, “Can anyone read it?"

He quickly answers his own question. “No, I’d forgotten. You never bothered to learn, Pinocchio, disobedient as you were. I never had the opportunity. And what about you?” the Lion’s yellow eyes roll down to the Candelabra. “What’s your excuse?”

The Candelabra stiffens its brass back and glares at the Lion. “My master could barely read. Why should I have the advantage over him?”

“It says,” ticks the Clock in a rather definitive tone, “Neverland.” He smiles a smug little smile and adds, “I ran the master’s affairs. Being literate was a necessity.”

“Neverland?” Pinocchio’s eyes widen and he jumps up to hug the Lion’s mane. “This is it! This is it!” he says, though the Lion figures he’d say that no matter what was written on the door.

The Clock and the Candelabra look at each other.

“My friend,” said the Candelabra, “it appears as though I am right. Our dear woodcarver is no doubt aboard one of the pirate ships that surround Neverland.”

“Or, more likely,” snaps the Clock, “he has found refuge in a cave alongside a beach.”

As usual, the Lion ignores them. His eyes fade as he loses himself in thought. The tales of Neverland have spread far and wide, even to the Wildlands - though the animals tend to call it the Dreamtime. And if even half the tales are true, then this is a land of Men - pirates and Indians and mermaids - and of children. Helpless, hearty children... And he remembers the taste of the Man's blood.

The Lion smiles. “Yes, Neverland. I’m sure we’ll find what we are looking for there.” And with a single stride through the Doorway, he retakes his position as head of the pride.

Chapter Sixty-Two

2010-01-06T13:59:00.002-05:00

PART III

Death is coming.

Death in the form of Monstro.

The news spreads through the underwater kingdom with the unforgiving speed of a typhoon: it has returned.

Few fish survived the initial holocaust. Only the fastest swimmers, the lucky ones who caught the currents early, lived to tell the tale, and the King of the Sea listened well.

It’s been over a hundred years since the great beast has come to the Seventh Sea, but here, now, the Merfolk stand prepared.

The able-bodied men carry spears and tridents. Most have said good-bye to their families, for to meet the jaws or tail of Monstro is to swim forth into the eternal tide.

The noble swordfish pledge their weapons to the cause, the whales have agreed to fight, and even the sharks - untrustworthy at the best of times - eagerly swim to the forefront. They loudly tell fish and folk alike that their teeth will be the ones to bring down Monstro.

And the King of the Sea himself will lead the attack.

“Daddy, you mustn’t,” plead his daughters.

“Your Majesty,” argues his majordomo, “you’re too important to put yourself into battle.”

“Nonsense,” says the King. “If I do not risk my life, how could I ask our people to do the same? And besides, I am ruler of the ocean! I will not be cowed by this monster.”

And his daughters cry, the little crab worriedly clicks his claws, and the King swims forth into battle.

Now, he wishes he had listened.

Even before Monstro approaches, it brings the cold currents of its home - dark, stinging waters that devour light and goodness.

The ebb and flow is much stronger than the temperate waters of the Seventh Sea. It’s a struggle merely to keep from being swept away.

Its smell, the musk of Monstro, the stink of a rotting carcass, the murk of a hundred - no, a thousand - pieces of dead, decaying ambergris. It is enough to turn back many of the weaker-stomached men.

And now the King thinks it is better to be thought of as a cowardly ruler than to stare into the face of death, the hungry behemoth. It is the size of a castle. The swordfish and the shark teeth and the spears are nothing more than needles.

At worst, they would only serve to anger the beast. At best, it ignores its wounds entirely, so hungry and intent on hunting is Monstro.

“Sound the alarms!” screams the King. He fires another burst of power from his royal trident. The magical attack is ignored, as Monstro doggedly chases school of sharks. The dying creatures bite just as ineffectively at its tongue and jaws before being crushed by shark-sized teeth.

The beast is impossible to fight - the Merfolk’s plan of battle comes undone, as the leviathan does not notice the many feints and counter-charges. It simply eats. Everything else is ignored.

“Tell the people to retreat!” The King prays that the ocean carries his daughters away, that they are among the lucky ones, as those few surviving fish had been. And perhaps they can warn the other underwater kingdoms.

Then, amidst the screams and the storm of water, he realizes that the alarms are silent. His majordomo has fallen.

And still the Merfolk stab on, hopeless and defiant. One of Monstro’s eyes has been plucked by a brave swordfish, but a careless swipe from Monstro’s fin crushes the would-be hero’s spine.

The King blasts the monster again, only to wonder why it isn’t bleeding. Monstro has hundreds, thousands of wounds. Small ones, to be sure, but the creature does not bleed.

And then the King of the Seas understands why.

Monstro is already dead.

Chapter Sixty-One

2009-11-15T23:19:00.002-05:00

A raven flies clumsily over the forest of tangled thorns. It is missing one of its main feathers, so it dips and falls erratically. But it speeds ever faster toward the castle atop the Forbidden Mountain.

Here is the home of the uninvited enchantress. Here the Queen will find her answer.

After an eternity of walking, it takes her only moments to reach the castle, dark and cold.

Its many windows are pristinely colored and depict images from long, long ago. The glass, were it not made from magic, would have been an extravagant fortune.

Quickly, she circles the countless towers and turrets. Precious time is wasted looking for an entrance - the spell, devoid of blood or flesh, will not last long - but perhaps a dark force looks out for the Queen, or perhaps the castle wants her inside, for she finally finds an open window and flies in toward her destiny.

Surprisingly, it is not dark within the castle. Torches pulse faintly with an otherworldly glow. Fairy lights, they call them, and they are said to lead travelers toward their doom.

She flies as best she can, bumping against the ceiling numerous times, but it is better than being snatched down by an errant claw. Who knows how many of the creatures are trapped in here? And she feels fortunate, though ever more cautious, that there are no closed doors - they have all been smashed down.

And so the Queen flies, searching for items of magic. They are everywhere in this castle, for everything has been created by the Dark Fairy, but they are as worthless to her cause as the torches.

Rooms of torture. Rooms of pleasure. Rooms filled with the skins of monsters, stuffed into fearful poses. A gallery of stone figures - would-be heroes caught cowering or standing defiant, all dead. A pastoral garden, indoors, the plants still plump and smiling, despite no water or sunlight.

And at last, a room of blackness, dark and dreary, except for a large red book. It glows and pulses with a strange heartbeat. It is alive, and waits to be read once more.

Its power causes the Queen to break into a sweat, though she doesn’t know birds could do such a thing. Without realizing it, her enchantment has worn off, snuffed out by the power of the Grimoire.

Trembling, she dares not touch it, for it is open to a spell... the final spell cast by the Dark Fairy. Its pages glow and thrum. Blood flows through them. The letters glisten and squirm - they were written in something more ageless than ink.

And though the language is none spoken on this mortal realm, the Queen reads it with practiced eyes. She unconsciously mouths the words with an unknowable hunger. Her lungs fill with the breath of magic.

This is the Curse of Living Death, the spell that gave life to that which is dead, a spell of creation, a spell of oblivion, a spell of destruction.

The Queen could never know why the Dark Fairy cast it, whether it was some minor spite for a forgotten festival invitation, or the scorned affections of a pure-hearted mortal, or whether she merely wanted to corrupt death itself. But she did something that none could do, that none should do, and the worlds fell.

Enchanted by the aroma of power, the Queen takes hold of the pages. In this Grimoire are so many spells, one must surely hold the answer. It is not of human creation - it comes from beyond time.

She barely notices the blood draining from her hands as she touches the pages. It is a small and worthwhile sacrifice, her blood for the Grimoire’s knowledge.

And the Queen is nothing compared to these spells. She, a mere mortal, who fancied herself a sorceress. And her own spellbook, priceless and unique in the world, is nothing compared to what the Grimoire contains.

The rapture of knowledge, the beauty of the sacrifice, the words that can change the world - she thanks the dark forces for choosing her to see such truths.

Instantly, she knows the Dwarf lied to her - that his bite wasn’t cursed, that she herself was never dying. But it doesn’t matter.

And for the first time in her life, the Queen feels humbled that she was chosen. Her half-mad companion, for all her inbred idiocy, was something inhuman, something from the realms of magic and so deserved this sight more than the Queen.

But she fell, and it was the Queen who was chosen.

Such spells, so many ways to change this world, which is nothing, really. Nor even the worlds beyond. They are nothing, they are pages to be written upon, or clay to be sculpted - such power these beings have!

The plague of death is nothing. It isn’t life from a corpse, it is a living puppet, it is a cough in the night, it can be fixed and changed as surely as she can make an image disappear from a mirror by covering it with a cloth.

The power courses through the Queen’s soul. The Grimoire drinks thirstily from her fingertips, and she finally listens with her ears, her weak, useless ears, nothing compared to a rabbit’s or a dog’s, but she hears the scratchings on the floor.

And she finally realizes she is not alone.

She turns, and while touching the Book she can see everything – the chamber is as brightest day, and she sees through the great and mighty dragon for what it truly is: the Uninvited Enchantress.

And the Dark Fairy is long dead, her insides chewed, the scales eaten through. An act of childbirth that brought her death. She is the mother from whom the dead first found life. And yet she is alive, she is a plaything of the Spell, she is one of the cursed.

When the Spell went wrong, and the Spell must have gone wrong, her final act had been to transform into this creature. Trapping herself in the Room of Magic, she fought her children, her creations. And inevitably, she died.

To wait, hungry and patient, and, without knowing it, to protect the Grimoire from any interruption.

And now comes an insect, weaker than a dog or rabbit, already her soul is being fed to the Grimoire, but the Dragon, the Enchantress, may feed upon the flesh.

Too late, the Queen sees how the Grimoire protects itself, and still she will not let go, she wants to sacrifice herself, she wants it to drink her blood, she wants the wisdom of death, and it never bothers her, it’s such a paltry little thought, that her body is already dead.

END PART II

Disney Zombies will conclude with Part III on Sunday, January 3, 2010.

Chapter Sixty

2009-11-11T23:58:00.003-05:00

The Wolf doesn’t end up eating the parrot. The Dwarf won’t let him.

“Eh, didn’t want it, anyway,” mutters the Wolf. “It was just a bunch of skin and bones.”

“Sour grapes,” says the Dwarf.

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence. The Wolf folds his arms and tries to appear casual by leaning against the fireplace.

“So yer really going, huh?” he asks for the third time.

“Yar,” says the Dwarf. He pats down his toolbelt, looks around the nursery one last time, and tightens the twine that is knotted around the parrot’s legs.

The Wolf scoffs. “Just gonna leave us,” he says, but somehow the guilty look on the Dwarf’s face doesn’t bring him any pleasure.

“You can take care of yourself,” growls the Dwarf, “and I’ve done all I can fer the girl.”

“We've done,” says the Wolf.

“She’s as safe here as anywhere else.” For some reason, the Dwarf can’t bring himself to look at her bed. “And she’s got a good nursemaid to look after her.”

The bonneted dog sits up a little straighter and cocks her ear in salute. The Wolf glares at her, but she’s grown used to ignoring him.

“And me!” The Wolf doesn’t like the whine that’s crept into his voice, and he clears his throat harshly. “I’ve been riskin’ my neck every night findin’ food!”

The Dwarf grants him that with the slightest of nods. “Fair enough, but there’s a prince out there that needs help. And by gar, I’m gonna help him.”

“Yeah, well, yer wastin’ yer time,” sneers the Wolf. “He’s probably dead. And you don’t know where he is, anyway.”

“You don’t know nothin’,” says the Dwarf. He pulls out the parrot’s golden key, now securely tied around his neck. “You know where this was made? I’ll tell ya. From the Far East, off in one of them desert kingdoms. Merchants pay a fortune fer this kind of craftsmanship back home.”

Seeing the greedy glint in the Wolf’s eyes, he tucks away the key and continues hurriedly, “Not that that means anything nowadays. You can have all the gold you want, and what’s it good for? Nothin’. Can’t eat it, can’t fight the deathlings with it, can’t keep you warm or build a suitable shelter.

“But if this prince sent away this key, it must mean something. That bird died gettin’ this message to us. And lemme tell ya, I’d rather find out what it means than sit here all winter eatin’ yer leftovers.”

The Dwarf double-checks the barricades over the windows and the entrances. He humphs and mutters, but cannot find any faults that could delay them any longer.

Wanting something to do with his hands, the Wolf wanders toward Cinderella’s bed. He smooths out her already smooth quilt and clears his throat again.

“So what am I supposed to do?” he finally asks.

The Dwarf shrugs and looks away.

When it becomes clear the Dwarf isn’t going to speak, the Wolf says, “Well, maybe I should come with you, then.” He steps in front of the only open window.

“I thought yer still wounded,” says the Dwarf.

“I am,” responds the Wolf. He rubs at his stitches, which are now all but invisible beneath his matted fur. “But I can climb like nobody’s business, and I can smell and hear and fight a lot better than you.

“And another thing,” says the Wolf. “I know yer going the wrong way. That bird flew in from the east, and this window faces west.”

“Don’t I know it.” The Dwarf peers over the window sill. “But I ain’t goin’ this way. They are.”

He nods down at the dead creatures milling about. The Dwarf checks the parrot and the length of twine, opens and closes his fist several times, and pulls out his shortest, sharpest knife.

“What’re you doing?” asks the Wolf, but his question is ignored.

After rolling up one sleeve, the Dwarf slices lightly at his arm. The blood flows quickly, and he wipes the wound with the parrot’s body. Soon it is a sticky mess of feathers and blood, and then he begins unraveling it down the side of the house.

“I know it ain’t dignified,” he says to the parrot, “and I’m sorry, but it’ll help us a lot more than it’ll bother you.”

The creatures below immediately take notice. Whether it’s the scent of fresh blood or the sight of something red and wet, they claw at the parrot with a desperate hunger.

At the window’s ledge, the Dwarf stops unraveling the twine once the parrot is just out of reach of the tallest corpse.

He smiles grimly at the Wolf. “That’ll keep ‘em busy for a while. Now, come on, we’re goin’ up the chimney.”

At the fireplace, the Dwarf finally turns and faces the bed. “You watch over her,” he says sternly to the bonneted dog, and she nods once.

“And you,” he says to the sleeping maiden, but he has no words, no use for good-byes or empty wishes of a safe return.

Turning, the Dwarf and the Wolf silently climb the chimney.

It's the last time either of them will ever see Cinderella.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

2009-11-08T14:39:00.004-05:00

The Lion does not speak. He merely pads away, dignified and slow, from the forlorn castle. Though the windows are full of staring eyes, he refuses to look back. It’s best to remain gracious in defeat, lest he lose control.

“Why wouldn’t they come with us?” asks Pinocchio. He keeps glancing behind and waving.

“The Master is hurt,” says the Clock. It daintily picks its legs through the fallen branches and leaves. “And it’s their duty to remain by his side.”

“Oh,” says the puppet. “But don’t they want to bring your friend back to life?”

“Of course they do,” says the Candelabra. “But... your plan is a hard thing to believe in, you must understand. We’ve witnessed her die. Twice.”

“And hope is a fragile thing,” says the Clock. Its voice takes on a poetic lilt. “Fragile as a rose in the winter.”

“I believe you’re speaking of love,” says the Candelabra.

“No, love would be the sun in this particular metaphor...”

The Lion suppresses the urge to scream.

His plan has failed miserably. Only two agreed to follow him.

A clownish brigade of three soldiers - this is the bloodless army he’s dreamed of leading? A fine enough trio, he thinks with utmost sarcasm, to find his food and protect him from the dead.

And out of this merry band of four, despite being the strongest, the smartest, the master of tooth and claw, he is the only one who is vulnerable.

His thoughts are interrupted by the baritone voice of the Candelabra.

“Monsieur Lion,” it says. “Tell us, how exactly do you intend to revive the Mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” adds the Clock. “You were a bit vague about that part of the plan.”

The Lion remains silent. Being in front, his face remains hidden from the others, so they cannot see his scar darken. He hasn’t yet come up with a suitable lie for this particular question.

“My father can do it,” Pinocchio pipes up suddenly, and once again, the Enchanted Mirror flashes to life with a vision of Gepetto.

“He can?” says the Candelabra. It peeks into the Mirror, and looks less than hopeful at the skinny old man.

“Oh, I know he can!” says Pinocchio. “He brought me to life, didn’t he? He can ask the Blue Fairy, easy, and she’ll help us all. Why, she’ll probably fix everyone!”

The Clock appears unconvinced. “If that’s the case, why hasn’t she done so already?”

Pinocchio considers for a moment. “Maybe she hasn’t thought to. We just have to ask her, and she’ll do it. Why, that must be it! She only helped Father because he wished for it, wished with all his heart.”

The Lion turns to stare at the puppet for a moment. He decides this lie is as good as any, and smiles warmly. “Of course, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Well done, my friend.”

“Now,” says the Candelabra, “we just have to find him.”

“But he could be anywhere,” complains the Clock.

The Lion continues to smile. He is thinking the exact same thing. He can take them anywhere – anywhere he wants - in the search for Gepetto.

“I think I know where he is,” says Pinocchio. “Look.”

He holds up the Enchanted Mirror. It depicts the old man fighting off one of the undead. He smashes a heavy stave upon a crawling, trampled woman.

For a moment, the Lion wonders what the boy is seeing - was she the victim of an elephant stampede? The wounds are familiar, but harder to understand when they are on Man rather than on beast. Is the old man living in the Wildlands?

“Sacre bleu,” says the Candelabra.

And then the Lion sees it. It isn’t how the corpse was killed, it’s why she is crawling.

She has no legs.

Or, rather, in place of legs, she has the tail of a fish.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

2009-11-01T12:42:00.002-05:00

The days trickle into weeks, and the summer darkens into fall.

The bonneted dog suddenly looks up from her position at the foot of Cinderella’s bed, which she’s guarded faithfully since their arrival. She bounds over to the nursery window and - despite the Wolf’s best efforts to silence her - begins barking loudly.

“What is it?” grumbles the Dwarf. The dog never barks, despite the horde of dead bodies that eternally watch from the streets below. This must be something different. He reaches for his spear-axe and peers suspiciously out into the cityscape.

“Look,” says the Wolf, and he flicks his snout.

After a moment, the Dwarf’s beady eyes pick it out - something small and colorful wavering in the morning sky. “Hmph,” he mutters. “Don’t see many birds nowadays.”

He doesn’t like the way it’s flying erratically - could be cursed or bitten. It flaps its wings for as long as it can, then rests and dips closer to the ground, then finally forces itself to fly for a few seconds more.

Once the bird hears the dog barking, it changes course, and finally, with much difficulty, lands on the window ledge.

They stare silently at the bird - a red parrot - for some time. The Wolf begins salivating, even though it wouldn’t be much of a meal.

Maybe once it was plump, judging from the folds of flesh that hang from its frame. But like all the other survivors, it’s lost too much weight. Now, the biggest thing about the parrot is its beak, and even that is no longer a bright and cheerful yellow, but dull and flat.

“Get it some water,” says the Dwarf, once he’s satisfied that it isn’t infected. But something’s wrong with the bird - it shudders and breathes fitfully and its eyes cannot seem to focus.

“You get it,” snaps the Wolf.

The Dwarf grumbles under his breath, but before he can stump to the pail of water, the bonneted dog pads forward, the tin dipper held carefully between her teeth.

At first the Wolf rolls his eyes, but then he experiences a pang of unexpected jealousy as the Dwarf takes the dipper and gently pets the dog. “Yer a good girl,” he says, which she accepts with her usual stoicism.

The Dwarf places the tip of his finger into the dipper, and then gently places it next to the parrot’s beak. Drops of water coat its cracked black tongue.

“What’s that?” asks the Wolf.

“It’s a jungle bird,” growls the Dwarf.

“No, stupid. I mean, on its leg.”

The sunlight flashes on something attached to the parrot’s leg. “Gold?” says the Dwarf. Before the Wolf can step forward, he unties the piece of string.

It’s a key. A miniature golden key. And though he wasn’t a goldsmith in the old days, like all Dwarfs he recognizes skilled craftsmanship of any precious metal or jewel. And while this key wasn’t created by a Dwarf, the man who made it hadn’t done that bad of a job.

Ignoring the hungry look in the Wolf’s eyes, the Dwarf pockets the key. Later, he will scowl at its elegant flourishes and curlicues, and wonder why a smith would waste so much detail on such a tiny item.

“Help,” coughs the parrot in a scratched and parched voice. Although it can no longer see, it seems calmed by the warm hands, the cool water.

“Shh, we’re helpin’ ya,” says the Dwarf. “Just rest up, regain yer strength.”

The parrot sputters and coughs some more. The Dwarf wets his finger and places it in the parrot’s beak, but the water drips uselessly from its mouth.

“Not me,” squawks the parrot in an exasperated near-whisper. “Help the prince.”

And then it dies.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

2009-10-28T08:48:00.002-04:00

It requires the largest pieces of furniture - the divan, the wardrobe, and the bed - to pick up their Master and carry him back to his chambers. Pinocchio, having nowhere to go, follows behind.

Worried whispers drift through the castle. Their surgeon was destroyed during the Master’s last rage, and none of the servants are quite sure what to do.

The Beast’s heart still beats, ever so faintly, but he does not wake up. The basin and sponge gently clean the wounds beneath his matted fur as best they can. The rest watch silently.

Unable to see onto the high bed, Pinocchio looks about the forbidden room. It isn’t nearly so frightening, now that he is no longer alone.

“What’s that?” he asks suddenly. He points to a beautiful, ornate hand mirror.

“That?” says the Candelabra. “That is one of the Master’s most treasured possessions. It is an enchanted looking glass.”

“It shows you,” interrupts the Clock, “whatever it is your heart wishes to see, no matter the distance.”

“Can I see it?” asks the puppet.

“May I see it,” corrects the Clock.

“May I see it?”

“If you wish,” says the Clock. “But it doesn’t always bring happiness, I must warn you. No, not always,” it adds, softly.

Unmindful of the Clock’s words, Pinocchio grabs eagerly at the mirror. “I wish to see my father,” he whispers.

And instantly, the mirror sparkles to life. It is Gepetto! He is alive! But where? In a dark, cramped, place. He holds a candle high, illuminating his gaunt, unshaven features, and then the image fades to Pinocchio’s own face.

“It’s Father! He’s alive!” gasps Pinocchio.

“I’m happy for you,” says the Clock, though its face is still sad.

Delighted, Pinocchio clatters downstairs to tell his companion. The Lion is in the entrance hall, at the edge of the pool of blood. He does not turn at Pinocchio’s voice.

“I saw him! I saw him!” Pinocchio calls.

“Is that so?” says the Lion, his voice oddly muffled. In the shadows, the mop and bucket watch him silently.

“Yes! He’s in the mirror! You were right!” He waves the mirror, shining brightly once more.

The Lion growls faintly as Pinocchio steps closer - a warning, the boy believes, to stay back from the sight of the man’s body. It was a most distressing sight, after all.

“Of course. I told you we should come here,” says the Lion, after swallowing. “And this is why.”

“Now all we have to do is find out where he is.” Pinocchio peers into the mirror, trying to spot any clues before the image fades away.

