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.”
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Chapter Thirty-Five
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.
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.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Chapter Thirty-Four
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Chapter Thirty-Three
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.
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.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Chapter Thirty-Two
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.”
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.”
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Chapter Thirty-One
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.
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.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Chapter Thirty
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.
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.
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