Chapter Twenty-Two

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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.