“That will be difficult,” says the Lion, and for a moment, Pinocchio’s smile falters. “But I believe I’ll be able to find him.”

Thinking silently for a moment, the Lion finally says, “It will be easier if we have help. You must go upstairs and ask the others.”

The Lion looks solemnly at Pinocchio, his muzzle flecked and wet. “Tell them it is not too late to save the girl and their master, just as it is not too late to find your father. Tell them.”

Nodding eagerly, Pinocchio scampers back upstairs, his eyes bright. Hope, after all, is a valuable meal.

Chapter Fifty-Six

2009-10-25T12:45:00.000-04:00

Up, up, up the Forbidden Mountain sits a dark and beautiful castle - this is the Queen’s destination. But before she can undertake such a steep and treacherous climb, first she must pass a forest most twisted and cruel.

Many of the dead have been caught amidst its enchanted thorns and thistles. They groan and reach out helplessly, but the Queen ignores their pleas. Let them struggle until the end of days.

Every now and then she comes across a true corpse, and they catch her attention more than the undead. Here was once a handsome young lad in the fine silks and silver of a nobleman. How he must have suffered in these thorns, trapped for hours, days, before starving alone.

There are worse fates, she thinks, and she looks again at her wounded hand. How much time remains?

Soon the Queen cannot step any closer - the twisted thorns are too full of groping arms and groaning bodies. To enter further would be literally walking into an open, hungry mouth.

How many, she wonders idly, have made it past these demonic thorns?

One, perhaps? One would be enough. And, roaming aimlessly, it might soon encounter a fawn, weak and helpless. And the fawn would bite and kill throughout the wilderness. And from the forests would come death. And that death would never stop, never stop, never stop, until none remained.

She surveys the Forbidden Mountain with some respect. An impossible journey for a mere mortal, except perhaps the true of heart. But for one skilled in the blackest of magic, it’s a simple matter. With silver knife and raven’s feather, she prepares the painful transformation.

It started here, spoke the Mirror. This is where the death began, in the castle of the uninvited enchantress. And, on her dying day, before she, too, can be claimed by the curse, the Queen intends to undo the spell.

Chapter Fifty-Five

2009-10-22T12:53:00.003-04:00

Rifle pointed in front of him, the stranger enters the forlorn castle.

The Lion catches the scent of the man’s oiled hair. And, more worryingly, he can smell gunpowder. Best to remain in the shadows, while the bravest of the furniture - led by Pinocchio and the Candelabra - creep forward to spy on the visitor.

The man has the build of a hunter, tall and burly. Even in the gloom, the Lion can see the large knife gleaming on his belt.

Pinocchio, ever foolish, speaks first. “Father?” he asks, his voice full of doubt and hope.

Thunder explodes through the castle, and the boy clatters to the floor. Smoke wisps from the barrel of the rifle.

The man frowns. Clearly, he was not expecting to hear the voice of a child. He cocks his rifle and steps forward, eyes aware of any movement. The furniture, shocked, stays still and inconspicuous.

Pinocchio clutches his chest. It doesn’t hurt, but he feels as if it should. His fingers probe the newly formed hole where his heart would be if he were made of flesh.

He starts to cry.

“What the devil?”

“You’re not my father,” sobs Pinocchio.

Ears still ringing from the gunshot, none save the Lion can hear the door opening upstairs. The air grows rank with the tiniest threat of fur and sweat and filth.

The Lion glances upward at the Master of the castle - a beast unlike any in his native Wildlands. It stares down from its chamber and takes no notice of the furniture, or the wooden boy, or the Lion.

But this man... HIM... He is not welcome here.

Its eyes blaze in fury, and before the Lion can consider what is to come, the Beast leaps from the balcony.

A nightmare of fur and fangs flies through the air. Its roar - bitter anguish and pain - shakes the castle walls and sucks the air from the man’s lungs.

He’d come following the Lion and the boy, and he’d found something worse - a demon with blue, hate-filled eyes.

Mouth agape, face gray, the man vaguely points the rifle in the direction of the Beast. He staggers backward and numbly pulls the trigger, but the shot is a whisper lost amidst the roar.

“You!” screams the Beast. It lands on the floor - tiles shatter, furniture scatters - and sends the man flying with a savage swing of its black claw. “It was you!”

The man crashes into the wall, and the Lion hears the faintest snapping of bone. The man, overwhelmed, doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s drawn his hunting knife.

“You killed her!” screams the Beast, and it flies toward the intruder. And although the man is a mountain among men - the champion of his town, once upon a time - he is nothing more than a toy compared to the monster before him.

“You murdered her!” the Beast rages. Its shadow envelops the man, and from his alcove, the Lion’s whiskers twitch at the scent of hot, fresh blood.

“Stop! Stop! Please, stop!” screams Pinocchio. He tries to move forward, to help the man, but he is held back by the Candelabra. The servants have seen their Master in such a state before, and they know what happens to those who get in the way.

For many moments, Pinocchio’s cries accompany the Beast’s, punctuated by the wet, smacking thud as the man is destroyed. Even when there is almost nothing left, it continues to slam its giant fists against the bloody tiles.

Only when the Beast’s vengeance is finally complete, its rage sated, does it sit back and notice, wonderingly, the knife in its side, the bullet hole in its body. With a mournful howl, it collapses, its blood mingling with the remains on the floor.

And still the Lion does not move.

Chapter Fifty-Four

2009-10-18T10:57:00.002-04:00

Elsewhere in the city.

The attic window of a posh, ruined house, left purposefully unlatched. Outside on the wide ledge, a little elephant catches its breath.

“Yoo-hoo!” chirrups a snow-white mouse. She jumps from a tiny saddle atop the elephant, pushes open the window and glances around. “Darlings!”

“Honestly, Miss,” says another mouse, a common gray. “Be careful!” The elephant’s trunk rummages through one of its many saddlebags and removes a tin of cat food. He hands it to the gray mouse, who accepts the mountainous load with a grunt.

“Oh, pooh,” replies the first mouse. “It’s been ages since we’ve seen them. Surely they’ve missed us!”

“And surely they’ve grown,” mumbles her companion. “Kittens grow up fast, and you know what they eat, don’t you?” His voice drops to a whisper. “Mice.”

“Not these children,” she says in her usual confident tone. “They love us!”

“You, maybe,” says the gray. The tin proves too much for his tiny paws, and it clatters to the attic floor.

Hands on hips, she turns with an annoyed glare. “Really, can’t you be any more quiet? We don’t want any of them hearing us.” She gestures with a paw to the streets below, where the many dead humans wander aimlessly.

The gray nods meekly and holds the next tin all the tighter.

Something isn’t quite right. The kittens would’ve heard the can falling, surely, and if there’s one sound they recognize - other than the Miss’s voice - it’s food.

But the attic remains still.

“Don’t you think...” he begins, but she silences him with a paw. She looks around thoughtfully, at the floor, the windows, the ceiling, everywhere.

There’s a reason why she is such a well-regarded member of the Society, and it isn’t because of her beauty. Since the attacks, she’s been responsible for rescuing dozens of refugees, and has initiated even more members into their organization.

Birds, squirrels, all creatures meek and small had the advantage in this new world. They could slip beneath doors or hide in crawlspaces and cracks. The aerial squadron was instrumental in discovering safe places like this attic, and the flying elephant solved all issues with transport of food and people.

There are shelters like these all over the city, all over the world, but now...

“They aren’t here,” says the snow-white mouse. “This place has been breached.”

“By who?” The gray looks over to the closed trapdoor in the attic’s floor - the dead wouldn’t be so polite as to close it after them.

And the kittens were a handful, but they’d know better than to wander off into the dangerous world, wouldn’t they?

“They still had food,” she says, and she points to a large, mostly empty sack of cat food. It slumps in the corner, fat and dejected.

“And water, too.” Along the other window is the contraption they’d set up to catch rainwater.

“Disappeared,” he thinks. “Just like the Dalmatian couple.” He carefully puts down the tin and sniffs the air. Some unfamiliar scent makes his whiskers tremble.

“We should go...” he says, and unconsciously steps backward to the waiting elephant.

“You smell it, too, don’t you?” she says, and he nods.

“It’s, it’s like a dog,” he says at last. “But not quite.”

“No,” she agrees. “Not quite. Something wilder.”

“A dog might’ve scared them away,” he says.

“Yes, but a not-quite dog would’ve done something worse.”

She continues to look around, always returning her gaze to that open window.

It’s hard to stomach that look on her face, so he takes off his cap and studies it instead. “We should go, Miss,” he says again, and she finally tears herself away from her thoughts.

“Yes, we should.” With one last unsatisfied look at the window, she slowly returns to the ledge. The little elephant smiles at her, eager to fly some more.

“Maybe we can leave one tin for them,” says the gray, hoping for some hope. “You know, in case they come back. I could even open it up, since they can’t use a can opener.”

“No,” she says flatly. She climbs atop the tiny elephant, scratches absently at his enormous ears - he squirms in delight - and looks out over the city. “That won’t be necessary.”

The gray starts to climb up after her, but she stops him. “Oh, and be a dear and hitch along that sack of food, will you? Someone else will need it.”

On her orders, they never return.

Chapter Fifty-Three

2009-10-14T23:56:00.003-04:00

“Just my luck,” grumbles the Dwarf. “Started with one sleepin’ girl, ended up with another. Left one dead kingdom, and look where I am.”

He speaks with the same fastidiousness he’d use when stoking a fire. The silence, like the cold, would be overwhelming, and he’s the only one who can carry the conversation.

The bonneted dog listens stoically, and the Dwarf surprises himself by scratching her shaggy haunches.

Cinderella slumbers, lost in the sleep of death. He won’t allow himself the notion that she can hear his words, and doubts that she can feel the plushness of the bed in which she lies. It took him quite some time, working alone, to push it into this room.

The Wolf is gone. He’d been no use the day before, of course. He’d whined about his stitches and wounds, constantly circling about and getting in the way, and hadn’t helped board up a single door or window. Then with the rising of the sun, the Wolf had abandoned them altogether - up through the chimney, quick, quick, quick.

“Good riddance t’ bad rubbish,” growls the Dwarf. It’s a return to his favorite topic. He scratches the bonneted dog harder. “Hope they got him. One less mouth t’ feed, anyway.

“Not that we got much,” he says, raising his voice to drown out the scrambling and scratching below. Downstairs, the dead thrash against the walls and go bump in the night, agitated by the unreachable scent of Dwarven sweat.

“Hard, moldy bread. Water if it rains soon... which it won’t. Probably end up needin’ to eat these shoes.”

With a long-suffering sigh, he stumps toward the fireplace. Not that he needs a fire - his eyes are long accustomed to the darkness of the mines - but the girl might appreciate it. And maybe the firelight will be noticed by someone in this great empty city. Some lucky fool.

A crash and a thump from the roof. The bonneted dog snaps to attention and growls faintly. The Dwarf swears and grabs at his spear-axe. How they got up there is nobody’s guess, but he’ll be damned if they get through.

“Watch over her,” he orders the dog. She nods a small salute, and stands by Cinderella’s bed.

The noise changes to a scuffling in the chimney, and the Dwarf relaxes ever so slightly. Defending a fireplace is easy - they can’t get in faster than he can kill them.

And the dirty head of the Wolf peers through. For a horrible moment, the Dwarf fears his bitter words have come true, but then the Wolf winks. He wriggles from the fireplace and wipes the soot from his arms.

The Dwarf drops the axe to his side. “Don’t make a mess in here,” he says. There’s no need to bother with a greeting.

Slowly, sarcastically, the Wolf brushes himself over the fireplace. Then, paws clean, he reaches into his pocket and removes three bundles of fur. Kittens. Dead. He tosses them in the Dwarf’s direction.

He picks one up, brings it to his nose, and sniffs. Fresh, but no longer warm. Snapped neck. Of course, the Wolf probably ate the plumpest of them, but it’s enough for a stew, and maybe some meat can be dried.

“Where’d you get these?”

“Other end of town. Holed up in an attic.”

The Dwarf grunts. “Should’ve brought back the other ones you ate, too.”

The Wolf’s eyes go wide with pretend innocence. “There were only three, I swear!”

The bonneted dog snorts.

“She could’ve used the extra fur for a blanket. It’s summer now, but it’ll get cold soon enough.” He begins gutting the first kitten. It’s wearing a leather collar, which he pockets. He does not read the name.

The Wolf nods and grins in a way that the Dwarf doesn’t trust. But the creature doesn’t seem hungry... at least for the time being.

“How’re you gonna feed her?” asks the Wolf, with a flick of his tail toward Cinderella’s bed.

“I don’t,” says the Dwarf. “If she’s like the other one, she’ll maybe just drink a few drops of water, but I don’t think she even needs it. But it... it just ain’t right to not give her nothin’.”

The Dwarf tries to focus on the kitten, though one eye keeps going toward the Wolf. He salivates openly, and keeps running his paws over the stitches in a way that is almost - but not quite - scratching.

Muttering to himself, the Dwarf vows to keep watch that night, but eventually, stomach full of stew, he falls asleep. He doesn’t hear the Wolf disappear, quick, quick, quick, up the chimney for a brief nighttime prowl.

But in the morning, someone has placed a small cup of fresh water beside Cinderella’s bed.

Chapter Fifty-Two

2009-10-11T10:44:00.002-04:00

Like the rest of the castle, the upstairs landing remains dark, empty, destroyed. Pinocchio looks around.

“Father?” he calls once more. His voice trembles.

He knows - but he doesn’t know how he knows - that his destination must lie beyond the closed door at the end of the hallway. The scariest door. The largest door. That is the one he must open.

He tiptoes closer, although he’s not quite sure why - whatever dwells behind the door has surely heard his voice. As he reaches up to grab the doorknob, a baritone voice emerges from the darkness:

“Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn’t open that if I were you.”

A small flare of fire - a candle is lit - and a candelabra gasps at the visitor. “Sacre bleu! It is a small wooden boy.”

Pinocchio smiles. A talking candlestick! Surely Gepetto is nearby.

It subtly hops away from the forbidden door, and Pinocchio follows.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m looking for my father. Gepetto.”

“Well... I am fairly certain he is not here,” says the Candelabra. It eyes Pinocchio carefully, checking for any distinguishing traits. “Unless you are one of mine.” It chuckles. “In which case, I would say the family resemblance is, how shall we say? Not so good.”

“But, but the Lion said...” begins Pinocchio.

“I am sorry, young monsieur,” says the Candelabra, and it continues to lead the boy toward the staircase, “but there is no Gepetto here. I have never heard the name. Now you must go. I fear you may have already disturbed the Master.”

“The Master?” Pinocchio casts a hopeful eye at the bedroom door. It has to be Gepetto. “Did he make you, too? He made me!”

The Candelabra shakes its head, casting odd, flickering shadows. “I am afraid not, young monsieur. Now truly...” its attention is diverted by scurrying sounds from downstairs - the rest of the staff seems restless this day. “You must go.”

Confused, Pinocchio stops walking. Was the Lion mistaken? But how could he be wrong? And there’s that ever-important lesson he’d learned from the Lion: not everyone could be trusted. Would that include talking candlesticks?

There have already been so many tests - all of which Pinocchio is quite sure he’s failed - along his journey. This must be another one. And his many mistakes had cost him his father, his conscience, the Little Pig. Just about everything.

And somehow he knows - without quite knowing how he knows - that the right decision will cause Gepetto to appear. But if he is wrong, his father will be whisked even further away.

The Blue Fairy told him he must be brave, truthful and unselfish in order to be a real boy. She never said what he must do to find his father. And the Lion has taught him, time and time again, that he simply isn’t suited toward making the right choice.

Should he listen to the Candelabra, a stranger? Or disobey and see for himself?

“Maybe... I’d better... check,” decides Pinocchio. The choice is made. And before the Candelabra can protest, they hear the click and creak of an opening door.

But it isn’t the scariest door, the largest door, the Forbidden Door of the Master.

It comes from the great hall downstairs.

Someone has entered the castle.

Chapter Fifty-One

2009-10-07T21:36:00.002-04:00

The forest is still alive. And that troubles the Queen.

She no longer fears the dead. Now she fears the living.

How many hours remain before she, too, falls prey to the curse of walking death? Should a stray squirrel or badger draw near, will she be tempted by the taste of their flesh, the scent of their blood? How much longer does she have?

Her hand still throbs painfully. Already she can see the redness around her missing finger. Not for the first time, not for the last time does the Queen curse that foul Dwarf.

She expects the curse will travel up her arm and slowly kill her, but she isn’t sure - she never bothered to study any of her dying subjects, not when the Mirror was missing.

Now her beloved Mirror weighs down her pack. How it fits inside such a small satchel is a matter of magic most dark, darker than the whispering forest that she hurries through.

Whatever moves about and watches from the trees, it will only impede her on her quest, and she still has leagues to walk before she sleeps. Indeed, she may never sleep again. Not when so much is at stake.

Her approaching death makes it easier to carry on. No pausing for rest or food or even water. There is no more need. All that matters is that she reach the Forbidden Mountain, the birthplace of this terrible curse, before it claims her, as well.

On a different night, under different circumstances, perhaps, she would pause and listen to the whispers of the forest. Out of curiosity, if nothing else, for secrets are often spoken in the dark. But not tonight.

The Queen glides on, a glimmer of jeweled darkness in the moonlit night, until finally the forest calls to her.

“Ho, fair lady,” comes a pleasant voice from the trees.

She does not stop. Something steps lightly among the branches and follows her.

“My lady, these woods be most treacherous at night. Why not wait 'til daybreak up here, safe above the ground?”

Still the Queen does not stop, although her spine begins to buzz with the beginnings of fear. She can smell flesh and blood.

“Please?” A pause. “Well, if that be the case...” says the voice, and something falls lightly from the trees and lands quietly at the ground in front of the Queen.

“We’ll need to be taking whatever you’ve got, then.” He sees the jewels of her crown, and then bows slightly. “Your majesty.”

He is a fox, dressed for a life spent outdoors. He casually carries a longbow, but is too polite to aim it upon her person.

“You dare rob from me?” says the Queen. Too late, she’s identified this forest as Sherwood.

“It’s what we do,” says the fox. He smiles. “Take from the rich, give to the poor. Of course, if you’d agree to stay with us, there’d be plenty of food for all.”

The Queen looks up into the mighty trees of Sherwood, only now realizing the walkways and well-concealed huts. A perfect sanctuary from the dead, a sanctuary she would destroy were she to accept this thief’s invitation.

A bear appears from the shadow of an oak, and unslings the pack from the Queen’s shoulders. He rifles through it, but the magic prevents him from seeing its true contents.

He groans in disappointment. “No food.”

“What?” The fox nearly drops his bow in surprise. “No food? What about water?”

“Not a drop.”

The fox turns to the Queen. “What have you been eating, then?”

She raises her wounded hand, revealing the stump where her finger was bitten. “Myself,” she says.

The bear is too stunned to resist as she snatches her pack and flees into the darkness, intent on putting as much distance as she can from this haven before the inevitable.

Chapter Fifty

2009-10-04T21:29:00.002-04:00

“Keep runnin’,” gasps the Dwarf. He readjusts the sleeping Cinderella across his shoulders and continues stumping up the cobblestone streets. At his heels, the Wolf forces himself to limp a little faster.

Though they've only been in the Lands Beyond for a few moments, already the Dwarf has come to hate it.

His people fled here? To this undefended maze of a city? What were they thinking?

Two dead children stumble into the street, blocking their way. The Dwarf lowers Cinderella to the ground - he winces as she falls upon the stones - and draws his polearm.

“Carry the girl!” he shouts to the Wolf, and rushes forward to attack the dead.

“I can’t!” snarls the Wolf. He pulls feebly at her apron, but his stitches throb too painfully.

“Then you’ll get us all killed,” scowls the Dwarf, and he swings angrily at the children. He pays no mind to what they once were.

“Come on,” he says roughly, and picks up Cinderella once more. He looks behind at the straggling bodies, then continues running.

Instinctively, the Dwarf heads toward a clock tower in the distance - it’s the only building in this city of glass that looks safe - but getting there, that’ll be the trick.

“Turn here,” wheezes the Wolf. He sniffs at the air. “Less of ‘em.”

“Less is still lots,” growls the Dwarf. Fightin' 'em off ain't hard, he’d admit, not when you have a weapon made to keep your distance and the enemy doesn’t know any tactics. But each moment fightin' is a moment not runnin'.

“Gotta be somewhere safe,” says the Wolf. He looks longingly at the ruined buildings, but each one has a broken door or a smashed window - an open invitation to the undead.

“Hmph. Not even a tree!” It’s difficult, but somehow the Dwarf finds the breath to complain.

Three more of the dead pick their way through the wreckage of a shop. Not a troubling number - he’d killed seven with one blow before - but the Dwarf’s mostly concerned with the ever-increasing horde following them. The corpses fall over the broken bricks, and the Dwarf decides it’s not worth it, best to keep running.

“Where now?” he asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” says the Wolf. The smell is everywhere. His eyes flit about for any sign of escape. “They’re all coming.”

“Damnation.” He slides Cinderella to the street and looks for the closest cluster. Each group, on its own, wouldn’t be nothin', but not all of them all at once. He doesn’t have time to strategize, especially with that damn barking. What’s the Wolf trying to do, alert the whole cursed city?

“Will you shut yer yap?” he shouts at the Wolf, who looks back at him in surprise.

“It ain’t me!” the Wolf shouts back. The two look at each other, then wildly about the neighborhood. Dead dogs don’t bark. They may howl, but they don’t bark.

Soon they see it - a large dog barking at them from a second-story window.

“Go!” says the Dwarf, but the Wolf is already hobbling in that direction.

The door to the house is nailed shut, but there’s a small broken window next to it. The Wolf, after smelling carefully, shimmies through the hole, and the Dwarf gingerly passes Cinderella through.

In a moment, they’re inside and the Dwarf surveys the interior. Not many windows on this floor, he decides, but not many is still too many.

There’s a lumbering step at the stairs, and they turn to see their barking savior: a large, mountainous dog wearing - of all things - a bonnet.

“It safe upstairs?”

The bonneted dog nods.

“This room ain’t worth defendin’,” decides the Dwarf. He picks up Cinderella and stomps up the stairs. “Maybe I can hold ‘em off from the stairway, pick ‘em off one at a time...”

And then he notices the sound of his own footsteps. The staircase rattles. It isn’t made of good, solid, unbreakable marble, but of a fancy wood. A fancy, delicate, flimsy wood.

Setting Cinderella on the second-floor landing, he takes a crowbar from his tool belt. Within seconds, he’s removed one of the stairs. He looks down - eleven more to destroy.

“This the only way up?” he asks the bonneted dog. She barks back a single affirmative.

“Good,” says the Dwarf, smiling joylessly as the undead beat upon the windows. He rushes downstairs, hoping he has enough time before they break into the house.

“This won’t be easy, but it’ll do,” he says to no one in particular. They’re the cheeriest words he’s ever spoken.

Chapter Forty-Nine

2009-09-30T16:25:00.002-04:00

Like all the other rooms of this forlorn castle, the parlor is empty and silent, still and shadowy, save for the ticking of a clock.

“You can come out now,” says the Lion. “I know you’re in here.”

Nothing.

“There’s no use hiding,” continues the Lion. He patiently circles the parlor. “And you have my word that I won’t harm you.”

Nothing.

“Come now,” purrs the Lion, even gentler, “you have nothing to fear from me... as long as you don’t make me lose my temper.”

He stops pacing in front of the mantelpiece clock.

It ticks a little faster.

The clock opens one eye, only to see Lion’s scarred muzzle staring into its face.

“Hello,” says the Lion.

There is a long pause. “What do you want?” says the Clock.

“To help, of course.”

“Well, we don’t need any help,” says the Clock, and it waddles around to face the wall.

The Lion lazily swats his paw and the Clock falls to the floor. He extracts a single claw, turns it over, and taps on the pendulum. And although the Clock shouldn’t feel pain, it trembles.

“You might not need my help...” The Lion thinks for a moment, but cannot remember the human’s name. No matter. “But she does.”

The parlor rustles slightly and the Lion smiles to himself. He finally has their attention.

“And,” says the Lion, out to the rest of the rooms, “any other things would do well to listen to what I have to say.”

“We’re... we’re listening,” says the Clock, still squirming on the floor. “But you’re too late to help her.”

“Why is that?” asks the Lion.

“She’s dead.”

“Oh, is she?” The Lion tuts sorrowfully. “That does make things slightly more difficult.”

“What do you mean?” asks a broomstick, brushing through the doorway.

“Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself,” says the Lion. He pauses as more pieces of furniture enter. The smell of magic permeates throughout the parlor. “Please, tell me what happened.”

The room buzzes and titters. The Clock clears his throat loudly, and most fall silent.

“She died,” repeats the Clock. His voice is thick. “She fell ill, wasted away and died.”

“And with her...” adds the divan, but the Clock interrupts the interruption.

“...Died the hopes of our master.”

“Only she didn’t die, did she?” whispers the Lion. “Not exactly.”

The room murmurs.

“We, we tried to bury her,” says the Clock. “Only she wouldn’t let us.”

The shovel, which leans in the doorway for fear of soiling the carpet, pipes up. “Her skin was so cold, monsieur. Like her eyes. She couldn’t see us anymore.”

“We think,” says the Clock, “that it was part of the curse.”

“She left,” continues the shovel. “Without a word of good-bye. Just walked back to the town in that broken way of hers.”

“And the master was devastated,” adds the Clock. He is determined not to let the shovel take over his story. “Locked himself away in his room. He sees no one, now.”

They do not mention the day and night he raged through the castle before he was overcome with despair. So much destruction, so many faithful servants crushed and trampled on that painful and unholy day.

The Lion nods thoughtfully. He’d been concerned about having to deal with their master. “And what if I told you that it is not too late to help her? That I could bring her back?”

In a way, they’re just like Pinocchio. Gullible and indestructible. An army of these tools, so much better than an army of hyenas. Feed them their hopes, and let them find his food and shelter.

The Clock speaks with the unanimous thoughts of the others. “We’d do anything to help her.”

The Lion smiles.

Chapter Forty-Eight

2009-09-27T18:42:00.002-04:00

And so the Queen finds herself alone in the Castle of the Door, staring down at the body of the mad witch. The crone’s head still bleeds and she groans feebly. It’s a small comfort that - for the moment, at least - she still lives.

Gone are the bodies for the sacrifice - Dwarf, maiden, even Wolf. Not what the Queen would have hoped for, and losing the witch’s powers will certainly be regrettable, but the old woman deserves as much for her failure. And someone has to die.

She forces some apple into the witch’s mouth before dragging the body into the courtyard. It wouldn’t do to have the fool wake up in the middle of the ritual and ruin things even further.

Beyond the portcullis, the undead moan and flail their arms helplessly, but the Queen has long since learned to ignore their pitiful cries. Later on, she’ll have to figure out a way past them, but for now, there is the ritual to attend to.

The mad witch lays still and blissful, lost in the sleep of death. The bindings of spider’s silk are unnecessary, but custom requires it. The bowl of water reflects the image of the pure, blazing sun. The Mirror sees the reflection. The undead quiver and groan, and the Queen raises the knife of bone high.

Words of magic, words from Hell are spoken, and the many spirits that had left their corruptible, mortal state at the Castle of the Door gather and swirl about, unseen.

The Magic Mirror opens one lazy eye, curious and cautious by the gift of blood. And not just any blood, but the blood of a witch, aged to a vintage most delicious and potent.

The Queen continues to chant. The gift is welcomed. The dagger falls. The wind sighs as the blood pools upon the cold stone grounds, as all are pleased by the sacrifice. The undead moan and beg at the scent of blood, and fight against the portcullis.

With a subtle nod, the Mirror soaks in the power and the life of the mad witch, who quickly dies amidst her dark, shadowy dreams.

It is a most suitable sacrifice, far better than an ordinary girl and a common Dwarf, but the rules were stated long ago, when magic was first formed: Though the gift be great, it is only one life, and the Queen may ask for a single boon in return.

There is no need for well-worded rhymes. For the moment, at least, the Queen can treat the Demon in the Mirror as an equal. It regards her silently, its mask bloated a deeper hue with the blood of the mad witch. It will give nothing away without being asked first. Those are the rules.

“This plague,” says the Queen, and she gestures with her free hand toward the creatures at the portcullis. “From where did it begin?”

It is a question she has long considered, the single request that would reveal the most to this mystery. If only she had another life to give, she could learn more, but this will have to do.

And if the Mirror thinks anything about the Queen’s choice of words, it does not share any opinion. There is perhaps a reason why it appears as a mask.

“At the Forbidden Mountain,” it speaks at last, “home to an uninvited enchantress, dark and beautiful. She is the mother from whom the dead first found life.”

The trade of blood for knowledge is fair by all accounts. The wind hushes its approval, the spirits fade, the blood cools in the morning air, and the Queen bows graciously at her reflection in the Mirror.

Chapter Forty-Seven

2009-09-24T22:31:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, the Big Bad Wolf abandoned his son to the hungry dead. He was starving and exhausted, but at least he could still run, whereas Junior could do no more than curl into a ball and weep.

The Wolf awakens to the screams of his son, still fresh from his fevered dream. It takes him a moment to realize that the cries are real, and they’re coming from within the castle.

That’s right, he remembers. He’s inside a castle. The Castle of the Door, in fact. The gateway to the Lands Beyond.

Once upon a time, a wooden boy and a little pig invited him - however reluctantly - to journey with them to this very castle. And he turned them down, attacked the pig, and was driven away. At the time, he didn’t know what hurt worse, the rocks thrown by the puppet or the fact that he was beaten by a child.

Slowly, gingerly, the Wolf creeps toward the cries. It’s difficult to move - his chest is oddly tight. He looks down and is surprised by the black thread stitched across his body. Yet the pain isn’t nearly as bad as he’d expect - he’s certainly felt worse these past few days. And the wounds no longer burn.

He enters the Chamber of the Door, and another memory, another flash from his dream, gives the Wolf pause.

Once upon a time, in this very room, the little pig stayed behind to build a final wall of brick, a practical way to protect the Door. But it trapped him with the Wolf, and the Wolf had his revenge. Even armed with a hammer and trowel, the little pig was soon killed and eaten.

Now two bodies lie upon the bloodstained floor – a sleeping beauty and an unconscious witch.

How similar they are to the prophecy spoken by the Demon in the Mirror: that two would come to end the Wolf’s pain. Witch and Queen, Dwarf and Maiden, he’d never been sure who the Demon was referring to. And that might have been the point of the prophecy, after all.

But, of course, only one of them would have made stitches so tidy, and once upon a time - just last night, though it’s hard to believe - Cinderella sewed them all and saved his life.

Beyond the bodies, the Dwarf stands before the wall of brick. His spear-axe is pointed at the Wolf.

They regard each other silently, cautiously, as the Wolf drags himself over to the witch’s body. He holds his breath at the stink of her magic, and lifts a leg to leave his scent. Let it be known that once upon a time, the Wolf was here.

The Dwarf’s spear relaxes the tiniest bit.

“You leaving?” says the Wolf.

Warily, the Dwarf nods.

“Can I go, too?”

The Dwarf’s eyes flicker to the sleeping maiden at his feet, but then, reluctantly, he nods.

Chapter Forty-Six

2009-09-20T10:46:00.004-04:00

The scent of magic is overpowering, almost painful. The Lion isn’t surprised that no animal or bird or even insect will approach this place. A tremor runs down his spine and he subtly hides it with a quick shake of his mane.

“Go on, my boy,” says the Lion. “Open the door.”

Pinocchio looks doubtful. “Why would my father be here?” he asks. Another question, as always. “It’s so... ugly.”

“Is it?” says the Lion. “I hadn’t noticed.” To him, all of Man’s buildings are ugly.

“Everything’s grown over,” says the puppet. “And it’s all broken and ruined.”

Pinocchio tries not to shiver - not in front of the Lion - but there’s something about the castle that makes him feel like he is being watched, and not by the welcoming eyes of his father.

“And wouldn’t he have seen us by now?” Pinocchio asks. “If he were here?” In his imagination, Gepetto would have rushed from the castle as soon as he saw them on the trail. And inside there would be all manner of music and merriment, light and warmth.

But the castle’s windows - the few that aren’t shattered - remain black, empty, staring.

The Lion sighs heavily. He only needs the brat to do one simple, final act - open a door - and even that is proving to be a struggle of epic proportions.

“I don’t know, child. Perhaps he’s asleep. It is dusk, after all. In any case, you’re just moments away from reuniting with him... so what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” says Pinocchio. His nose puffs out slightly. To prove his words, he raps his small wooden fist against the door. It makes a small, lonely sound - the call of an intruder - but from within the castle, there is no response.

At least, not to Pinocchio. The Lion’s ears prick up slightly. He definitely heard something rustle inside. Excellent. He shakes his mane once more.

“Maybe he’s not home?” Pinocchio asks hopefully.

“My boy,” says the Lion, “all the trouble you’ve caused has come to pass because you did not listen to your elders.” He says this with such assurance that Pinocchio cannot help but nod. “Listen to me now, for once, and open the door.”

He does.

“Father?” Pinocchio calls into the empty entrance hall. Once it was grand, fine, plush. Now it is a mess of broken glass and faded, moth-eaten fabric. Shattered porcelain, broken plates, an overturned and ripped-apart divan.

And silence.

“Father, it’s me. Pinocchio.”

Something rustles softly from within, somewhere upstairs. Though the Lion is usually loathe to step indoors - the buildings of Man are always so claustrophobic - he enters the castle eagerly.

“Go on and find him, Pinocchio,” he says in his kindest voice. ”Perhaps he’s upstairs.”

Pinocchio turns back to the Lion and clutches at his mane. “Will you come with me?” It’s even darker upstairs, and he still can’t help but feel he’s being watched.

“I wouldn’t dare intrude on such a reunion,” says the Lion. “I’ll remain down here, waiting for you both. Now go on, show him what a brave son he has.”

Pinocchio looks back upstairs. Old portraits peer at him from the shadows. “I... I guess you’re right,” he says, and with a deep breath, hesitantly makes his way up the staircase.

The Lion smiles back pleasantly until the boy disappears into the gloom. He sniffs at the air, tracing the strongest aura of magic, and then he, too, melts into the darkness.

Chapter Forty-Five

2009-09-16T12:08:00.003-04:00

“Take him and the girl,” says the Queen. “We haven’t much time.”

Just listening to her voice makes his blood boil, but the Dwarf forces his face to remain slack. Oldest trick in the book, playin’ opossum, but he’ll be damned if he’ll show his hand before the time is right.

She doesn’t make much noise as she exits – slithery as a snake, that one is – but her footsteps soon fade.

The large purple cat still sits upon his chest. It mustn’t know he’s awake, not yet, not until he’s got his weapon in hand.

He forces himself to think calming thoughts – biting off the Queen’s finger, for instance. Another trick well played. Let her stew on that for a while, maybe it’ll throw her off her game ‘til she realizes she ain’t gonna die. Not of the curse, at least, though the Dwarf hopes his mouth is dirty enough to at least make the wound fester.

The cat lazily lifts itself from the Dwarf’s body, and it jabbers to itself in the voice of a madwoman. “Take the bodies, she says. But how? A jungle ape? A bear? An ogre, mayhap?”

With each creature mentioned, the room crackles and flickers with magic as the purple cat changes shape. The Dwarf keeps his eyes closed and his face still, though talking animals fill him with disgust. His polearm, he knows, lies over yonder. And judging from the cat’s voice, its back is now to him, probably facing Cinderella.

“Ogres can’t fit through them doors,” the cat warbles. “So jungle ape it is!”

Another flash of magic, and that’s the moment he’s been waiting for. The Dwarf opens his eyes and reaches, the spear-axe is right there, and finally the comforting weight of solid iron is in his hands once more.

The purple ape, hunched over Cinderella, doesn’t hear the Dwarf’s charge. The blunt end of the axe, heavy, iron, thick, smacks into its skull.

The ape falls, bleeding and unconscious, but the body that hits the floor is that of a mottled old crone.

The Dwarf stares at her body, spinning the polearm restlessly. It’d just take one quick stab to end her wicked ways, and the girl – both of them, in a way – would be avenged. He presses the point of the spear against the witch’s black heart.

But is that what Snow White would want? Or Cinderella, who was always so kind to even the nastiest of magpies?

And there’s something pathetic about the crone’s toothless mouth, something helpless and weak, that gives the Dwarf pause. It was the Queen who brewed the poison, after all, not her companion. He chews at his beard angrily, and suddenly sheathes the weapon.

“Ain’t no way you’ll make me a murderer,” he growls to the witch, and he slumps toward Cinderella’s sleeping form. He cannot bring himself to look at the maiden’s face.

Taking Cinderella’s body, the Dwarf lifts her with a weary grunt and steps toward the Doorway. Whoever bricked it up surely didn’t do them any favors, that’s for sure.

It’s not gonna be easy doing this alone – he’ll have to climb ahead, clear out the area, climb back, and then carry the girl. And all before the Queen returns.

Speak of the Devil, there’s a faint step at the entrance to the Chamber, and the Dwarf whirls around. He reaches for his polearm and eyes the intruder.

Staring back is the Big Bad Wolf, freshly bandaged and cleanly stitched by Cinderella’s own hand.

Chapter Forty-Four

2009-09-13T22:10:00.002-04:00

She should be readying herself, she knows. The ritual will be dangerous, and even weakened by the light of the morning sun, the Demon in the Mirror will not be dominated so easily.

And yet, the Queen cannot stop staring at her wounded hand and thinking of that Dwarf, that damned Dwarf. All her plans and predictions ruined by a heinous little creature and his snapping jaws.

She is dying, she knows, as her blood gives in, drop by precious drop, to the undead plague. At best, she has a day or two before the Dwarf’s bite will kill her, reduce her to a hungry, mindless corpse, trembling in the summer storms.

In one hand the Queen still holds a slice of her apple, steeped in the liquids of sleeping death. How easy it would be to taste its poison and leave this burden to another.

But, she wonders, could the apple protect her? Could it still her heart, stop the curse, and leave her waiting, dreamless and breathless, for love’s first kiss?

Does it matter?

No one would come save her, not in this doomed kingdom where the bravest of men fled like cowards, leaving the Queen alone to save them all with magicks darker than the tomb.

No. She is too important to remove herself from the game. She will cast her spell and carry on for as long as she is able. Two days is not much time, but it might be enough to save the world. And if it isn’t, then as the last whispers of her life fade, she will take a bite from her apple, and fall where she may.

Absently, anxiously, the Queen prepares the courtyard for the spell that must take place. Soon everything is in position – the red spider’s silk, the knife of bone, the golden bowl of water to catch the sunlight, and, of course, the Magic Mirror to view its reflection.

All that she needs is the blood, the sacrifice. Two gifts, a Dwarf and a maiden, sleeping eternally. Two answers to any question, two visions into the past or the future.

But what’s taking the mad witch so long? Could she not carry their bodies this far? Could she not think of a shape to shift into with such strength and mobility? Or more likely, did she give in to temptation and eat the girl?

Cursing her luck when it comes to lackeys, the Queen strides into the castle. Quickly she passes empty hallways and bloodstained corridors. The crone will certainly be punished for this delay. She should know the importance of this ritual.

The Queen steps into the Chamber of the Door, ready with an angry command, but the unexpected sight kills the words in her throat. Of the Dwarf and the maiden, there is no sign. In their place, a solitary figure lies bleeding on the floor - the plump, unconscious body of the witch.

Chapter Forty-Three

2009-09-09T16:19:00.002-04:00

“But why would they shoot at us?” asks Pinocchio.

“Because they are Men,” says the Lion. “And they must never be trusted.” He steps cautiously through the unfamiliar forest, so different from the Wildlands. The smell of magic - that intriguing, burning smell - grows stronger and stronger. They’ve almost arrived.

“But...” persists Pinocchio, and desperately, longingly, he looks back toward the little town.

“It does not matter, my friend.” The Lion curls behind the tiny puppet and gently nudges him forward. “We’re looking for your father, aren’t we? And he is not within that town.”

“Are you sure?” asks Pinocchio. “Wouldn’t he want to be with other people? It’s a safe town! They were shooting guns and they had fires going!”

The smoke was another reason why the Lion had avoided the dwellings of Men.

“What have I told you about red fire?” the Lion asks with a theatrical display of weariness.

The puppet sighs and speaks by rote – this is one of the many lessons he’s learned since traveling with the Lion. “Fire is dangerous.”

“And not just for me...” says the Lion. He winces - his many scars contract into a maze of ruined flesh - at the memory of flames from so many seasons ago, when he was still a cub, and how he had to flee with the rest of his pride. How long ago that had been.

“...But for you, as well,” he finishes. “You are made of wood, Pinocchio, and wood burns. Who’s to say they wouldn’t use you to cook their dinners or heat their water?”

“Well, I’ve never had that problem...” says Pinocchio, though doubt creeps into his voice. Times are different now, and the Lion seems so sure.

“You’ve also never been attacked before,” adds the Lion. “What kind of Men would shoot at an innocent child? Not the kind that can be trusted.”

“No,” he purrs, with another sniff at the air, “your father would not associate with Men like that. He continued walking, through this very forest, down this very path. Why, we’ve almost caught up to him now.”

“Really?” asks Pinocchio. He quickens his pace, and the Lion lets him walk ahead... just in case.

“Have I ever lied to you?” asks the Lion.

Chapter Forty-Two

2009-08-30T19:33:00.003-04:00

A little town, a quiet village. Dawn rises, and the world is punctured with the blasts of gunfire.

The Town Champion wakes with a start, his hand automatically reaching for the musket on the floor. Still half in dream, he looks out the window and almost sees the mob-like phantoms from his nightmare before realizing they’re just shadows on the morning mist.

This isn’t the first morning to begin with gunshots - just yesterday there was another round of cleansing - but usually they’re fired on his command.

Which means something else must be going wrong in his poor, provincial town.

Crawling over the two sleeping wenches, the Champion prays his men are firing upon the dead - the real enemy - instead of on each other.

He pulls on his boots, grabs his musket, and marches toward the town wall. After a moment outdoors, the brisk morning air clears his sleepy head, and he remembers to fix his hair.

It had taken many hard choices, many difficult decisions, just to keep the women and children safe. And the men, those who were expected to fight and sacrifice and, yes, perhaps die for this safety, were proving to be cowards and traitors, all.

With a sniff, he walks upwind of the town blacksmith, still hanging from his rope. Let the ravens have him, the traitor. After all, he’d killed Pierre. Murdering a dog, could there be anything more cowardly? A foolish act of revenge, when all the dog had done was sniff out the sickness in the blacksmith’s son.

He’d made it clear there were only two choices - turn the sick out of the town to fend for themselves and eventually die, or be lined up against the wall and save everyone the trouble and ammunition.

The townsfolk hadn’t liked that, turning against their friends and family, but what would they know about sacrifice and duty, and what it might take to survive?

It’s a sickness, and when a dog is rabid, you don’t wait for him to bite you. You put him down and ease his suffering.

The people also didn’t like being compared to dogs.

And now gunfire. There better be a good reason for it. Bullets are hard to come by these days.

“What’s going on?” he asks the cobbler standing guard atop the wall. “More of the dead?”

The cobbler looks down at the Champion and salutes. He’s one of the few who still do.

“No, Monsieur,” he says. “It was... a lion.”

“A lion?! That’s impossible.” The Champion nimbly leaps up to the top of the wall. He scans the surrounding fields, but nothing is visible in the mist.

“I swear, Monsieur,” stammers the cobbler. He knows the Champion is very short-tempered these days. “It, uh, it ran away as soon as I fired.”

“It’s all right, Henri. I believe you.” The cobbler being one of the few men not plotting behind his back, he’s sure. “Which way did it go?”

“It ran off toward the western woods.”

The Champion checks his musket, then reaches for the powder horn hanging from Henri’s shoulder.

“But that’s not all, Monsieur,” continues the cobbler. “It was with someone. With a child.”

“A child?” If any other person had made such claims, the Champion would’ve laughed in his face and sent him to the asylum.

But Henri has the best eyesight in town - second only to the Champion himself - and is not one to tell tales. That’s why he is put on the vital nighttime shift - well, that, and it leaves his wife alone at night.

“Yes, Monsieur,” says Henri. “Though the child was definitely alive, not lurching like the dead.”

“And,” adds the Champion quickly, to show that he is more clever than the cobbler, “the dead wouldn’t be frightened off by gunfire. They’d be attracted to the noise.”

It hardly makes sense. Lions live in the deepest wilds of Africa - what would one be doing in France? And with a child, at that? It sounds of witchcraft or madness, but also of adventure and glory.

“I’m going after them,” the Champion impulsively decides. It’d be nice to have a lion pelt, after all. And the people could use some fresh meat - it might cheer them up after the latest round of cleansing. And perhaps they’d stop their mutinous mutterings if he rescued a child.

“But Monsieur,” says the cobbler, “the western woods lead to...”

“I know where they lead,” says the Champion curtly. And with a jump, he is over the safety of the wall and after his newfound glory.

Chapter Forty-Three will be published on Wednesday, September 9, 2009.

Chapter Forty-One

2009-08-26T14:31:00.001-04:00

An apple falls to the floor, perfect and unmarred except for a single, small bite.

Cinderella, sleeping the sleep of death, collapses into the waiting arms of the frail old woman.

“Witch!” snarls the Dwarf. Now he remembers. Too late, of course.

All his life he’s thrown acorns and small stones at the woodland creatures who’ve stolen from his garden, and the Dwarf’s aim still holds true. With furious accuracy, he hurls his own apple at the crone’s head, where it connects with a satisfying knock.

But before he can grab his polearm and run her through, something soft, huge and strong charges into his back.

The Dwarf crashes to the floor, and the lavender cat – somehow grown to a massive size – sits on his stomach and pins down his knobby shoulders.

“Mightn’t I eat him, your Majesty?” asks the enchanted cat in a warbling, simpering voice.

“No, we need him,” responds the woman.

“It’s YOU!” the Dwarf spits at the Queen. “You did this to Snow White, now you did this to her, too.”

“Snow White?” asks the Queen. A tremor in her voice cracks through before relaxing again. She smiles coolly. “Ah, so you must be one of her Dwarfs.”

“Damn straight,” growls the Dwarf. He can see his weapon, just a few feet away. Too far. And he can barely squirm beneath the weight of the giant cat.

The Queen gently lays the body of Cinderella onto the cold stone floor.

“Rest assured, Dwarf,” says the Queen, and she begins combing her splotchy hands through what little remains of her hair, “your friend here will not die in vain.”

“Wicked!” the Dwarf shouts. “Wicked!” His cries echo through the empty halls of the castle.

“Ooh, he’s a lively one, ain’t he?” chuckles the purple cat.

The Queen continues running her hands through her hair and over her face, and her features blur, melt, grow in vitality and youth. She stretches her back, and her spine uncurves.

The Dwarf refuses to look upon such black magicks - all he cares about is his polearm. Still too far, and the cat is much too heavy to throw off.

Finally, the spell fades, and in the ancient crone’s place stands the beautiful Queen. She bends over to pick up the Dwarf’s uneaten apple.

“You will eat this,” she says calmly, “and you will never wake up. But I give you my word that your sacrifice, and that of your friend,” she nods toward Cinderella, “will save the world.”

“Your word,” he repeats sarcastically.

“It matters little whether you believe me or not,” responds the Queen. She removes a small, evil knife from her cloak, and cuts the tiniest of slices from the poisoned apple.

The Dwarf clamps his mouth down tightly. If six of his brothers couldn’t make him drink medicine, he wagers one measly woman won’t get him to open up, neither.

After a meaningful look from the Queen, the purple cat digs her claws into the Dwarf’s shoulder. Blood begins to seep, crimson against his red tunic, but the Dwarf’s jaw remains tight.

That damned polearm. Still too far away.

The Queen studies the Dwarf’s face for a moment, then delicately and deliberately takes hold of his large nose and holds it shut.

The Dwarf keeps his lips clamped. The Queen waits. The cat laughs.

A minute passes.

The Dwarf sweats.

Seconds pass. The cat flexes and unflexes her bloody claws. The Dwarf shuts his eyes.

The Queen begins to smile. She dangles the piece of the apple over his head.

Another minute passes.

And then the Dwarf’s head snaps back. He bites onto the Queen’s hand and tears savagely. She shrieks and pulls away.

Now the Dwarf is the one laughing. He spits her finger aside and grins a blood-smeared grin.

“Now yer as dead as me, Witch. In just a couple days, you’ll be stumbling around the countryside, dead as the rest of ‘em.”

“What?!” gasps the Queen. Her unharmed hand clutches the other at the wrist, though blood continues to spurt from the wound.

“You heard me,” the Dwarf smiles coldly. He has a very uncharacteristic look of satisfaction across his face. “I’m done for, already. I just wanted to get the girl somewhere safe afore I died.”

“You… you’re…” the Queen stammers. She looks at the Dwarf’s mouth, then back to her bleeding hand, then to the finger lying on the floor.

“Ooh, now I’m glad I didn’t eat him,” says the cat. She starts to giggle, but stops after a withering glare from the Queen.

“Let’s just kill him, your Majesty,” says the cat, eager to mollify her mistress. “A quick cut of the claw, he’ll be headless and harmless.”

The Queen still looks at her finger on the floor. She would like nothing more than to see this foul Dwarf dead, see him suffer, see him scream and beg for mercy before giving in to the curse, but there are greater matters at stake than her own vengeance.

“No,” she says finally. “We need him to cast the spell. And we won’t get another chance.”

How long will she last? A day? Two? Certainly not until the next moon cycle. For how long can she carry the weight of the world? And who will carry on, after she dies? Her mad companion?

The best laid plans, shattered by a common Dwarf.

After tying a small, dark ribbon around the stump that was her finger (and yet, the blood stops pumping immediately once the black cloth touches her skin), the Queen finds the uneaten piece of apple and again crouches by the Dwarf.

With her healthy hand, she crushes the apple, so its enchanted liquid falls against his tightly closed mouth. And then she covers his nose once more.

“Bite me again, Dwarf,” she says, “but first you’ll taste the juice.”

The Dwarf doesn’t move.

Neither does the Queen.

The cat’s eyes flit from one to the other. A minute passes, and suddenly the Dwarf goes slack beneath the Queen’s hand. His face grows peaceful, perhaps for the first time in his life.

“Take him and the girl,” says the Queen. She stands, a little unsteadily. “We haven’t much time.”

Chapter Forty

2009-08-23T11:12:00.003-04:00

“Visitors!” says the ancient peasant woman. She smiles a toothless, wobbly smile. “Oh, that’s so lovely!”

She limps toward the Dwarf and the servant girl, and the Dwarf raises his weapon automatically. He just doesn't trust anyone who's so cheerful.

A lavender cat, as plump as its mistress is frail, sidles into the Chamber of the Door and eyes the two newcomers with hungry interest.

“We haven’t had visitors in such a long time,” croons the peasant.

“That’s such a shame,” says Cinderella. She tries to mask her confusion with a smile. “But why wouldn’t you go through the Doorway...?” She stops as she sees why. Most of the Doorway has been bricked up.

The crone laughs. “Well, as you can see, my child, some busy brick-layer walled us in. My little kitty could make it through, but I’m afraid it’s a bit too much of a climb for these old bones.”

“I see,” says Cinderella, but before she can continue, the Dwarf interrupts.

“Well, ‘tis a shame. We’ll be going now.”

He starts to march toward the Doorway, but the old woman tugs at his tunic.

“No, no, you can’t go!” she wails. “We haven’t had visitors in so long! Please, stay for a while,” she persists in a sugary voice. “At least for a meal and a cup of tea.”

The Dwarf glares at her, unpersuaded. Besides, he is allergic to cats and already he’s fighting the urge to sneeze.

The woman turns her bleary eyes hopefully toward Cinderella. It takes the girl a moment, but then she smiles back, polite and confused.

“Oh... well... of course,” she says.

“Excellent, excellent!” wheedles the woman.

The girl's manners might prevent her from asking the jumble of questions bustling about her head, but the Dwarf holds no such qualms. "You've been hidin' here all this time? Fer how long?" he asks. "What happened to the others? And how come y'didn't answer when we first arrived?"

His questions fall on deaf ears, and out of nowhere, the hunchbacked crone produces a picnic basket. A symphony of smells emanates from within.

In spite of himself, the Dwarf sniffs eagerly, all potential sneezes forgotten. He’s been living on scraps for far too long, and though the girl fancies herself a cook, she doesn’t prepare things in the proper Dwarven way.

Whatever the old hag’s got in her basket, it must include some fresh, oaty Dwarf bread, salted venison, and the tangy scent of ale. Exactly what he’d been missing.

“It smells delicious,” says Cinderella.

“Oh, we’ve all sorts of goodies, just waiting to share,” says the peasant. She rummages through the basket with one clawed hand.

“Let me see...” says the woman, “how about an apple?” She finally removes her hand, and it holds two perfect red apples.

The lavender cat stops pawing at a bloodstained spot on the floor, its wide face trained on the visitors.

“But they’re not even in season!” says a delighted Cinderella, and she reaches out happily.

“Oh,” the woman clicks her tongue, “they’re always in season somewhere.”

The Dwarf’s mouth stops watering. Fruits, bah. Good for fattening up deer and nothing more. Though, he has to admit, it’s a nice specimen, almost like a jewel, so shining and red...

“Thank you so much,” says Cinderella.

Been some time since he’d seen an apple that nice. Not since…

“You’re so very welcome, dearie,” smiles the woman, and she offers the other one to the Dwarf. "Now eat up, eat up, both of you, and have a proper breakfast."

He takes it, but something about this apple is very familiar...

Cinderella bites.

The crone smiles.

The sun rises.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

2009-08-19T23:40:00.002-04:00

"Are you sure my father went this way?" asks Pinocchio.

"Yes, yes, of course," lies the Lion. "I can smell him. But keep your voice down. We must be careful."

The great scarred head of the Lion looks up and down the deserted streets and cautiously sniffs the air. The creatures are nearby, lurking in their dwellings, but that’s what he's come to expect in this city of the dead. Already, a cluster are slowly following them.

However, the unmistakable scent of magic burns in the Lion's nostrils – a sure sign they are nearing another Doorway.

"This way." He quickens his silent pace, ignoring the pain from the hard, unyielding streets.

"It's just that..." begins Pinocchio, and the Lion tries to shush him with a slight growl. It goes ignored. "We keep passing all these Doors," the boy finishes in a louder voice. "How do you know he didn't go through any of them?"

The Lion forces himself to count to ten, and then answers calmly. "As I told you, I can smell him. And I assure you, he passed these Doorways, probably in a vain attempt to find you."

After looking behind them, he continues: "This would all be much simpler if you could read the messages he left for you." Indeed, it was fortunate to discover words painted on several Doorways and walls throughout the city, and so easily believable that the child's father had written them. "But since you decided to be a disobedient child and not go to school, it will be all that much harder for us."

The little puppet looks shamefully away. He knows it's all his fault.

The Lion waits silently - so that the guilt can fester for a moment - before giving a word of encouragement. "But do not worry, my friend. I'm sure we'll find him... sooner or later."

"Do you promise?" asks Pinocchio.

"Of course," lies the Lion. But it isn't the boy's father that he is looking for.

He detects more smells - perfumed aromas, the likes of which he'd never encountered in the Wildlands - but they cannot mask the magic of a nearby Doorway, or the decay of the dead.

"We've arrived," says the Lion.

"Ooh," says Pinocchio. "It's a garden."

Walled on four sides, a metal gate protecting it from the dead, the little plot of land might prove a secure place to stay were it not for the powerful competing smells. The little puppet eases through the iron bars and wades through the wild-growing flowers. He bends to pick one, but is interrupted by a hiss from the Lion.

"Find the Door!" He doesn't like standing in the open like this, and after determining the garden to be isolated, he leaps over the brick wall and strides after Pinocchio.

The boy looks thoughtfully at an elegant wooden door, seemingly leading to nowhere. Around its edge is carved a pattern of roses, and words, the mysterious words of men, are chiseled into its center.

“What does it say?" asks the Lion immediately, though he knows the answer.

Averting his eyes, Pinocchio says, “I don't know. I can’t read it.” Quickly, he adds, ”It might be in another language.” His nose twitches slightly.

The Lion stops the growl in his throat. “Well, we can’t leave here for the time being. There are too many of them outside."

“I know. I’m sorry.”

"You were walking too loudly."

"I know. I tried, but... it's hard."

The Lion sighs heavily, so that Pinocchio will understand what a burden he is.

"I could tell you a story in the meantime," the puppet offers.

“Perhaps later. Can you at least tell me what letters those are? Not that I expect anything to come of it, but we can’t keep searching until those things depart.”

Pinocchio squints at the letters in the door in the hopes they'll become legible. He recognizes some of them - he learned the alphabet from his father - but he had never practiced much.

“B?” He finally ventures.

A slight tremor goes through the Lion’s mane. “And the next?”

“That’s an E.” Of this, Pinocchio is certain... somewhat. There’s an E in his father's name.

“After that?”

“There's two of the same letter... It’s either an I or an L.”

“L?” says the Lion. He pronounces the word carefully. “Elle? Elle?”

“Yes,” agrees Pinocchio. This seems to be the answer that will make the Lion happy. “Yes, I think so.” His nose twitches again.

The Lion's yellow fangs peek through. He is smiling.

“Pinocchio, my dear friend, I think this is it. I believe your father went through here.”

And together, they walk through the doorway marked Belle et la Bête.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

2009-08-16T11:01:00.003-04:00

Hands stained with blood, Cinderella speaks to the glaring Dwarf. “There’s a story about one of these wolves,” she says, her voice purposefully soothing.

“He ate seven baby goats whole. But while he slept, the mother cut open his stomach so that her children were freed. It’s a simple surgery, really.” She sets aside her scissors into a kettle of boiling water.

"You don't know the rest of the story," growls the Dwarf. “I do.” He knew that family very well, in fact, once upon a time. "She replaced her children with seven hot stones. When the Wolf woke up, he tried to drink from a stream to ease the burn in his belly, and he fell in the water. The stones weighed him down, and he drowned horribly."

Cinderella remains unfazed as she considers the Dwarf’s tale. Beneath her nimble needle, the Wolf squirms and whimpers. "Well,” she says at last, “at least it's a happy ending for the goats."

She wipes her hands on the cleanest part of her apron. "I suppose we'll stay here for the night,” she says casually, “and make sure the Wolf has improved before we leave."

"Oh, no, we aren’t," says the Dwarf. "I said I'd getcha to the Doorway, and I meant it. You've dilly-dallied long enough, now yer gettin' out of here to somewhere safe."

Cinderella's prepared for this. Feigning curiosity, she asks, “What makes you think the Doorway leads to someplace safe? We didn’t know that the Castle of the Door had fallen. Perhaps the Other Lands have been invaded, as well.”

The Dwarf grits his teeth and spits into the fireplace. These are thoughts he’s joylessly mulled over for many sleepless nights. Seeing the castle abandoned and unguarded wasn’t as bad as his worst fears – at least the place wasn’t swarming with the dead – but this was bad enough for him.

Still, he has to argue with the girl. “You don’t know nothin’. There could be any number of safe havens out there. We all know them dead can’t breach these walls with the drawbridge pulled up, so it’s better than hidin’ here and starving’ to death.”

His positivity stuns them both.

“And besides,” he adds with a scowl, “I’m sick of you slowin’ me down. I’ve got a prince t’ find.”

He turns his back on the girl and mutters into the corner. “Playin’ nursemaid to a wolf, fer cryin’ out loud.”

“If there are safe havens out there,” Cinderella says quietly, “how do you know your prince isn’t in one of them?”

The Dwarf stops grumbling. He unwillingly turns his ear in her direction.

“Let’s face it,” says Cinderella, and she winds a silk curtain tightly around the Wolf’s ribcage, “the land has been abandoned.”

He grunts sullenly. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought of that, and wouldn’t it be just like a human prince to abandon his kingdom when the going gets tough?

“If there are safe havens,” continues Cinderella, “wouldn’t it stand that one would be led by a prince? He probably fell back to find a more defensible position… isn’t that what you men-folk call it?”

The Dwarf grunts once more and nods slightly. “I don’t like it, though,” he hastens to add. Why would they have abandoned the Castle of the Door? It was fine enough. Doesn’t hold a candle to Dwarven construction, naturally, but it’s a good, safe place. And the Doorway must be preserved. But perhaps they did fall back…

“So why don’t I just go on,” finishes Cinderella, “and if I find the prince, I’ll send him back here to you?”

“What?!” the Dwarf gasps. Of course she’d think of something so nonsensical. “And what’re ya gonna fight the dead with, yer sewin’ needle?” He snorts in outrage.

“No, no, no, Missy, and that’s the final word. I’ll go with ya in the morning and find him myself.” He trails off and pokes angrily at the fire. “Can’t let you go off getting killed, ya daft girl.”

Standing behind him, Cinderella is secure in the knowledge that he cannot see her smile.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

2009-08-12T22:10:00.005-04:00

“This is all I could find,” says Pinocchio. He lays a meager sack of food – moldy breads and dried meats, for the most part - at the base of a stout tree.

“It is more than enough,” purrs the Lion. Amidst the foliage, he is all but invisible. “Thank you, Pinocchio.”

“You’re welcome.”

There are no more words from the tree, and the little puppet realizes he is being dismissed. He swings his arms awkwardly and tries to think of the right thing to say.

“Can’t I stay with you this time?” he finally asks, but the Lion is ready with another smooth denial.

“I’m afraid not, my friend,” he says, having noticed how the child relishes that particular word. “For in my land, we must eat in private. That is how things are done.”

“But in my land we always eat together,” says Pinocchio.

“That may be well for boys and their fathers, but for lions, it is a different matter.”

“I could stay and tell you a story,” Pinocchio says hopefully.

“Another time, surely,” says the Lion, who indeed is always hungry for the boy’s stories. They’re quite informative, and in hearing the tales of this land and others, he’s learned some very enlightening facts indeed.

“Just a short one about a princess who fell asleep,” presses the boy, but the Lion cuts him off sharply.

“No. They are coming. Go.”

Instantly, the boy’s smile vanishes. “Where are they?”

“Downwind, over there. Now hurry and do not return. I’ll find you later.”

The puppet quickly dances away. His feet clatter loudly against the cobblestone streets. He sings and shouts and claps his hands. Soon, three ragged men, their stink mostly masked by all the soot covering their bodies, stagger after the noisy wooden boy.

Eventually, he disappears from earshot, and the Lion thinks of the stories he’s been told, of the prized possession he’s found in this puppet, and of the many Doors scattered about the city. So many Doors. So many stories.

And all that time, his yellow eyes rarely blink, and they never leave the sack of food. The smell of meat, he knows, is wafting across the empty streets, slowly but surely.

It is dusk when they finally come. Their white fur stands out sharply in the foggy gloom. They come slowly, two of them, disturbed by the foreign, feline scent in the air. A hopeful, hesitant nose snuffling at the food, some whispered words, and the Lion drops from his perch.

He lands with a muffled crunch, immediately crushing the spotted dog's spine. Its mate bares her fangs and manages to bark once, but her fury is no match for the Lion.

Quickly, he drags the bodies up the tree. An old habit, but it runs deep. And as the Lion bites into the first body, he reaffirms that yes, it’s probably for the best that the boy not witness his meal.

Chapter Thirty-Six

2009-08-09T22:56:00.001-04:00

Unseen in the shadows, a large purple rat watches the two strangers argue.

“What are you doing?!” shrieks the girl. A young, pretty little poppet.

“Yer always askin’ that,” says her companion, a foul dwarf. “What does it look like I’m doin’?”

The Witch had been watching them for quite some time. First as a raven, circling overhead in the midnight storm. Then as a toad, plopping underfoot as they made their way across the moat, heading fatefully to the Castle of the Door.

Such a pity they’d have to die. The Witch titters shrilly to herself, but her ratty squeaks go unnoticed amidst the visitors’ shouting.

The girl thrusts out her arm and grabs ahold of the Dwarf’s polearm. “It’s murder,” she says defiantly.

Bit of fight in this girl. Best to keep an eye on her. She’d been crying earlier outside after rummaging through an abandoned carriage. Must’ve belonged to someone she knew, but it was all too much melodrama for the Witch.

“Look at him,” sneers the Dwarf, and he gestures the weapon at the dying Wolf in the corner. “He needs to be put out of his misery.”

The Wolf whines pathetically.

“You can’t just kill him!” says the girl.

“’Course I can.”

“Of course he can,” cackles the Witch. It’s all the same to her whether they kill the beast or heal him. Just as long as the Mirror’s prophecy is fulfilled.

“No,” says the girl, and she bends down to look at the Wolf’s swollen ribs.

The Dwarf gasps and pulls the girl roughly away. Keeping one glaring eye on the Wolf, he brings his face as close to hers as possible and whispers harshly, "Don't you know what those creatures do? They bite. And how d'you know he isn't diseased? He'll turn into one of them, sure as thunder follows lightnin’."

Stupid, stubborn Dwarf, thinks the Witch, and she laughs again.

"No, he won’t. He isn’t sick. Not like that." says the girl. Clever little poppet. She must’ve witnessed the pestilence before.

The Dwarf stands up straight and levels his blade once more upon the Wolf's throat. "Doesn’t matter. Believe you me, he'll be better off."

And the Wolf, watching the two figures standing over him with dim eyes, nods weakly.

“No. There’s got to be another way.”

“What are you, a doctor?” asks the Dwarf angrily. But at the red-rimmed gaze of the girl, he lowers his weapon. “You can’t help him.”

She looks at the Wolf’s ruined body, a mess of broken bone and fur. The Witch grins eagerly, hopefully, and finally the girl says, “I think I can.”

“Oh, fer the love of the Mountain,” begins the Dwarf, but she’s already fishing through her apron’s pockets for needle and thread.

And the purple rat’s jaw drops as she witnesses something unique and mind-boggling: a Dwarf giving in.

There is the sound of ripping cloth, and the girl turns to see the Dwarf has ripped one red sleeve from his tunic.

"Bandages?" she asks, but the Dwarf scowls.

"I'm makin' a muzzle." He takes the sleeve and ties it across the Wolf's snout with surprising gentleness. “Look at me,” he grumbles, “ruinin’ my clothes for this.

"He's gonna turn,” warns the Dwarf. “Just you watch. And when he does, I wanna be ready.”

Content that he’s said the final word on the subject, the Dwarf busies himself with lighting a fire in the fireplace.

“Doesn’t matter what you want, Dwarf,” chuckles the Witch. Silently, she scampers through the doorway. “Mirror already said you’d be dead by dawn.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

2009-08-05T23:16:00.002-04:00

An evil wind sings outside, the raging song of a midsummer storm.

In the tallest tower of the Castle of the Door, a squat, lavender-haired crone swings her stumpy legs over the edge of the window and delights in the thunder.

“Ooh, look at them dance!” she cackles, and points a gnarled finger at the undead below. Tormented by the sounds and sensation of wind and rain, the lost souls writhe and bat at the air.

The Witch’s enjoyment is not shared by the Queen. Her Dark Highness stands in a shadow-filled corner of the tower, gazing into the Magic Mirror.

“How long it took me to find you,” she whispers, and she runs a lingering hand over its now-chipped frame.

“And what secrets did you share in my absence? What do they know, I wonder.”

“Mirror, Mirror,” she chants and the Witch’s laughter stops. Indeed, even the storm seems to weaken as the spell is cast. “Tell me more... of what you told the Wolf before.”

Her reflection clouds over. The unworldly mask vanishes into position, as if it were always there. Not invisible, perhaps, just unseeable by mortal eyes.

If the demon in the mirror recognizes its former mistress, it gives no sign. It ponders her question for a moment, then speaks in its ageless voice:

“Two shall come within the night. In this place, they set things right.”

The briefest of pauses, until, compelled by the Queen’s word command of “more,” the demon speaks again: “And one shall die ere morning’s light.”

Its empty face disappears once more, perhaps sleeping, perhaps waiting.

The Queen says nothing. She stares into the Mirror, beyond her reflection, as if to see the realms beyond.

"Your Majesty?” asks the Witch in a timid voice. “Weren't you supposed to ask it about..."

"No," says the Queen. “Not yet. This is more important.”

One question, one answer, truthfully told. That is the gift of the Mirror. And yet, so much is never told. Such a maddening gift. And, unless given a suitable sacrifice, the demon could not be summoned for another day.

There is much left unclear.

“If it’s the Wolf you’re worried about,” says the Witch, “why don’t we go wake him up? Set a fire under bones and he’ll tell you some tales, I’m sure.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” A flash of lightning, livid and white, illuminates the Queen as she grasps the old woman’s rounded shoulder.

“If we help or hurt the Wolf, then we might be the ones mentioned in the prophecy! And one of us will die. The Mirror is trying to trick us, you see.”

“But if we leave the beast alone,” the Queen lets go and strides to the broken window, gazing blindly out at the empty horizon. “Two more must come and help. Two others… but who are they?”

Desperate, the Queen leans farther out into the storm as if to see better. She pays no mind as the crone, unwilling to risk the Queen’s wrath, scampers away in search of some vermin to eat.

Will the two be friend or foe, thinks the Queen? And if they are enemies, could they overtake her magicks and the powers of the Witch?

“The damned Huntsman!” Her reflection looks accusingly back at her from the Mirror. So much time, so many answers, had had been lost because of his treachery! No doubt hearing of the exorbitant "refugee tax" imposed by the Sheriff of Nottingham, he had fled with the most treasured item in her castle, the Magic Mirror.

She would kill him, but, assuming the thief had survived, he most certainly would have gone through the Door and into the Lands Beyond.

There is grim joy in the knowledge that the Sheriff, at least, had paid for his greed. And, she smiles, the fat fool had suffered most horribly.

And with those thoughts to tide her over, the Queen watches for the two travelers, ignoring the bitter rain whipping at her face, as the storm sings down upon the tormented dead.

Chapter Thirty-Four

2009-08-02T22:06:00.002-04:00

A little town. A quiet village. Dawn rises.

A gray, skeletal figure sidles across the town common. The tired men on duty scowl and narrow their eyes. A few grip their rifles a little tighter, but none fire.

If the figure notices their glares, he pays no attention. His focus is on one man, the largest man, busily explaining how to operate the flagpole.

The Town Champion does not notice the approaching figure, who reaches out a long, thin arm to tap his muscled shoulder.

“Monsieur,” says the cadaverous man.

If the Champion was going to wave him away, he stops his dismissal when he recognizes the visitor. It is the caretaker of the lunatic asylum.

“And, ah, just pull on the rope so that the flag goes up,” the Champion finishes hurriedly, and then begins walking away, out of earshot from the other men.

“What is it?” he asks.

“The patients,” says the Doctor, his whisper low and calm. “They have died.”

“Died? That’s good, then, right?” The Champion speaks a little too loudly, then looks guiltily over to see if he was overheard. Whether the other townsfolk can hear or not, their attention is conspicuously on the pair.

“Not exactly, Monsieur. They died… but they came back. Do not worry,” the Doctor hurries to add, “we have taken care of them, and their ashes are ready for burial. They died, as we shall say, a hero’s death.”

“That we shall,” agrees the Champion solemnly. A few of his men had been bitten two nights previously. Since then, the guard had been doubled. They will not be surprised again.

“But what we learned!” grins the Doctor. “Oh, what we have learned!” He laughs a dry, throaty laugh, earning the attention of some children who are working on one of the common gardens. They have learned, even in their youth, never to trust the laughter of the good Doctor.

The Champion smiles hopefully. “A cure?”

This only makes the Doctor laugh all the more, until finally he is coughing and wheezing and squatting down, his hands resting on his pointy knees.

“Oh, no, Monsieur. I do not think Providence smiles on us that much.” And after another furtive glance around, the Doctor continues in a quieter voice.

“The wounded men, they had been bound and trussed so they could not bite any of my orderlies. And as they succumbed to their first death, they were injected with chemicals, poisons that would fell an elephant. And they were unaffected.”

The face of the Champion remains stony at this useless news. It means nothing to him or his town, but the Doctor seems to have enjoyed the experiment for its own sake. His white coat is spattered with many a dark stain.

“Stick them, stab them, strangle them, decapitate them if you wish. Nothing kills them but damage to the brainpan.” He taps his bald head and grins, looking more than ever like a toothless skull.

The Champion cuts him off brusquely. “I know that already. What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?” He turns and is about to return to the flagpole, but then wheels back to let the Doctor know his place.

“I only gave you those men because you gave me your word, your word, that these experiments would turn up something. And now I have five families who are furious that their loved ones are gone, and dozens more who might not trust me anymore.

“And if they don’t trust me, Doctor, this whole town’s going to die.”

That had been the beginning of his problem. None of the wounded wanted to go to the grim and filthy Asylum – they’d only grudgingly gone at his command.

And the others, those traitors who lied about their wounds, died anyway and took their households with them. Such a waste of ammunition and lives, and who had been blamed? The Champion!

It wasn’t his fault, of course, but the people needed to take their anger out on someone. Never mind the fact that he was the reason they were all alive in the first place, that it was his leadership that established the town guard and the rationing of food.

When things went well, people were happy to hail him, but when things went wrong, how quickly they turned tail. Hateful peasants.

“Ah, but Monsieur,” wheedles the good Doctor, “they will trust you. Because I did learn one thing of great importance.” He pauses dramatically. “From Pierre.”

The Champion thinks for a moment. “Who’s that?”

“He’s a rat terrier. Nothing special about him… except he can smell the sickness.”

Eagerly, the Doctor continues. “He hates the creatures. And he hates the infected. Barks nonstop. We thought after we incinerated the last one, he’d quiet down, but he didn’t. It seems he smelled the sickness within one of the wounds of my attendants.”

“One of your attendants was bitten?”

“A minor inconvenience, already handled,” says the Doctor quickly. “And, by the way, I’ll need one of your men to take his place.”

Before the Champion can protest, the Doctor continues: “But think, Monsieur. With Pierre, we don’t need to worry about them hiding their wounded at home. He’ll find them, and I’ll take them, and the town will be safe.”

“The people won’t like it,” says the Champion after a moment.

“They’ll do as you say,” says the Doctor, smoothly, and the Champion has to agree with such wisdom.

“And all this only matters,” finishes the good Doctor, “if we have another unfortunate incident like the last one.”

“True...” says the Champion, his mind on the previous night’s attack. He looks over at the men on the wall, and the guards quickly avert their curious stares. How many might be hiding wounds beneath their coats?

“Bring the dog around,” he decides. He’s always liked dogs, but would prefer if Pierre was of a larger, more heroic breed. “We should do a sweep of these men before the next ones arrive.”

Without another word, the Champion returns to his men. He offers them a winning smile and secretly wonders which will be sent to the asylum.

Chapter Thirty-Three

2009-07-29T19:36:00.002-04:00

A dream, a phantom forest where his son cries in the dark and three little pigs flee, squealing, through a flurried storm of hay and hammers. The moon is a mask, a demon in a mirror, watching down on them all.

The Big Bad Wolf runs, howling, away from the clink-clank-clink of metallic footsteps. He cannot see who is coming for him, not here in the dark, but he knows that one is quite beautiful, the other quite plain, and they are coming to kill him.

A dream.

In his fevered, weakened state, atop a messy pile of furs and silks, sleeps the Wolf. His paws twitch feebly as he helplessly runs, runs, runs from his destiny, not knowing that it has already arrived.

And there is a knock at the door.

He ignores it, preferring the painlessness of sleep, and can barely muster the strength to open one bleary eye.

“Little wolf, little wolf, let me in,” comes a creaking, simpering voice.

Without thinking, the Wolf responds, “Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.” The door is locked, he tells himself. He is alone. The drawbridge was raised. He must still be asleep.

“Then I’ll huff,” sings the voice, “and I’ll puff, and I’ll...”

A clatter of broken wood, and the door crashes open, impaled on the horn of a large purple rhinoceros.

"Blow your house in!" the rhino finishes. It cackles wildly.

The Wolf jumps in shock at the sight of the giant laughing animal. His ribcage flares in pain at the sudden movement.

Another person glides into the room, undisturbed by the rhino’s presence. Her nose wrinkles in disgust at the smell of the dying Wolf, marring her otherwise beautiful features. She is clad in black traveling attire, the only decoration being the elegant crown upon her brow.

"The Queen..." gasps the Wolf, and she looks at him - through him, it seems - with heavily lidded eyes.

"Quiet," she says imperiously, and the rhinoceros stops laughing.

She gazes around the room at the many abandoned treasures. “Here it is,” she says shortly, and walks to the Magic Mirror.

There is a horrible burst of magic - for a moment, the Wolf cannot breathe - and the rhinoceros disappears. In its place is a squat, warty woman with an unhealthy pallor to her skin and hair faded to the color of thunderclouds at sunset.

“I’ll get it, your majesty,” she says in the same creaky voice as the rhinoceros. She jumbles forward to pick up the Mirror, which is nearly as big as her.

The Queen turns to the Wolf. "The man who brought this, what happened to him?"

The Wolf opens and closes his mouth several times before realizing he doesn't know. He answers as such.

"Ungrateful, lying swine," she mutters, though her anger is not directed at the Wolf, but at the one who stole from her. "Probably fled through the Door with the rest of them."

Without another word, the Queen turns to leave. The small crone grunts and hefts the Mirror.

"Wait..." says the Wolf with a ragged, labored breath. "What about me?"

The Queen looks back and raises a thin eyebrow.

"The Mirror,” he whines. “It said you would come. Both of you. It said you would ease my pain."

"Did it?" says the Queen, and she looks into the Mirror. Dark and wicked thoughts cloud her face.

"Yeah. So, so... please... do it. Please."

She looks to the Wolf, back to the Mirror again. And she strides away.

The crone asks, eagerly, "Shall I do it, dearie? Just a quick change to a snake, it'll only take a moment."

"No, Madame," says the Queen. "Come along. We have much to do."

The old woman sighs, looks hungrily at the Wolf, and then stumps along after her.

The Wolf listens weakly as their footsteps echo down the hallway. He doesn’t have the strength to hold up his head, and already he is fading into his dream forest.

Before long, he is asleep once more, a shattered door the only sign that he had ever received any visitors at all.

Chapter Thirty-Two

2009-07-26T14:48:00.004-04:00

A child’s sobs echo through the empty streets.

He’s been following this intriguing sound for some time now, padding closer and closer.

His stomach screams at him to run and leap and kill and feast - it's been so long since he’s eaten - but this is an unfamiliar land, a dangerous land, and so he remains cautious.

Better to risk losing the meal, he decides, than to die with his hunger sated. After all, the dead cannot be far away, hunting in their own pathetic way.

Such a hateful land, the Lion thinks to himself, and his face darkens. The stone ground chafes his paws. There are no tall grasses to stalk through, invisible and unheard. And there are so few trees to offer shade and protection. Even worse, there is no river where his prey might gather to drink. Hateful.

But a child, a helpless child, still crying, still alive... The Lion’s pulse quickens as he turns a final corner, the first predator to reach the prize.

And he stops short at the sight of a small, wooden boy, flavorless as a tree, slumped against a Door.

The Lion’s disappointment is short-lived – he’d never seen such an oddity before and his interest is piqued.

After a moment’s observation, he asks, “Why are you crying?” in his deep, silky voice.

The boy looks up, and the Lion is amazed at how the painted eyes move toward his. Most interesting.

“I’m lost,” says the child.

“As are we all,” says the Lion. He steps closer and regards the boy with his yellow gaze.

“But you should keep quiet,” he continues in a voice warm with concern. “There are things in this land that might hurt you.”

“You mean the dead ones?” asks the boy.

“Yes. The dead ones.”

“They don’t bother me,” he says in a hopeless voice. “I’m made of wood. I’m not real.” More tears trickle down his varnished face.

Intrigued, the Lion steps closer. There’s something about the boy’s scent – one never encountered in the Wildlands, the tingling smell of magic – that revolts him, but curiosity compels him forward.

Unbidden, he licks at the child’s cheek. The boy’s chuckle goes unnoticed as the Lion marvels at the taste of salt.

“Oh, I’d say you’re real,” says the Lion. “Very real indeed.” He sits on his lean haunches and regards the boy carefully.

“Where are you from?” he asks, his voice hungrier than before.

The boy points a finger at the Door behind him. There are symbols carved into the wood, meaningless and illegible to the Lion.

“Only I can’t go back,” explains the child. “The Pig bricked it up from the inside.” His painted eyes fill with tears once more. “But he never followed me through. I don’t know why. And now I’m stuck here, alone.”

Though lost in thought, the Lion nods attentively at the boy’s story. How much more useful, he thinks, is this little wooden boy than an entire pack of hyenas. Than all the creatures in the Wildlands, perhaps.

“No,” purrs the Lion, and he gently places a paw on the boy’s shoulder. He smiles a scarred smile. “You’re not alone.”

Chapter Thirty-One

2009-07-22T22:42:00.002-04:00

A little town. A quiet village. Dawn rises.

A squat, wide-faced man peeks over the town wall. He is propped upon the bird-like shoulders of the candlestick maker, and the balance is precarious, at best.

At first, he grimaces and shuts his eyes tight, so certain is he that the beasts will attack, but nothing happens. Slowly, he opens his eyes, letting in the morning light.

There is nothing there.

He looks around, down the dusty path, across the misty meadows beyond, but other than the lazily drifting gunsmoke, there is no movement. The ground is littered with many of the beasts, to be sure, but they lie still and lifeless.

“All clear,” the squat man says softly. Then he remembers his duty, his important duty, and he repeats himself. “All clear! All clear!”

More of the townspeople lift themselves up over the wall to look about, and the words are confirmed. “All clear! All clear!”

Like a spring shower, a cheer bursts forth amongst the villagers behind the wall. The candlestick maker hollers and jumps, and the squat man quickly falls from his shoulders to the ground.

But all too quickly he is pulled to his feet as the men of the town slap each other on the back, embrace, and kiss each other on both cheeks.

“Good work,” says the leader of the men, a brawny fellow with flowing, dark hair and a chiseled chin. “Good work, all of you!”

There is another round of cheers, and the tavernkeeper’s baritone voice rings over them, “All thanks to you!”

More cheering, this the loudest of all, and the Town Champion basks warmly. “A careful aim and a steady hand, that’s all it takes to repel these beasts,” he announces, and mimes firing his blunderbuss. “Even dead, they’re no match for me.”

“By my count, there’s over a hundred of those creatures that won’t be killing our livestock or snatching our children. Not anymore!”

There is a murmur amongst them the villagers. A hundred kills? In a single night? Anyone would consider this to be exaggeration had it come from the mouth of anyone but the Town Champion.

And in truth, the town has much to thank him for. It had been an endless, horrifying night, but with the morning sun, all of the men stand alive with nary a scratch among them.

It had been the Town Champion who ordered the women and children into the center of town, barricaded safely in the cathedral, after all.

He had been the one to pass out his collection of firearms, enough to stock a small army. It was his idea to divide the able-bodied men and boys into those who would shoot, those who would reload, those who would shine their lanterns, and those who would wield the long poles to repel the beasts back over the town wall.

“And the poles,” says Old Jacques, so feeble he could only shine a lamp, “they were genius. Pure genius!”

“Now, now,” the Town Champion smiles with practiced modesty. “It was simple, really. So simple it was…”

“Genius!” finishes Old Jacques, and he cackles merrily.

The pole-bearers raise their weapons in triumph, and the rest roar another three cheers. Then the Town Champion motions with his hand, and the people fall silent.

“We must let the women know they’re safe. But I still want men at the ready, a dozen of them, watching the wall for when more of the beasts arrive.

“In the meantime,” he looks around quickly and finds the baker (who shined a lantern) and the butcher (who, with his strong forearms, had been assigned a pole).

“You two,” he points a broad finger in their direction, “we must eat. Start preparing food. Enough for the whole day! Enough for the whole town! Tonight, before sundown, we will feast!”

The two nod eagerly and rush down the familiar streets to their neighboring stores. The butcher still carries his pole. One day, perhaps, it will be considered a badge of honor.

The Town Champion smiles at his plan. There is only so much time before the meat spoils, he concludes. And an afternoon feast will help prepare everyone for another gunpowder-filled night. And it will certainly help with morale. Yes, he thinks, a most wisely thought-out plan.

Meanwhile, he’s given himself the honor of letting the womenfolk know the good news. After wetting down his hair, he proudly and decisively knocks on the cathedral door three times, the sign that all is well.

The cathedral doors open, and silhouetted against the sun is the brilliant figure of the Town Champion. If he’s spent a sleepless night, the women can’t tell.

And his henchman, the squat, wide-faced man, clambers up the church tower to ring the bell, to let everyone within earshot know that this little town, this quiet village, is still safe from the beasts.

Chapter Thirty

2009-07-19T16:48:00.002-04:00

Nothingness and darkness, a window reflecting an empty world.

It senses someone’s approach – a weak, wounded heartbeat – but there is no need to prepare.

Let it come. Let it come.

Shuffling, dragging steps.

Ragged, wet breaths.

A long pause.

And finally, a tentative, fearful scratch at the window.

“Mirror, mirror,” comes a hesitant, muffled voice, “let me see.” It takes a moment to construct the proper finale to the summoning. “When will someone come help me?”

It’s a pitiful, clumsy rhyme, spoken without conviction. But the words were said, and the words are power, and the demon must answer the call.

A mask-like visage melts up from the emptiness of the mirror. With empty eyes, it takes in the unfamiliar surroundings. It matters little, all that is of consequence are the summoner and the question.

The demon in the mirror gazes upon its caller, and its black mouth curls into the smallest of smiles. An animal. How amusing. It must have taken great courage for the beast to even approach.

And a wounded wolf – no longer very big, no longer very bad - cowers before the Mirror. His blood-caked fur bristles at the powerful, terrible magic. Like all animals, he fears the unnatural power of the Mirror.

The demon looks down on the Wolf and considers the question to be one wisely posed. The creature is dying, slowly but surely, and will certainly perish unless it is helped.

Mildly curious, still amused, the demon looks backward to the days before. It sees a pig’s hammer fall, again and again, on the Wolf. A desperate strike against mouth and rib and paw. A meal hard-won. A life hard-lost. Revenge had its price.

Out of duty, out of slavery, it looks forward to the days beyond. And then, rewarding such a graceless question with a graceless answer, the demon murmurs its prophecy in a dark, hollow voice:

“Two will come ere the full moon fall. One stands short, one stands tall. One is a beauty, one is plain. They’ll be the ones to end your pain.”

It takes a moment to savor the dismay in the Wolf’s yellow eyes, and then fades away into the darkness.

The voice of the Wolf echoes after the demon, lost in the murk of eternity. “That’s not an answer!” he howls. “That sounds like they’re gonna kill me! They’re supposed to save me!”

But the spell has been satisfied, the question has been answered, and the Mirror only shows a desperate, broken Wolf, trapped in an empty world.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

2009-07-15T22:51:00.002-04:00

Part II

The little elephant tries not to cry.

Although he cannot understand what they’re saying, he knows that they’re arguing about him, over something he’s done.

One of the chipmunks, the taller one with the dark nose, chatters furiously. His squeaks and shrieks have attracted a small crowd to this particular oak tree. They stare up greedily with their vacant eyes, and their fingertips are broken and ripped from trying to climb the hard, ungiving bark.

Every now and then the angry chipmunk jumps up and down to relay a particular point, and occasionally he points toward the hole in the tree trunk, the hole that had contained all those delicious peanuts.

The smaller chipmunk, the one with the sleepy eyes, nods shamefully. He cannot bear to look at his companion. He isn’t saying much, either, though when he’d first crossed the elephant’s path, his voice was so soothing and silly that it was clear he was a friend.

But that had been before. Now that the elephant’s done Something Very Bad, they’re sure to turn him out, much like he’d been turned out, so long ago, by the other citizens of the circus.

“I’m sorry!” the elephant would say if he knew how to speak. He didn’t realize the peanuts were for all of them. He’d only known that he was hungry, hungry and lost, after finding himself in the midst of this unfamiliar park.

And surely he’d have perished if the friendly chipmunk hadn’t been come along and comforted him and led him to this sturdy, tall, isolated sanctuary.

And how had the little elephant repaid such a kindness? By eating all their food, that’s how. That’s what has angered the chief chipmunk so. Who knows how long those peanuts would’ve fed two chipmunks? Forever, perhaps. But with an elephant, even a tiny baby, eating from the trove, their treasure is almost depleted.

And now the taller chipmunk points its accusing paw down toward the dead ones. For now they’re just harmless people, but what will they do when a cat comes? Or a bird?

At least the two chipmunks have some camouflage amidst the leaves and in the knot of this oak, but an elephant sitting on a branch, especially one dressed absurdly as a clown, how long before the entire park of corpses is clustered around this tree? What then?

And still, the sleepy-eyed chipmunk has no answer. Feebly, he tries to explain, and brings his arms to his ears to demonstrate the elephant’s wondrous abilities, but his companion is unfazed and unbelieving. What use is such a curiosity in a harsh world like this?

And still, the little elephant tries not to cry.

Now the chipmunk waves an angry paw to the east, and the little elephant sees an overturned peanut cart, painted in the gay colors of red and white. Circus colors.

Far away, such a far and treacherous journey for a chipmunk in a hostile and threatening park. How many journeys had it taken, perhaps two or three peanuts at a time, to build up their supply. And how many are even left?

The chipmunk points once more at the ever-growing mob of people. How can they continue to scavenge with all those hungry eyes watching them? How will they survive now that the little elephant’s ruined everything?

And then the oak tree creaks heavily, as its most solid branch is relieved of such a ponderous weight. With his ears flapping slowly, solidly, the little elephant lifts himself into the air, and flies away to the east.

As one, the crowd turns their attention toward the fleeing prey. Arms and hands skyward, they stumble after the elephant.

But he’s already reached the peanut cart. It is heavy, perhaps as heavy as him, and though his trunk is strong and nimble, it isn’t used to carrying such a weight, let alone while flying.

He sinks to the ground, trunk entwined in the spokes of a wheel, and he flaps his ears, harder and harder, as the mob comes ever closer and closer.

The chipmunks stop in the midst of their argument and stare, dumbfounded, at the little elephant’s suicidal flight.

His billowing ears catch and push at the wind relentlessly. The people’s hands reach and grab and rip in anticipation, moments away from the gray living flesh. And then the elephant is in the air once more, the peanut cart pulling painfully at his trunk. The creatures reach helplessly, but their battered fingers cannot find a hold on the smooth cart.

There is a peculiar crash of metal on wood as the little elephant drops the peanut cart on the stout oak branch.

The chipmunks are still speechless. They hop toward him, but he does not land, he continues flying, flying away from the park, back over the dead ones so they will follow him, and only when he is out of sight of the chipmunks does he allow himself to cry, his tears falling, unseen and unheard, upon the uncaring dead.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

2009-06-10T23:19:00.003-04:00

The army of the Wildlands is surrounded, a tiny island amidst a sea of rotting, hungry death.

“Steady on, old boy,” mutters Owl, though his words are drowned out by the steady shuffling of the invaders.

They draw ever closer, patiently, patiently. And with them comes the fear.

Owl tells himself he should be used to this feeling by now, yet it still buzzes and ripples through his body. Worse, he can see it spread throughout his army. Unused to combat, they tremble and hop from foot to foot. One little spark could ignite a fatal panic.

“Steady on!” he calls. His voice, low and sonorous, carries across the plain. Perhaps that is why he was chosen to lead.

The dead approach. Now the soldiers can recognize the familiar, half-eaten faces, and the fear grows stronger. Some begin to cry as they see their friends and family. Only Owl is spared this pain - they’re strangers to him, after all. Perhaps that is why he was chosen by the King of Lions.

It’s difficult to breathe. They stink. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, fermenting in the sun. It takes every bit of willpower to simply endure the smell. And the dust, they’ve kicked up a dust cloud that seems to span forever.

Blinking the specks from his eyes, Owl keeps his gaze steady. Keen eyesight, he thinks. Another feather in his cap.

They stumble closer. The soldiers look to Owl desperately, but he shakes his head. The time is not right. “Use your judgment,” the King of Lions had said, and Owl had smugly smiled, for he considers his judgment very accurate, indeed.

Surely the soldiers – volunteers all - would flee if they could, but there is nowhere to go. Instead, they are pressed back, step by step, against the edge of the cliff. Mowgli’s Cliff, as it is already being called. And it is no coincidence that Owl had been the witness to the boy’s death.

That’s why he decided to volunteer. He’d seen another child die in the Great Wood. And yes, though he has an orphan of his own to protect, the tiny kangaroo is much safer with that gray sloth bear. And after having been given refuge in these lands, as a scholar and a gentleman he simply could not have stood back and refused to help the king.

A movement from the dust cloud shakes Owl from his reverie. A ragged panther rears back on its twisted legs. It’s ready to attack.

But so is the army.

“Now!” bellows Owl, and he spreads his wings.

And the army of the Wildlands takes to the air.

The young king, in his wisdom, realized that the enemy could never be defeated by strength. And so he’d asked for volunteers, but only amongst the birds.

The sky darkens, dust whipped into a storm by the many beating wings. They shriek and caw and fly over the edge of the cliff, and the invaders blindly follow.

The dead do not hesitate, they leap and pounce, calmly trying to catch a mouthful of feathers and flesh. Two or three are successful (and those poor birds will be remembered, promises Owl), but the rest fall empty-handed.

Like a waterfall, the broken bodies of the invaders flood over the cliff. They fall hundreds and hundreds of feet to the sharp, unforgiving rocks below. The flock watches them die.

For hours, the slaughter continues. Soaring on the updraft, the army flies over the cliff, agonizingly close, and the enemy is content to follow and fall.

Their silence, though, is most disturbing, and Owl joins in the celebratory caws and shrieks of his troops, if only to drown out the lack of noise caused by the invaders as they die for a final time.

END PART I

Part II will begin on Wednesday, July 15, 2009.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

2009-06-07T21:13:00.003-04:00

Pinocchio swings his legs over the edge of his footstool. "Are you done yet?" he asks for the seventh time. His reedy voice echoes about the great chamber.

"No," says the Little Pig. He isn't taking any chances.

They stand within the Castle of the Door, right in front of the Doorway leading to the Lands Beyond.

And this little pig is in the process of walling it up.

Not entirely, of course, but just so that the barrier reaches a little higher than his head. It will be a tight squeeze for most people bigger than a pig or a puppet, but it should be enough to deter any but the cleverest of the walking dead.

And from the Little Pig’s experience, the dead aren’t very clever.

“What do you think happened here?” asks Pinocchio.

“I don’t know,” says the Pig, but upon seeing the carnage, he’d decided it would be best to secure the Doorway.

They’d found the castle’s drawbridge closed. Someone had tied a long rope ladder from one of the turrets to a nearby oak tree. Whoever had done so remained a mystery, but the Pig had to admire their wisdom – the dead weren’t able to climb in.

Yet the castle was empty except for a few abandoned weapons, tattered clothing and a ghastly stain on the staircase. Whatever had been killed in here - and done the killing - had since moved on.

A worrying idea, because how did they breach the castle’s walls? And how did they get out?

There was only one answer: the Doorway.

And that is very bad, indeed.

After scrounging about the ramparts for usable stone, the Little Pig has spent the better part of the afternoon blocking off the Doorway.

Pinocchio stops swinging his legs. “Do you think my father is on the other side?”

“I think so,” says the Little Pig. “I hope so.” He doesn’t have the heart to tell the truth. Dead things might dwell in the Lands Beyond, but there’s no need to worry the child just yet.

“Will you be finished soon?” the puppet asks again.

“Patience is a virtue,” says the Pig. He steps back and surveys his handiwork. It isn’t bad – not perfectly straight and level, but once the wall dries, it’ll be as sturdy a wall as any.

"I'm done," he says, and starts packing up his tools.

"Yippy!" cheers Pinocchio. He jumps to his feet. "I'll go first."

"Wait, wait, wait," says the Little Pig. "I should go first."

"But what if there’s danger?” The boy’s feigned concern is no match for the enthusiasm coursing through his body. “The monsters won't hurt me. If I go first and there's trouble, I can warn you."

The Pig nods. It's a good point. “But you come right back, you understand?”

He places the footstool in front of the wall and helps Pinocchio climb over. “Careful, now,” says the Pig. “It’s still wet.” It doesn’t matter if the top layer topples over, he knows, but it’s the principle of the thing, and he can’t help but take pride in his work.

In a moment, Pinocchio is through the Doorway and into the Lands Beyond. The Pig takes a moment to enjoy the silence and reflect on a job well done. This wall will be a fitting farewell to his homeland, he decides. Then, with a contented sigh, he closes his toolbox and steps onto the footstool.

The heavy chamber door swings open.

"Knock-knock, Piggy." The lanky form of the Big Bad Wolf sidles into the room. One of his cheeks is swollen and blackened.

"What are you doing here?" says the Little Pig. Even standing on the stool, he is still much shorter than the Wolf.

The Wolf winces with each step. One paw goes unconsciously to his broken rib – a result of his last encounter with Pinocchio.

"Not bad," says the Wolf, examining the makeshift barrier. "Not bad at all."

"What are you doing here?" the Pig repeats. He calmly removes the hammer from his belt loop.

"Same thing as you," says the Wolf. "I'm leavin’. There's gotta be something good out there in the great wide somewhere for a lordly nobleman like myself."

The Pig can't help but scoff – in his ragged, filthy trousers, the Big Bad Wolf is anything but noble. "What are you talking about?"

"You didn't look around the castle, Piggy?” The Wolf wipes some saliva from his lips. “There's a huge treasure trove in here. Unlocked, unguarded, and now it’s mine. It’s all mine.”

"It’s not yours,” says the Pig. His heart races, he knows he should just leave, escape, but he’s always stood up to the Wolf before.

"Prove it," says the Wolf, and he produces some pieces of parchment from under his hat. “Here’s some titles of property and nobility. Mine now.”

"You're stealing!"

The Wolf starts to laugh, but he winces as his chest flares in pain. He won't be huffing and puffing any time soon. "Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe I am, but it doesn't matter. You're not gonna tell anyone."

"Oh, yes, I will!" sputters the Little Pig. "You've always been nothing but a no-good scoundrel, and when I get to..."

"No, you won't," says the Wolf, and his smug tone silences the Pig. "You're not going anywhere. You're not so tough without your little rock-throwing friend.”

Leaning in closer – yet still more than an arm’s length away from the Pig’s hammer – the Wolf snickers. “You've got nowhere to run, Piggy. And you know what happens when you let the Wolf inside your home, don't you?"

He grins widely, revealing yellow, rotting fangs, and he enjoys his first meal in oh, so very long.

Chapter Twenty-Six

2009-06-03T15:26:00.002-04:00

“We witnessed their fall,” concludes the foreigner in his sorrowful, lofty tone, “and we alone were left to tell the tale.”

The air around Council Rock titters with the busy translation of the Mynas, then rumbles as the other animals consider the speech they just heard.

Shere Khan’s soft purr compels them all into silence. “So you are telling us,” prods the great tiger, “that the Man and the Man-cub are dead.”

“I’m afraid so,” says the speaker, very small and alone in the center of Council Rock. In the shadows beyond, Baloo weeps.

Everyone watches, but does not speak, as Shere Khan circles the perimeter of the wide, flat stone. It is forbidden to shed blood on Council Rock. That is the Law, and it is upheld by all animals. But there is more than one form of combat in the Wildlands.

“They failed,” says the tiger. His voice has dropped to a whisper, and the animals must cringe forward to hear his words. They know he is ready to attack.

“They failed,” he repeats, louder. “And now the Wildlands are burning. And you,” he bares his fangs toward the King of Lions, “were the one who allowed those pathetic Men to gather red fire and bring doom upon us all.”

With a triumphant snarl, the tiger finishes, “The Wildlands are burning because of you... your highness.”

The King of Lions remains poised throughout these accusations, regally ignoring the murmurs and grunts from the shadows. He will uphold the Law. But in his heart he knows Shere Khan will only be silenced in death.

“The Wildlands have burned before and will burn again,” says the King. He draws himself up to his full, majestic height. “It is the Circle.”

“Oh, stop spouting philosophy, boy,” sneers the tiger. “We’re surrounded by a circle of red fire. And beyond that, a circle of death.”

The King’s eyes flash at the insult, but he refuses to be provoked. Nor is he foolish enough to step into whatever trap the striped killer has prepared. “What would you have us do, then?” he asks.

An unexpected move, and Shere Khan considers for a moment before answering. “What would you have us do?” he asks back, but then answers for the King. “Flee to the Lands Beyond?”

The tiger shifts his head toward the visitor, and Owl realizes he’s been given a cue.

“That wouldn’t be wise, ah, your highness,” he says, and the Mynas immediately begin to translate his odd, formal language. “We - that is, my young ward and myself - come from the Lands Beyond. Far beyond, in fact. We’ve been through many Doorways, and... the dead are already there.”

“Where?” says Shere Khan.

“Everywhere,” says Owl.

As this piece of news is translated, the tiger controls his cruel smile. It was quite a bit of luck to come across this foreign bird and his young rat-like companion, and very wise to not eat them outright. Their tale has proven ever so useful.

“So if we have nowhere to run,” says the tiger, loftily, regally, in the voice of the true leader of the Wildlands, “we must fight!”

“Is that truly what you want, Khan?” says the King amidst the roars, for and against, the tiger’s proposal. “You cannot kill them. This is madness.”

“Oh, quit being such a coward,” retorts Shere Khan. He no longer plays the game of diplomacy. “You may stay and hide, if you wish, whelp, but no corpse will ever defeat me. I will bring us all to victory.”

The King of Lions reminds himself of the Law, and he will not shed blood. Not here. Not now.

Instead, he looks toward the visitor. “You’ve seen them in the Lands Beyond? You swear it?” he asks.

“I do,” says Owl. He begins to wish he’d never come to this savage land, or at least never crossed paths with that foul tiger.

“And the Man and young Mowgli? You swear that you witnessed their death at the hands of the invaders?”

Shere Khan looks bemused at this repeated questioning, though it concerns him that he cannot tell what the young King is thinking.

“No, your majesty. They died in the fall,” says Owl. He cannot help but elaborate. “They were surrounded. They tried to descend, to escape, but... they fell from the cliff. I’m proud to say they took many with them, though. It was a... most noble end.” The great apes grunt in somber agreement.

The King presses forward before the Mynas can finish translating. “There was an army of them,” he says, “all hunting the Man and the Man-cub. How did you survive?”

“Your majesty?”

“How were you able to escape?”

Confused at the obvious answer, Owl spreads his wings and says, “Why, I flew, your majesty.”

Satisfied, the King nods. “Thank you,” he says, and Owl bows humbly.

To the assembled animals, the King of Lions announces, “We will attack at dawn.” Without another word, ignoring the outraged cries, he leads his procession from the stone and disappears into the night’s darkness.

Still debating, the other animals disperse, leaving Shere Khan alone on the great stone, his moment of triumph somehow stolen.

Chapter Twenty-Five

2009-05-31T11:57:00.001-04:00

“What about the winter?” asks Pinocchio. “Do you like winter?”

“Not really,” sighs the Little Pig. “There’s too much snow.” He squints against the afternoon sun. They’ll have to camp soon.

“I’ve never seen snow,” says the wooden boy. His eyes brighten at the prospect. “Is it nice?”

“No. I told you, it’s very cold... what was that?” Something in the brush, an unexpected rustling. The Little Pig whirls around, a hammer clutched in his tiny hand.

He oinks in dismay at the dark specter rising from the grass. A trifle embarrassed at having been heard, the Big Bad Wolf grins slyly.

“Hello, Piggy.” He theatrically brushes a grass stem from his scraggly shoulder. ”Fancy meeting you here.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” says the Pig.

The Wolf darts his yellow eyes to the hammer, notes the Pig’s trembling arms, and his toothy smile widens. “But trouble always seems to come knock-knock-knocking at your door, doesn’t it?”

He strolls closer, one long stride, and the two skitter backward a few steps.

“Speaking of which,” says the Wolf, “what are you doing outside your nice, safe house?”

“We, we’re going to the Castle of the Door,” stammers the little puppet. To Pinocchio, the skeletal, stinking wolf is as tall as a giant. A fanged, clawed giant.

The Wolf pretends to notice the wooden boy for the first time. “Oh, really? And who might you be?”

“I’m Pinocchio... sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Pinocchio.” He holds out a massive paw, and the puppet is obliged to take it. The Wolf doesn’t let go. There’s something about the boy - the buzzing, tingling smell of fairy magic - that he instinctively dislikes.

Bending low to Pinocchio’s level, the Wolf finishes his introduction. “You might’ve heard of me, kid. I’m the Big Bad Wolf. I’m 'trouble,' you could say.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I’ve heard all about you.” Pinocchio struggles to remove his hand from the Wolf’s unyielding grip.

“I bet you have.” With a black-lipped leer, the Wolf quickly releases Pinocchio, forcing the boy to fall backward. He rubs his paw on the leg of his ragged trousers.

The Little Pig’s icy glare goes ignored by the wolf. Still holding his hammer, he rushes to Pinocchio’s side.

Unfolding to his full height, the Wolf slowly circles the two, casually kicking up dust from the road. “So, leaving the kingdom, huh? Pretty good idea.” The Pig has to constantly shuffle around to face the Wolf, lest his back be exposed.

“But then again, you were always one for good ideas, weren’t you, Piggy?”

“It isn’t safe here anymore,” coughs the Little Pig.

Nodding wisely, the Wolf says, “Yeah, you never know what trouble you might run into out here.” He leans forward and smiles, all teeth.

“It isn’t safe for any of us,” says the Pig pathetically. “Even you.”

The Wolf starts to roll his eyes, but then he thinks better of it. “Maybe you’re right,” he says in a syrupy voice. “It’s dangerous out here. Maybe I should go with you,” he offers grandly, and lounges a long arm around the Pig’s shoulders. “Safety in numbers and all that.”

“I, uh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” begins the Pig, but once the Wolf’s arm begins to tighten painfully, he adds, “but you’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Yeah,” says the Wolf. “Yeah.” He smells the Pig, and a drop of saliva drips from his dirty muzzle. “After I’ve eaten, of course.”

“We’ve got food,” squeals the Little Pig quickly, and the Wolf laughs.

“You are food, Piggy. First I’ve seen in weeks.” He leans forward.

There is a meaty thud, and the Wolf falls backward. The Pig ducks beneath his flailing paw and scuttles away.

The Wolf touches his stinging cheek, and is astonished to find he’s bleeding. He stares, wide-eyed, at the defiant puppet below.

Pinocchio already has another rock in his hand, ready to throw. “You leave us alone,” he says, in a low voice quite different than his usual lilting tone. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

Shocked that someone so small would dare stand up to someone so big, the Wolf decides to take a different approach.

He huffs and he puffs, and the stone flies into his sunken chest with a rib-splitting crack. The impact knocks the Wolf to the ground, and for a stunned moment he sits there, unsure what to do.

The Little Pig looks down at the familiar sight of a defeated Wolf. Slack-jawed and dazed, his old enemy can’t bring himself to meet the Pig’s gaze.

“Be careful,” says the Pig coldly. “It’s dangerous out here.” He turns toward the dirt road and begins walking. Pinocchio, after picking up another rock, follows his friend, though he continues to glance back distrustfully at the Wolf.

Chapter Twenty-Four

2009-05-27T10:48:00.001-04:00

At first, it wasn’t so bad. He and Junior had kept to the forests throughout the entire mess. There weren’t many of the dead back then, and the corpses that entered the forest were easy to avoid – their stink always gave them away.

The pickings were lush in those days, as well. With the hopeless battles waged throughout the countryside, some people thought the woods, dark and deep, might be a safe haven. They were wrong. Poorly guarded travelers, unused to the mysteries of the forest, made for many an easy meal. But as the seasons changed, the swell of people dried up, shepherded to the safety of Sherwood Forest.

Even the animals were disappearing. Most had fled into the heart of the Great Woods, over the seven jeweled hills, beyond the seven waterfalls, to a place of safety. Though he wanted to follow after them, nastier things than him lurked in the Great Woods - ogres, witches, black magicks. Perhaps it was because of his dark heart that he couldn’t hear the call of Snow White’s resting place, and like all wicked things, he instinctively shunned her hallowed glade.

And still he needed to eat. Moss and lichen, abandoned beehives, even the occasional frog came too few and far between for his and Junior’s appetites.

It happened one night, when he awoke from a particularly delicious dream about a banquet table to realize the dead had finally gotten the drop on them.

In the old days, he would have heard them, would have smelled them, would have snapped out of that delightful dream, but he was so weak and hungry!

Though he could still huff and puff and blow them away, that would leave him breathless for minutes, unable to run or flee. If even one got ahold of him, that would be the end of his tale. So huffing and puffing was not an option, not for a survivor like him.

He tried to wake his son, who only started crying and mewling. Junior refused to uncurl from his ball, too exhausted, too tired to run anymore.

He thought, briefly, about carrying the small cub, but he didn't know how long he might have to run, or how many of the dead would follow, or even where he'd go, and so he decided that Junior was old enough to take care of himself.

And ever since Junior had been taken, he’d traveled alone.

Until now, finally, he’s laid eyes and nose and ears on living, breathing meat.

He creeps along beside the road, under the cover of the trees, skulking through the high-growing grasses. Neither of them have any idea that he is close by, and little wonder – they’re more concerned with the dead. They don’t expect to be hunted by someone who remembers how to hunt.

Finally, when he can hear what they’re talking about, the Big Bad Wolf decides he’s close enough to break from his hiding place and attack.

Chapter Twenty-Three

2009-05-24T00:07:00.002-04:00

The Wildlands are no place for men, but the Hunter has adapted himself well. He’s gone several days without shaving and he hasn’t eaten since he chanced upon that papaya tree, but he’s never felt better.

These creatures, whatever they may be, are easy to hunt. They make no pretense of camouflage or deception, so he always hears them coming. Most are slow and clumsy, no longer a match for a predator such as himself.

But, he reminds himself, they’re far from harmless. The damn things never sleep, never give up chasing him. And he’s fairly certain that more and more are following after him every day. He hears them crashing through the woods, sees the footprints, even catches glimpses of them from time to time during his steady retreat to the Doorway.

It’d be a simple matter to settle into the fork of a tree and blast them back to Hell, but the Hunter doesn’t care for such a strategy. It isn’t a matter of bullets – he has hundreds left – but he’s quite sure that the sound will attract the rest. Shooting one, though satisfying, would guarantee that dozens more would take up the hunt.

It’s quite strange, being both predator and prey at the same time.

Thank heavens for the machete. It’s made cutting a path to the Doorway ever so much easier, and these stupid monsters don’t ever realize they’re being attacked.

They always come towards him, hoping to eat, some of them performing a parody of their own hunting methods, but even that panther was no match for the Hunter. That had been a bullet well worth firing, though – it still seemed too agile to take on in hand-to-hand combat.

He stops short at the wet banks of the river and regrets that the canoe was left behind at the camp. Had to be done, unfortunately. Not much time to pack when you’re running for your life.

Crossing the river is a risk - it won’t do to get his rifle or bullets wet, and who knows what threats lurk in those dark waters - but the Hunter decides it’s one worth taking. The water might mask his scent, and if he can cross over - which shouldn’t be too hard, this being the dry season - his pursuers should turn back once his smell fades away. He is quite sure they don’t have the wits to investigate both riverbanks.

It’s a well-played move, and the Hunter is right. Nothing crosses the river, and that night is the first time he finds himself alone in the Wildlands in quite some time. There aren’t even any birds anymore. Probably driven away by a brushfire, he supposes. There is smoke in the air, after all.

It takes another three days for him to finally reach the Doorway, carved into the side of a great, ancient tree. Beyond it lies the civilized world. Safety.

Only, and this is odd, there’s a hyena standing in front of the Doorway. It pants and giggles to itself, behavior not unlike normal hyenas, and it’s a welcome change from the somber monsters that have trailed him for so long.

The Hunter wonders what it’s doing there, but decides it’s easier to just put the thing out of its misery – if it isn’t dead now, it will be eventually. He’s slightly disappointed that the first real animal he’s seen in ages is one without a valuable pelt. Still, a bullet to the brain is the easiest way to go, what with times being the way they are.

As he brings the rifle to his shoulder, the Hunter doesn’t notice the silent creature stepping behind him, the one that’s been watching him for a few hours now, following him to this great and special Doorway.

Unlike the monsters, this lion is very much alive. And hungry. And stealthy. He decides to wait until the man uses his gun to kill the hyena, so he won’t have to share the meal.

The Hunter fires and feels that momentary satisfaction that comes with a bullet well shot, but his victory is short-lived. He senses the lion as it pounces upon him, forcing all its great weight upon his back and neck, and the Hunter is dead before he hits the ground.

For the first time, the Lion eats the flesh of man. He finds it to be a most exquisite delicacy, if lacking in quantity. Much better, he decides later as he crosses through the Doorway, than the taste of his loyal hyena.

Chapter Twenty-Two

2009-05-20T21:20:00.002-04:00

The Dwarf pushes back his bowl with an unsatisfied grunt. It wasn’t much of a breakfast, but he can’t fault the girl - she barely has any food. And rain water and barley mush is better than nothing, so he ate it.

“Well,” he growls, “thanks fer the food.”

“You’re welcome,” says Cinderella, and she takes away his bowl. “I suppose you should be going,” she says evenly.

“And what about you?” he asks, in a tone that indicates he doesn’t care.

“Oh, I’ll stay here,” says Cinderella, and she turns her back to the Dwarf. “I have to wait for my family’s return, after all.”

There’s a snort as the Dwarf surveys the room. “In this place? It’s a trap.”

“I think it’ll be all right. The town is mostly cleared, after all, isn’t it?”

“Mostly?” He stands to his full height and glares up at Cinderella. “I took down every damned one of those things within earshot, I guarantee it. But there’ll be more, there're always more, roaming the countryside, lookin’ fer their blasted dinners.”

Pretending to ignore him, Cinderella looks around the room, and gives a satisfied nod.

“I’ll just move some of the furniture from the staircase. Barricade the doors and windows. It’ll be nice to have the house to myself again, instead of being cramped in the attic.”

“Bah! Look around you, woman. Too many windows. Not well-defended. Too much open space. If they come for you, where are y’gonna go? How will y’fight?” He can’t believe this girl. Decent cook she may be, she doesn’t know anything about survival.

“Well,” says Cinderella, feigning exasperation, “what am I supposed to do? I have to stay here until my family returns. I was told to watch after our home.”

“Aw, wake up an’ open yer eyes. They’re not comin’ back, they’re gone. Fled with everyone else. And I see why they didn’t bring y’along. Yer too buffle-headed to be worth a damn.”

Something about that rings a little too true for Cinderella. Her eyes cloud over with tears as she bites her bottom lip.

The Dwarf immediately regrets saying this. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. During the silence, he fingers the curtains and scowls at their lushness.

Her eyes remain downcast. “Well, that may be, but it’s my duty. Just like it’s yours to find this prince, even though that sounds rather buffle-headed to me.”

The Dwarf bristles, but he doesn’t have the heart to retort in anger. She wouldn’t understand. No one would, unless they’d met Snow White. “If you could bring someone back from th’ dead,” he finally says, “you’d do it, too.”

“I would,” says Cinderella, and she thinks of her real family – her mother, long dead, and her father, gone too recently. Leaving her alone with her stepmother and stepsisters.

“I would,” she says again.

They stand apart for a long while, until the Dwarf thinks of something to say. “Well,” he says in a loud voice. The only way he knows how to apologize is to change the subject. “Yer not safe here, that’s fer sure. ‘Tis better to be out in the open than to have them come crashin’ in at you. Y’better come along with me.”

He knows he’s going to regret this, but he doesn’t want another dead, defenseless girl on his conscience.

“Besides,” he adds lamely, “I don’t know where the prince of these lands would be found, and I could use yer aid as a scout.” He is bad at lying; the castle lies atop a hill, and the entire town spirals up towards it, impossible to miss.

Cinderella smiles a little, but her eyes are still hurt. “Very well,” she says. “I’ll go get my things.”

She’d already prepared a bundle the night before. They don’t amount to much, just a thick coat for when it gets cold, a tiny locket containing the silhouettes of her mother and father, and a small package of her remaining food. That’s all she wants to take from her old life.

As they leave the chateau, Cinderella is surprised to realize she doesn’t care if she never sees her stepmother or stepsisters again. But it still pains her to understand how they’ve felt about her all along.

Chapter Twenty-One

2009-05-17T00:29:00.001-04:00

Though they do not know it, Pinocchio and the Little Pig are being watched.

It’s easy to follow them – they keep to the road, out in the open. But even if they were to risk the woods, he couldn’t lose them – the odor of pig flesh and pine is too strong to miss.

The two walk toward the Castle of the Door, an unlikely pair on a long and lonely road.

“It’s the only destination that makes sense,” the Pig had said, back when they set off on their journey.

“Why?” asked Pinocchio.

“Because,” said the Little Pig, “if your father is still alive, he would have fled the kingdom long ago, like everyone else seems to have done.”

“Why?” asked Pinocchio.

The Pig’s patience was stronger back then. “Because it’s no longer safe here. Those monsters are dangerous.”

“Why?”

“They just are.”

And so they departed from the house of brick, not looking back. The Little Pig left behind his two brothers – one buried in the cellar, the other still stumbling in his fishing net. And though the pig of straw, rotting and ruined, tried to follow, he was soon lost behind.

The Little Pig tries to enjoy the sun on his face, trapped as he was for so long in a room without light, but there’s little warmth in the autumn air.

“Did you have any pets?” asks Pinocchio.

“No,” says the Pig.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want any.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“That’d be funny, wouldn’t it? For a pig to have a pet?” Pinocchio mulls this over for a moment, then asks, “Are you hungry?”

“No,” says the Little Pig automatically. It doesn’t surprise him - the tool belt across his waist is now tighter by several notches. He’d lost most of his appetite after his second brother died, and it has yet to return to normal.

“I’m not, either,” says Pinocchio.

The Pig accepts this never-ending conversation with an odd mixture of gratitude and annoyance. Although he’d never been one for idle blather, he does not miss the days of solitude and silence in his house of brick.

After a few hours on the road, the Little Pig had learned everything about Pinocchio’s life story. Constructed by his father the toymaker, granted life by the Blue Fairy, forced into slavery by a garlic-smelling foreigner, finally escaping during the riots, and now searching for his father.

Once Pinocchio had exhausted his own tale, he started a string of endless questions about the Little Pig’s past, and days later, he shows no sign of slowing.

“Who was that other pig?”

“My brother.”

“Did you have any other brothers or sisters?”

“Just one other brother.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Are you the youngest?”

“No, the eldest. There are some monsters up ahead.” The Little Pig pulls a hammer from his tool belt, just in case.

“I’ll be back!” Pinocchio smiles at the Pig and skips down the road toward a cluster of the dead. A dozen armored knights, intrigued by the clanking of the others, chase one another in a forever game of Follow the Leader.

Pinocchio knows what to do. He dances around them, leading them far, far from the road, almost to the edge of the woods. Then the puppet falls to the floor. After a moment, the dead are distracted by the rustling leaves and the smells of the forest, and they disappear into the foliage.

Pinocchio soon skips back.

“Where are your parents? Are you married?”

All sorts of childish nonsense, thinks the Little Pig. His brother probably would've gotten along perfectly with this little boy.

That thought makes the Pig sigh. He'd never truly gotten along with his brothers. They were content to laugh and sing the day away, never a thought toward tomorrow, and look where it had taken them.

He, on the other hand, had lived a life of hard work, and look where it'd taken him – to an abandoned country with a small puppet for a companion. He isn’t sure who to pity more.

And so they continue to walk, unaware that all this time they are being watched.

Chapter Twenty

2009-05-13T18:56:00.002-04:00

"Not a bad haul, eh, boys?" drawls the Sheriff of Nottingham. He appreciatively paws through a chest of coins and sorts them into three piles.

His vulture lackey chuckles and nods his head. The other keeps watch over the side of the castle wall, so he doesn’t notice the Sheriff give him a slightly smaller cut of the take.

“Best idea I ever had, if I do say so myself.”

It had been a difficult decision – spearheaded by the cowardly Prince John – to flee to the Lands Beyond, but the rest of the worlds had to be warned about the growing undead hordes.

And though this kingdom would be abandoned, someone would have to stand guard at the Castle of the Door to help the countless refugees. Surely they couldn’t be left behind to be slaughtered.

But who would stay? Who would make that sacrifice?

All the heroes offered; it was only natural of them to want to help the helpless. But the Sheriff begged and pleaded and, truth be told, pulled a bit of rank on the ol’ uppity-ups. He is a sheriff, after all. The seven princes are royalty and must be kept safe, whereas his job is to protect the realm.

Sir Ector fought against it, said it was his duty as a knight in good standing to do the chivalrous thing, but the Sheriff pointed out that the old walrus had a family to watch over.

Ector’s son Kay, who was almost of age and would soon be a knight himself, took insult to this. To prove his manhood, he’d challenged the Sheriff to a duel, but in the end, cooler heads prevailed and the Sheriff got his way.

Robin Hood cast a suspicious eye, but as a wanted outlaw, there wasn’t much he could say. He and his flea-ridden cohorts returned to their forest, promising to escort any survivors back to the castle.

The Sheriff wasn’t sorry to see him go, and so far, none of the Merry Men had returned. Good riddance.

And once he had free reign of the Castle of the Door, he could raise the drawbridge and implement a toll. No one could refuse his price, and he’d quickly accumulated a king’s ransom. Jewels, gold, artwork, fine garments, there was even a Magic Mirror tucked away somewhere.

“Not a bad haul at all,” the Sheriff rhymes. A lot of money from a common coachman. Probably extorted the fees from his passengers, so the Sheriff doesn’t feel too badly about charging such a high toll.

“When this whole thing blows over,” says the Sheriff, “we’ll be the richest folks in the kingdom.” He tugs on a gold bracelet, a bit feminine, maybe, but it’s of such fine quality that he’s determined to make it fit over his flabby arm.

“Yeah, but what if it doesn’t blow over?” asks one of the vultures. He lazily checks to make sure his crossbow is still loaded.

“Boss,” says the other vulture suddenly. “We got company.”

“Well, fly down there and give ‘em the spiel.”

“Not that kind of company.” He raises his crossbow, and then the Sheriff hears it – a strange bouncing noise coming from the grounds below.

“What in tarnation is that?” asks the Sheriff. He clambers for his own crossbow and waddles forward.

“Aim for the head,” one guard tells the other, and he fires his weapon. The bolt zips through the air, but it misses its target. Something small and orange flies over the wall and crashes into the vulture’s head.

The other vulture points his crossbow and pulls the trigger. A moment later, he pulls the corpse off his companion. It’s a small bear, no bigger than a child, with candy-colored fur and dressed in fanciful clothing. The bolt protrudes from the back of its skull.

“Boss, I think that’s a…” says the guard, but the Sheriff shakes his head.

“Naw, can’t be. They ain’t real. They’re just children’s stories.”

But the bouncing noises below say otherwise. More of the dreadful, colorful creatures leap over the wall. Five of them, matted fur, filthy clothes. They aren’t alive, but yet they move.

They look puzzled by the Sheriff and the vulture (who is clumsily trying to reload his crossbow. The Sheriff doesn’t waste any time. Before they can jump, he runs for the door into the castle and slams it shut behind him.

“Boss?” says the vulture, shocked, and then several of the bears launch themselves at him. His crossbow twangs uselessly.

The Sheriff pays little mind to his henchman’s screams as he pulls the heavy bar across the door. Soon there is a loud thudding as one of the bears - the fat one, from the sounds of it - bounces against it, but the door will hold.

Five of them, one bolt in his crossbow, and the Sheriff is dreadful with his sword. Better run for it, make for the Doorway, and finally join his countrymen in the safety and freedom of the Lands Beyond.

It isn’t far, just downstairs and into the main chamber. Not an impossible run, especially if they keep busy feeding on the others.

But a stained glass window above him shatters as the two youngest bear cubs leap through. Their playful bouncing echoes about the stone walls, following the panting Sheriff down the stairs.

Out of breath, the Sheriff of Nottingham turns and fires his crossbow, but his hands are shaking too much. Grimacing at the youthful apparitions of death in front of him, he tries to draw his sword, but they leap toward his face, their mouths wide, hungry, and blackened with congealed blood.

So falls the Castle of the Door.

Chapter Nineteen

2009-05-10T23:01:00.002-04:00

In the end, only the Man and the man-cub are able to wield red fire.

Even the bravest of apes and the mighty elephants are unable to hold this mysterious magic without trembling.

“I feel great shame,” says Hathi, “but this is why it is called Man’s Secret. Only Man may use it.”

And thus it must be. The ape-lord embraces his adopted mother, Mowgli says a tearful good-bye to Baloo, and the two set off to fight the invaders.

Red fire. Man’s secret. That which the Wildlands cannot fight or control, the destroyer of flora and fauna alike. It is the anger of nature. It is destruction. In a way, it is similar to the deadly plague that has spread throughout their world. Perhaps, hopes Mowgli, it is stronger.

For the first time, the Man and the man-cub find themselves looking for one of the hungry dead. Even though every instinct in their bodies begs them to flee, they now hunt.

It doesn’t take long. They smell one before it appears - not only does it carry the stink of rot and carrion, but also the unmistakable and overpowering odor of dung.

“A warthog,” whispers the Man. Mowgli nods.

Can it smell them, even in death? The Man has long since wondered. An enemy without its senses would be most vulnerable. Even the deadly cobra cannot strike what it cannot see.

However, the warthog must see the bright flames in their hands, and it drags itself through the brush, the remains of its ribcage scraping along the ground.

“It isn’t afraid…” whispers Mowgli.

“Stand back,” says the Man. He puts out one muscled arm in front of Mowgli, and thrusts the burning log toward the creature.

It doesn’t flinch. It stares at the Man, flames reflected in its empty, dark eyes. It grunts and gurgles amidst its cloud of flies.

“It isn’t working,” decides the ape-lord. “Into the trees.”

Mowgli climbs quickly, even with one hand holding his torch, and the Man lifts himself up soon after. The warthog, unable to climb, gnashes its curved, deadly, filthy tusks against the trunk of the tree.

“It didn’t work,” says Mowgli. His plan has failed. He so badly wanted to help the Council, to help the Wildlands, but he has failed. He discreetly wipes away a tear, lest the Man notice.

“It’s all right,” says the Man. He deliberately keeps his eyes on the warthog. “We’ll figure something out.“ Slowly, he lowers the torch, bringing it closer and closer to the creature, until they almost touch.

Aroused by the proximity of living flesh, the warthog pulls itself up against the tree with its two remaining hooves. Straining and grunting, it ignores the red fire just above its head. Even when its hairs begin to singe and smoke, it pays no attention.

They watch the warthog burn for many moments, until the Man snaps his head to one side. He peers into the darkness. “More are coming. The Bandar-log. We’ve got to go.”

Mowgli follows after the ape-lord, jumping lightly from branch to branch. The warthog patiently crawls after them below. As it moves through the dry brush, the surrounding grass bursts into flaming brightness.

There’s a distant whisper of branches. The Man curses in the gorilla tongue. “More are coming.”

He looks around. They could outrun the warthog... or they could remain in the trees. He is comfortable amidst the branches and vines, but so are the Bandar-log.

He gestures to Mowgli, leaps down and begins sprinting. The warthog follows, birthing more fires in its wake, but the ape-lord pays it no mind. It’s the quick-moving Bandar-log that he fears.

They quietly glide through the trees, grasping and swinging from their tails. Unlike the days of old, they do not laugh and jabber from the treetops, nor do they pelt them with nuts. There is nothing buffoonish about the Bandar-log anymore.

Although they are tireless, the ape-lord is well-coordinated and graceful. But more of them are coming. And how quickly they’ve learned to hunt.

Mowgli, his night vision ruined by the torches, cannot see the growing numbers above him. He wheezes and tries to keep up with the Man’s stride. He wishes Bagheera were still alive. He always protected him. Even until the end.

More and more eyes are reflected in the light of red fire, too many to count. Like a stone that has disturbed a hornet’s nest, their torches have attracted the swarm.

“Come,” says the Man, still calm, looking left, right, skyward, then turning to the south, away from the trees. Take away the Bandar-log's advantage. After several minutes, Mowgli stumbles, and the ape-lord lifts him onto his sweating shoulders, not bothered by the man-cub’s weight.

And finally, he stops running. He’s come to the cliff. He didn’t want to come here - he’d been hoping for a spot where he could veer to the left or right. But the hunters are closing in, relentless as a pack of hyenas, and they’ve not been given one opportunity to escape.

But despite all that, the Man thinks of the burning warthog, still crawling, still etching its blazing arrow of fire onto the ground.

Time for one final gambit.

“Don’t worry,” says the Man. “Just hold on to me tightly.” Mowgli, still holding his torch high, climbs onto the ape-lord's back.

The hungry creatures come closer, a rotting mass of buffalo and ape and crocodile. He throws his torch into the horde, but none step aside. A female leopard sprints ahead of the pack, and the Man begins to climb down the cliff.

It is difficult, especially with the man-cub's legs wrapped around his chest, but his toes grip into the rock, he finds a hold and he lowers himself another several feet.

“Don’t worry,” the ape-lord repeats.

Man, born without the tools of the jungle, without claw or fang or sense of smell, has one tool greater than any: that of reason.

And the Man sees something wrong with the invaders, something in the way the warthog burned so fearlessly, the way the meerkats walked through the fiery brush, the way the crocodile allowed the torch to bounce off its scales.

They’ve forgotten, in their death, the first and most important instinct: how to survive.

If all goes well, they will have a new plan to save the Wildlands. And if he is wrong, then at least he and the man-cub will not succumb to the plague.

The she-leopard reaches the edge of the cliff and pounces. As she falls, she bites at Mowgli, but the Man ducks away. She silently hurtles hundreds of feet to the ground, where she smashes onto the unforgiving stone.

More of the dead follow: a gazelle, a lion. They step to their second deaths without hesitation, never thinking to climb, only following their desire for flesh and blood. The Man’s jaw eases into a slight smile – he was right, his gambit was a success.

As the Man continues to descend, Mowgli whimpers and waves his torch in a useless threat. The Man raises his head to see the great snake Kaa. Rather than walk off the cliff, the legless serpent awkwardly wound its way down after them.

Kaa stares at them, his blank eyes no longer trusting and hypnotic, and vacantly bites into the Man’s shoulder. It no longer occurs to him to smother his prey; that instinct was lost in death.

The pain is slight – Kaa lacks the teeth for ripping and tearing - but the Man instinctively grabs the snake’s head. A mistake, perhaps the first one ever made by the Man, but there are no second chances in the Wildlands. As he flings Kaa away, the ape-lord loses his balance. He, the man-cub, the snake, and the torch - all fall, and all are extinguished.

Chapter Eighteen

2009-05-06T15:49:00.001-04:00

Cinderella clears away the Dwarf’s plate. He ate quite a bit – the stories about Dwarves’ appetites are true, apparently – but she doesn’t mind. After the day’s events, he certainly had cause to work up such a hunger

The Dwarf grunts and wipes his hands on his red tunic. Even after being forced to wash, he still stinks of smoke and charred flesh. He grunts again, this time in distaste at the fancy, frilly chateau, and pushes back his seat.

“Well… thanks fer dinner,” the Dwarf concludes. He hoists his pack, takes hold of his poleaxe - which was never out of arm’s length - and stumps toward the door.

“Wait…” says Cinderella. “Where are you going?”

The Dwarf snorts and looks at her as if she’s half-mad. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m gonna find this prince.”

“But… now? At this hour? What about the dead?”

“Bah. We’ve handled ‘em under the mountains, we can handle ‘em aboveground, too. Besides, I can see in the dark better’n they can.” Foolish girl.

Cinderella smoothly rushes forward to stand between the front door and the Dwarf. She remembers her stepmother’s sudden departure and her animal friends who’ve disappeared over the lonely months.

“At least stay here tonight. You shouldn’t be traveling in the dark, especially after all the hard work you’ve done. You must be exhausted.”

“Pft, this ain’t nothin’. You should see what it’s like down in the mines. That’ll put some creak in your spine,” says the Dwarf. The girl is probably just afeared of being left alone again, he figures. And he doesn’t want her slowing him down.

He starts to push past her, and then it’s Cinderella who hmphs.

“Well,” she says, “I’ve heard Dwarves were discourteous, but I never imagined they were like this.”

He stops and scowls at her. “Discourteous? What’re you talkin’ about, woman? I ate yer food, didn’t I?”

Cinderella chuckles mockingly. “Yes, you definitely had your fill. But now you’re leaving, not only turning down hospitality, but leaving a poor girl to fend for herself after eating the last of her food.”

“I didn’t ask fer it!” The Dwarf snaps back. “And I cain’t be lookin’ after you and everyone else who’s been caged up by them deathlings. You ain’t my responsibility.”

“I didn’t say I was,” says Cinderella. She changes tactics quickly. “But if you’ll accept food but not lodgings, then clearly my home isn’t good enough for you.”

He stammers, unsure of which argument to attack first. “Yer house is fine,” he finally says. “I just… Bah. Fine, fine.”

The Dwarf steps away from the door, drops his pack, and stalks over to the settee, where he sits with his arms folded. He vows that he’ll get no sleep tonight. With his luck, the thing’ll either be lumpy as cottage cheese or full of springs.

“But first thing in the mornin’, I’m leaving,” he says defiantly. “I got a prince to find.”

“Of course,” says Cinderella. She’s learned very quickly how to deal with this Dwarf.

Chapter Seventeen

2009-05-03T12:04:00.003-04:00

In their grief, the seven brothers constructed a glass casket, inlaid with the purest silver and gold, carved most delicate and graceful. And though Dwarven craftsmanship is unsurpassed in this world, they considered it an unworthy frame for the maiden within. And, weeping, they laid her to rest in a tiny glade deep, deep, deep within the Great Woods.

There, in silence, they stood guard over their dear Snow White, a victim of spellcraft, petty and cruel. For a year and a day, a long time for you or I, but of no passing importance to a Dwarf, they mourned the taking of such an innocent soul, and the creatures of the forest paid their respects.

The spell would be broken, the seven brothers knew, by love’s first kiss. But the days passed into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into seasons, and the prince never came.

The Dwarves, who never held much for the romantic notions of the big people, were unsurprised. The fickle love of youth, they might have scoffed.

It was the eldest of the brothers who finally broke their vigil and proposed a solution quite Dwarflike in its practicality: If the prince wouldn’t come to them, the Dwarves would go to the prince.

And so, with heavy hearts, the six brothers – the youngest was ordered to stand guard over her casket – left the Great Woods and set off in separate directions to search for Snow White’s lost love.

What they found instead were countless souls stalking through a sleeping death of their own, one much more wicked than any poisoned apple.

Not that it mattered to the Dwarves. Dragon or goblin, war or peace, the living or the dead, no vile force would stop them from helping their friend. There is perhaps nothing on Earth quite so strong as a Dwarf’s love.

And deep, deep, deep within the Great Woods, the small clearing, guarded by a mute and beardless Dwarf, remains untouched by the undead plague.

Perhaps it is too far for them to sense the presence of flesh and blood, or perhaps it is hallowed ground, blessed by the Woods itself, but they do not prey in the patient glade of Snow White.

Without knowing why, the animals sense this refuge in the wild and hungry woods, and they flee there to wait in peace for her awakening.

And Snow White sleeps there still, the fairest of them all.

Chapter Sixteen

2009-04-29T13:01:00.002-04:00

The pig of brick gasps awake. Still half in nightmare, he cringes from the angry claws of his dead brother.

But there’s no one here. He is alone, safe in his house. The embers from the hearth even bring a dying light to the room, so he isn’t in darkness anymore.

And he’s long since learned to ignore the scratch-scratch-scratch at the front door, where the pig of straw still waits, rotting and patient, eternally trying to visit his brother.

All is silent.

I’m alone, thinks the little pig, but then he hears it again, that sound from his nightmare, the thud of spade against skull.

It’s the door. Someone is knocking at the door.

His throat tightens, and his thoughts flee wildly to the cellar, where the pig of sticks is buried under the cold earth.

He’s back, he thinks. He’s back. He’s here. He’s back.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Knock, knock, knock.

They die once. They come back. You kill them. You bury them. They still come back. There’s a knock at the door, and he remembers his dream. It’s the pig of sticks, come for his body.

Two brothers - one a corpse, one a ghost - trying to enter the house for one final reunion, one final trick to play on their still-living sibling.

“Go away!” squeals the pig of brick. “I didn’t want to kill you!” He falls from the bed and crawls to a corner. “Leave me alone!”

The knocking stops.

The pig of brick bursts into tears.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Hello?” A voice at the door. His brother’s ghost.

The pig swallows a few times until he has the strength to answer. “Yes?”

The voice: “Are you all right?”

“No.”

The pig of brick thinks again of his poor brother, how kind he’d always been. “Are YOU all right?” he asks.

“No,” says the voice. “I’m lost.”

Aren’t we all, thinks the pig. He gets to his hooves and reluctantly steps to the peephole, where the pig of straw still scratches. It’s hard to stand the sight of his brother, all withering, running flesh and a buzz of flies.

“I can’t see you,” says the pig of brick, no longer sure if he is dealing with a spirit or with his own madness, or if this is still a dream.

“What?” says the voice. “I’m down here.”

Standing on the tips of his hooves, the little pig looks down through the peephole, unsure of what he will see. It isn’t the ghost of his brother, and he cannot help but laugh at the sight before him.

And the little wooden puppet at his doorstep, encouraged by the laughter, smiles back with a hopeful smile.

Chapter Fifteen

2009-04-26T01:00:00.003-04:00

“What exactly are we looking for?” asks Baloo. He pokes his snout into a trunk full of clothing.

“I’m not sure,” says Mowgli. He thinks very hard about anything he might remember from his youth in the man village, but those memories are hazy and untrustworthy - he remembers Baloo being there, for one, and that’s certainly impossible.

“Just look for anything that might make fire,” comes the quiet voice of the Man, the lord of the apes.

This is easier said than done. The Man and the man-cub, despite their species, were raised in the Wildlands. They’re as unfamiliar with the items scattered throughout the ruined camp as their bear companion. The tools are a mystery. One is just a handle that holds a circle of some invisible material. Another is a dark box with a leather strap.

The three of them push buttons, turn levers, poke and prod, all to no avail. Baloo tries to keep an eye out for any invaders, but soon gets distracted by the unmistakable scent of food.

Mowgli puts down the magnifying glass and goes over to look at a framed photograph. The Man joins him.

“She was so beautiful,” he says, referring to the smiling image of Jane.

Being a child, Mowgli doesn’t know what to say. He gently pats the Man’s thickly muscled arm.

After some effort, Baloo figures out how to lift up the lid of a certain box, and he sighs at the sight of the man-food within.

“What makes fire?” Mowgli asks, as he rummages through the men’s nests.

The Man tries to remember. They had fire at this camp, from the brief time he visited. “The old man, the Professor, he could make fire. He often used it to breathe smoke. And the other man, the Hunter, his metal stick would sometimes flash like fire.”

“Guns,” says Mowgli, wisely.

“And they had…” The ape-lord looks over to the lanterns, still hanging from their hooks. “These. They had small fires in them at night.”

He takes one from the wall and shakes it. It is unlit and cold. “But I don’t know how they got them to work.”

Mowgli takes another lamp and opens it. There is a small little stub, like the sprout of a vine. This, he knows, should be fire. But it isn’t.

“I don’t get it,” says Baloo, his mouth full of man-food. “The men had these things. They had fire, but it didn’t save them from the invaders. What if it doesn’t help us?”

“These aren’t enough,” says the Man. He shakes the lantern dismissively. “Bagheera didn’t fear these fires. Most of the larger animals don’t. These are contained, controlled, locked behind these invisible walls. But a big, bright fire…”

Baloo shudders at the thought of it. That image in his head is enough to make him imagine he smells smoke, one of the worst smells in the entire Wildlands – it is the smell of destruction, of fleeing, of death.

“Wait a minute…” he says. He isn’t imagining it. He smells smoke, even over the overwhelming scent of delicious man-food.

The Man notices it as well. Smoke rises from the platform that the Professor would work from.

“Mowgli?” he asks, and takes a cautious step nearer the table.

They approach where Mowgli put down the tool holding the invisible rock. It lies there, magnifying the papers that the Professor will never finish writing. But with the sun winking down on it, the papers have begun to smolder.

“It’s a miracle,” says the Man. He rushes toward the edge of the camp. “Quick,” he says to Baloo. “Find some branches, dry ones. And moss. Dried grass. Anything that will burn.”

Baloo reluctantly turns away from the man-food and places a comforting paw on the boy’s shoulder. “Good job, little britches,” he says nervously, eyes glued to the smoke. “You’ve made fire.”

Chapter Fourteen

2009-04-22T14:48:00.002-04:00

“Yer town’s safe,” grumbles the Dwarf, his back still to Cinderella. He is hard at work just outside the town, digging a suitable fire pit.

“Yes, thank you,” repeats Cinderella, and she steps closer to him. “But I just wanted to ask, who are you? Can I offer you any food or water?”

The Dwarf grunts and spits. Human food. Nothing worse, he thinks.

“No,” he says distinctly, after she fails to interpret his grunt. Can’t the daft girl see he’s busy?

“I’m Cinderella, by the way,” she says, and takes another step closer. After a moment’s silence, she adds, “And you are…?”

He snorts. Apparently he won’t be allowed to work in peace. “I ain’t nobody. Just a Dwarf.”

“Yes, but who are you? Why are you here?”

“I’m buildin’ a pyre fer the dead, what’s it look like?” he growls.

“Oh.” Silence. The girl goes away. Took her long enough.

He digs stoically, knowing that blisters are inevitable, even with his hard, callused hands. The big people cause nothin’ but trouble, even in death. Always adding more work to his schedule.

Footsteps approach, but the Dwarf doesn’t turn. He can tell they belong to someone alive - they aren’t shuffling and stumbling like one of the damned. He half-turns his head so he can glare at whoever else is coming to thank him.

It’s that same girl. Cinderella. Only now she’s carrying a shovel.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, and in his surprise, he stops digging.

“What’s it look like?” she responds, though with no bitterness in her voice. “I’m helping to build the pyre. Some of these people were my neighbors.”

The Dwarf sniffs disdainfully but says nothing. Finally, he nods his head and continues digging.

“Yer doin’ it wrong,” he says, as soon as she puts her foot over the shovel. “Point it this way, so y’ get more dirt.” He demonstrates and grumbles to himself. What would a girl know about diggin’, he figures.

Cinderella corrects her shovel and steps down hard on the back of the blade.

He expects her to gab on and on and thank him and ask all sorts of questions, but is surprised (and oddly disappointed) by her silence. But it makes sense – she’s gotta save her energy to dig through the rough grass outside the town wall. And there’s a lot of diggin’ to do.

“Yer goin’ out too far,” he eventually says. “It oughta be a rectangle, out to about there.”

Cinderella nods and steps to where he pointed. Strange that she doesn’t say anything, after being a chatterbox not too long ago. Well, she’ll soon be talking again, that’s for sure, once she starts sweatin’ and gettin’ blisters on her delicate hands, and then he’ll never hear the end of it.

But if her hands pain her, she doesn’t mention them. She continues to dig under the Dwarf’s direction. Soon she is red in the face, and she’s breathing loud enough to wake the dead, but she doesn’t complain.

Though the sun is at its zenith, the Dwarf’ll be damned if he takes a break before the job is finished. He expects the girl to give up any minute, because even when the digging is done, they still have to drag the bodies, then lay ‘em out and burn ‘em up. It’s certainly not women’s work, and she was the one who mentioned eatin’ and drinkin’, so she’s probably hungry, herself.

Still, although she wipes her brow and ties her hair back in a kerchief, the girl shows no sign of slowing down.

Eventually, the silent treatment gets to him. The Dwarf tugs at his beard and says, “I’m lookin’ fer someone. That’s what I’m doing.”

Cinderella keeps her smile to herself. She nods tersely and continues digging. “I hope you find them.”

“It ain’t you,” the Dwarf adds quickly, and he steals a look at the girl to see if she is listening. She doesn’t appear to be paying attention to anything other than the dirt. Of course, why should she respect one of her elders when they’re trying to tell her something?

“I’m lookin’,” he pauses dramatically, since dramatics seem to be the only way to get this silly girl to listen, “fer a prince.”

Chapter Thirteen

2009-04-19T00:24:00.003-04:00

Imagine waking up to discover your family has disappeared. You are always the first one awake (there is always much too much work to be done), but as you descend the spiral stairs from your tiny attic room, you notice the silence of the house.

First, the absence of your sisters’ tell-tale snoring. Even stranger, the mantelpiece clock isn’t ticking. You scold yourself for forgetting to wind it the night before, but then you realize it’s missing.

Your heart skips a beat as you realize you’ve been robbed – not only is the clock gone, but so is the portrait over the mantle, the one of Great-Uncle Louis.

You rush to your stepmother’s door, knowing you’ll be punished for waking her before dawn, but you are more concerned with the safety of your home than your own well-being. You knock and knock, but there is no response – not terribly surprising, as your stepmother is a deep sleeper. After a few seconds of inner debate, you walk inside the master bedroom.

And it is empty. The bed has been inexpertly made, but your stepmother is gone. You wonder to yourself if she’s been kidnapped, but doubt that most kidnappers would not clean up after themselves.

Then you notice the note on the pillow. After reading it, you sit on that great down-filled bed, and put your head in your hands. Your family has left. “On holiday,” the note says, though with no description of where or when they will return. It is written unmistakably in your stepmother’s tiny, perfect handwriting, and makes no mention of why certain items were taken.

Even the cat is gone.

You are used to being abandoned, but it never ceases to hurt any less each time it occurs. You try, try very hard, to get your family to love you, but there is something you must be doing wrong, because you’ve never succeeded.

They could've woken you, though. You would have at least made them some food for their journey.

Imagine that time passes, and the times get worse, and the rumors become facts. You watch families load up their wagons and coaches, while others run away with bindles on their backs. You think it is best to keep the windows shuttered.

You long to follow their lead, but you have nowhere to go. And besides, you have been told to watch over the chateau in your family’s absence.

Imagine that times get worse, and after one final night of screaming and fire, you are alone.

You no longer go downstairs. You’ve left much of the furniture jammed about the narrow staircase, in the event any of them try to climb up. But as near as you can tell - and you keep constant watch from your attic window - none of them have tried to break into your home.

You spend a day busily sewing, and then hang a brightly colored pennant from your window. On a field of red is the unmistakable white-lettered word “ALIVE.” It goes unnoticed by the eyes of the dead.

You drink rainwater. Your few animal friends bring you food – berries and bits of stale bread – and you gratefully invite them to stay in your small, cramped room. It’s good to no longer be so alone, and sometimes you even think you can understand their chirping and chattering.

They no longer mention any sign of the king’s soldiers and the king’s men coming to put things aright. Some of the dead wear armor, they say. A few even ride half-eaten horses.

As the weeks go by, occasionally a bird or mouse sets off for food and doesn't come back. You hope they might’ve found a better shelter, but it’s hard to believe. Privately, you weep.

Imagine that their numbers dwindle, slowly, painfully, until you are alone once more for too, too long.

Then one day, from the loneliness of your attic window, you hear a voice, the first voice you’ve heard in months, ever since the screaming stopped. A scratchy, self-assured voice, warning you to remain indoors for the time being. You call back, but you doubt your own voice can carry that far.

And then, finally, that voice says it is safe to come out. Your town has been cleansed of the dead.

Imagine, then, if you were Cinderella. Wouldn’t you leave the safety of your attic, and go, cautiously, to investigate?

Chapter Twelve

2009-04-15T12:13:00.002-04:00

As he watches his brother return to life, the third little pig wonders if he is going mad.

A sound heralds this hideous resurrection – the eternal scratch-scratch-scratch at the front door. This is the youngest pig, the one who no longer sleeps or rests. The one that is dead, but still hungers.

For how many days has the pig of brick been trapped in his home? How long did it take for his brother, the pig of sticks, to grow weaker and weaker and finally, feverishly, die? He no longer trusts the accuracy of the tally marks on his wall. There is no light to tell the time; the sun and the moon and the stars have been blocked out by the bricked-up windows.

And now the burial shroud begins to twitch. The pig of sticks returns from death. There is a scratch at the door and a twitch from the shroud and a squeal from the pig of brick. The sound must have excited his brother outside, for the scratching grows more frantic.

The pig of brick whimpers something unintelligible, his voice rusty from days, perhaps weeks, of silence. His brother’s passing had been a cold, lonely, painful ordeal. To lose even that is to lose the final semblance of stability in this house, this lightless tomb.

Like a newborn learning to move, the pig of sticks struggles out of his shroud. He falls from the bed, soundless and peaceful, and crawls in the darkness toward the warm, living flesh of his brother. He does not recognize the sound of his own name, nor is he moved by the pleas and tears.

A dead brother scratches outside and a dead brother crawls inside, and there is nowhere to run. Despite living in a land full of wolves and other treacherous creatures, the pig of brick was always a pacifist at heart. There are no weapons in his house - he’d always fought with his wits. But what good are they when he is going mad?

For the first time, he flees. How many times had his brothers done the same? His house of brick had always been the last refuge, the safe haven from the big bad wolves of the world. But now that world, that story, is over.

Down into the cellar he runs, the pig of sticks clumsily bumping down the stairs after him. No matter how much the pig of brick begs and pleads and cries, his brother doesn’t understand.

The pig of brick stumbles over something in the darkness – a small spade. Practical to the end, he’d planned to bury his brother in the soft earth of the cellar, before the shroud began to twitch. And he realizes he may not have weapons, but he does have tools.

It is a horrible thing to take another’s life. It’s a nightmare when it’s someone you love. And his poor brother, the pig of sticks, so carefree and laughing in life, so weak and grateful on his sickbed, so undignified and lost in death, looks up at the spade but does not flinch away.

Again and again falls the iron head of the spade. The shadows hide his brother’s patient face, and the pig of brick tries to tell himself he’s just splitting wood. It doesn’t work. He keeps his eyes and mouth clenched shut as specks of liquid splash onto his snout, and wonders if he is going mad.

Chapter Eleven

2009-04-08T14:05:00.003-04:00

The Wildlands are awash with noise.

The animals shout over one another, roaring and growling and hissing and snarling. A few yards from Council Rock, a cackle of hyenas snicker amongst themselves, amused by the din. They realize they are adding to the problem, and laugh even harder.

Only one lion remains silent. He watches the proceedings from afar with half-lidded, contemptuous eyes. "Let them bicker," he bitterly muses to himself. Real leadership, he knows, is understated.

Finally, Hathi, the chief of the elephants, trumpets a powerful, angry blast that carries on for several seconds. It surprises them all, even Shere Khan, into silence, until only the echo lives on.

"We must retreat!" says the elephant.

Shere Khan hisses in disgust. "We must fight!"

Hathi looks down at the great tiger; he is one of the few in the Wildlands who is not threatened by the striped killer. "You saw what happens when we fight them. We add to their ranks, make them stronger!"

"We cannot leave the Wildlands," says the King of the Lions. He knows all too well what happens when one abandons one’s home. "This is our land, not theirs. And where would we go? Through the Doorway? To the Land of Men?"

This slight does not go unnoticed by the gorillas. They grunt their displeasure, and the Man, their leader, calmly stalks forward. The animals murmur as he walks past, but they do so quietly.

"As Hathi has said,” says the Man in his low voice, “we've seen what happens when we fight the invaders." He turns from the Council and looks into the eyes of the other animals: wolves, apes, bears, lions, warthogs.

"One bite, one scratch is as deadly as the cobra's venom. If we could, I would suggest that we fight them above, from the trees…"

The hyenas giggle, but the Man ignores them.

"But already the Bandar-log and their king have been taken into their fold, and even in death, they are unsurpassed in climbing."

"They must have a weakness we can exploit," says the King of the Lions.

"Bah!" hisses Shere Khan. "Their weakness is that they are weak. One swipe of my claw, they will fall." He slashes at a nearby tree, leaving white, moist, deep gashes in the bark.

"There is no need for dramatics, Khan," says Hathi in a condescending tone. "They do not die like normal, good animals. They will fight on, even though their spines be trampled and their bodies torn limb from limb."

"There must be some weakness…" repeats the King of the Lions.

Unnoticed by all, the bitter lion fades back into the darkness of the jungle.

"Weakness or not, is it worth risking all of our lives?" The elephant looks around at the cluster of animals, particularly the young. "Those who can defend the Wildlands will do so, but those who cannot, we mustn't ask them to waste their lives in suicide."

The cluster shouts back – many are too proud to give up their land, or at least do not want to be seen as weak. Others bark and howl in agreement with Hathi.

Absent from the noise is the raucous laughter of the hyenas. They, too, have abandoned Council Rock.

Off to the side, one small voice in the crowd does not concern itself with the squabbling of the Council. He tugs at the paw of the sleepy gray bear. "Baloo?"

Baloo looks at the man cub. "What is it, Mowgli?"

"What about red fire?"

"What about it?"

"Maybe the invaders would fear red fire. Everything fears red fire."

Baloo thinks about it for a moment, then slowly smiles.

Chapter Ten

2009-04-05T10:06:00.003-04:00

Another lifeless village.

The Dwarf hefts himself up the side of a house, grumbling all the while. His short, stumpy physique is not suited for climbing, but after much jumping, stretching, and even some cursing, he finally lifts himself onto the roof.

He bends down and reaches for a weapon that leans against the house's wall. It's a long, stout pole, topped by a sinister combination of axe-head and spear-point. A comically large weapon for such a little man, he knows, but it gets the job done.

After a look down the streets - they’re coming - he grunts to himself, spits onto the ground, and removes a whetstone from the leather bag slung across his side.

He scrapes the stone across the spear, sharpening it to a fine razor point, and then bellows, seemingly to no one, "Stay inside!"

The echoes of his raspy voice bounce about the abandoned streets before fading into silence. His keen ears hear a familiar rustling from inside some of the buildings. More have heard him. They’re coming.

"Stay inside!" the Dwarf calls again, almost musically, holding each word for several seconds.

"Stay inside, dag-blast it!" he shouts. More rustling, more bodies walking through the streets.

He learned to give warning several towns ago when a few survivors, drawn by the sounds of battle, had emerged from the safety of their barricaded cathedral, only to get caught by the also-curious undead.

The Dwarf repeats his call as the wretched creatures approach. Though the spear is not sharp enough for his satisfaction, it’ll have to do.

They’re here.

They glare at him balefully, raise their arms helplessly. They cannot climb onto the roof, but will stand there flailing against the wall until doomsday unless something is done about them.

So that's what he does.

Lifting the halberd, adjusting his hands so the weight is properly balanced, he jabs it forward at the closest one’s head. It doesn't defend itself, it doesn't try to dodge, it simply dies and crumples to the floor.

It’s easy, repetitive work, like digging for jewels in a mine. Gonna leave him sore at the end of the day, that’s for sure. He whistles a tuneless song while waiting for the next one, then stabs again. Before any of them can snatch at the weapon, he’s already pulled it out of reach.

The work doesn't require much thought, so the Dwarf’s mind wanders to criticizing the defenses of this storybook town. Sure, it’s pretty, but at what price? A small, low wall – to protect them from what? Dogs? The gate left open. Thin wooden doors on all the houses. It's no wonder they were caught so helpless and unawares.

Though his people don’t talk about it (this Dwarf most of all), they share their home under the mountain with all manner of dark things, hungry things. The Dwarven race is cautious, prudent, prepared. The big people could've learned a thing or two about defense from their earth-dwelling cousins, but did they? Of course not. Bah. The Dwarf spits again before skewering a fat man’s skull. Disgraceful.

He stabs and stabs. The halberd is a silly weapon, but damned if it isn't effective against these things. They just stand there, reaching like hungry babies, waiting to get killed. Though with his luck, too many will come, and they'll soon start climbing over the bodies of the fallen. Then he'll have to jump off the other side of the roof and scramble for a new location.

He's prepared for that, of course - he scouted out his escape route beforehand. Wouldn't want to get cornered, like he did two villages ago.

What a waste.

Stab, stab, stab.

Then, after all this is done, he's still got to take care of the bodies. ‘Cause if he doesn’t, who will?

That’s another thing. The Dwarf shakes his head at the foolishness of the big people, not only leaving themselves so vulnerable, but then turning tail and fleeing so readily. Leaving him to clean up their mess.

Ought to bury them, he knows, but it’s safer to build a pyre and let ‘em all burn before heading on to the next town. Wouldn’t do him any good if they came back a third time, and who knows what’d happen to any hungry animal that dug up the bodies?

Plus, the person he’s looking for might see the smoke.

Stab, stab, done.

The streets are empty. No more coming, just the big, stinking pile in front of him. The Dwarf waits another moment, regains his breath, and then cries in his hoarse tenor, "Yer town is clean! Y'can come out now! It's safe!"

He doesn't expect a response, much less any gratitude. Even if someone’s still alive, they’re usually too scared or weak to do anything, or their homes are too strongly barricaded.

Doesn’t matter. He’s still got a job to do. After tossing down his halberd, the Dwarf scrambles down from the roof. Then, taking the tinderbox from his satchel, he gets to work, still whistling.

Chapter Nine

2009-04-01T10:14:00.003-04:00

The carriage stops, and the Stepmother irritably knocks on the small wooden panel that separates her from the dusty outside. It slides open immediately, and the driver peeks through with fearful eyes. He knows she will be angry.

“What’s going on? Why have we stopped?” she demands. The Castle of the Door is clearly in sight. Her two daughters have been clamoring about it since they cleared the last hill.

"It's the castle, mum,” says the driver.

"What of it?"

"Don't you see?"

The Stepmother gestures at him to move aside and peers through the panel. The castle appears the same as it always has, sound and solid for generations.

"No, I don't see, you insufferable…" and then she stops short, for she does see.

The drawbridge has been raised.

"What? Why?" is all she can say. In her entire life, and the life of her long and illustrious line, the drawbridge to Castle of the Door has never been raised.

Day or night, storm or fair weather, peace or strife, the Castle has been a haven to all. She had never even known it could be pulled up, to be perfectly honest, but now the Castle has been sealed.

"I don't know, mum," says the driver.

"I'm not asking you. Go and find out." She slides the panel shut with a thin bang. The carriage jostles as the driver disembarks, and the Stepmother moves aside the window curtain to observe.

She hopes the annoyed scowl on her face doesn't betray any of her concern. The long ride had been a safe one - if any of those things had followed them, they were too slow to keep up - but she doesn't like being stranded in the open like this.

Her daughters begin babbling and asking questions, but she dismisses them with a curt "Silence.”

She can hear the driver speaking, and someone from the castle answers, so that's a good sign. Perhaps they are just taking precautions. Fair enough. She’d done the same.

The persistent rumors of the past month had made her skin prickle, and so, early one morning, she woke her two daughters, told them to quickly and lightly pack, and they left the village. Just she and her daughters, the cat, of course, and a small chest of valuables.

If the rumors ended up being nothing more than the talk of superstitious commoners, then the girl could manage the manor in their absence, and the rest would enjoy a small holiday in the Lands Beyond.

But if the stories were true, if the Castle of the North had fallen… well, though it would pain her dearly, she'd only brought along the things she couldn't possibly live without.

The driver begins walking back to the coach, and the Stepmother notes with equal parts alarm and annoyance that the drawbridge hasn’t lowered. She generously allows him to return to his seat before pulling the panel open again.

"What did they say?" she demands.

"They… they won't let us in, mum. Not unless we pay a toll."

"A what? But this is the Castle of the Door! Passage has always been open to all, even peasants."

"I know that, mum," sweats the driver. He looks back down the road from where they came. "But I don't think we should argue with them, mum. I think we should pay."

"I don’t pay you to think.” The Stepmother’s voice is icy calm. “And I most certainly will not. We do not answer to thugs like these. Who are they, anyway?"

"It’s the Sheriff and his men, mum. The Sheriff of Nottingham."

"That worthless, fat…"

"Mum," interrupts the driver, something he would never, ever do, and the shock of it actually silences the Stepmother.

"I think we should pay them."

There's something about his voice that makes her listen, makes her realize that the driver is preoccupied with something more painful than his mistress's wrath.

She follows his gaze and looks behind her.

They are coming. Two of them. A fox dressed in a frayed and soiled suit, and a cat wearing the rags of a beggar. Just two, but where there are two, there are more. They're cresting the hill, still far enough away… but where would the carriage go, otherwise?

Her youngest daughter has also looked out the window. "Mother," she says in a shrill voice, "we've got to get out of here."

"I know, child," says the Stepmother, less sharply than she’d intended.

She thinks for a moment, then speaks through the panel. "Very well. How much do they want?"

"Well…" The driver hesitates, swallows, and takes a quick breath. "Everything, mum. They want everything."