by Lou Anders
“We will go back,” said Midnight. “Just after we’ve put my Plan into effect. And, anyway, the Silent Stones are why we’re out here.”
Now, Dear Reader, I’m betting you don’t know what the Silent Stones are. That’s okay. Don’t feel bad. No human has ever seen them. At least, not for a long, long time. Not since they were called the Singing Stones, and you weren’t around back then. You’ll learn more about them later. For now, just know that they are a big circle of stones, and that Wicked Fairies and Wicked Fairy Creatures don’t like coming close to them. So at night, when the Wicked Fairies and the Wicked Fairy Creatures are at their worst, the herd of night mares sleeps in the circle of the Silent Stones. And they never, never leave them until the dim light that passes for morning in the Whisperwood comes worming its way through the twisted branches overhead.
Which is why Vision was frightened and Midnight was very, very foolish.
But if she wasn’t being foolish, well, then nothing was ever going to change.
And things needed to change. So keep reading.
And stop interrupting.
Because in all the time we’ve been talking Midnight and Vision have wandered very far from the stones indeed. And something has wandered after them.
Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle, went the noise again. This time to their left.
“What’s that?” said Vision.
“It’s a noise,” said Midnight. And she wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t exactly right.
“Yes, I know it’s a noise,” snapped Vision. “I mean what made the noise?”
“Something,” said Midnight. “Something made the noise. But we’re after something else.”
“But it could be dangerous,” said Vision. “Aren’t you even curious what it is?”
“I am not curious,” said Midnight. “I do not have time to be curious. I am on a mission because I have a Plan.”
“Which you won’t tell me. Because I’ll talk you out of it.”
“Because it will spoil the—”
“Surprise!” cried a voice from the trees.
Suddenly, a thick and sticky spiderweb, like the biggest spiderweb you never saw, fell from above and landed on Vision.
Vision cried out, but she was trapped like a fat fly. Like a horse fly, I suppose you could say.
You could say that, but please don’t. That’s a very bad pun. And it’s in poor taste to pun when someone is in danger.
Meanwhile, Vision was thrashing and bashing, but she was stuck fast.
Midnight looked up in the branches, and there she saw a nasty fairy. It was a sprider. A sort of sprite spider. About the size of a small dog. But nothing like a dog at all, unless of course the dog had eight hairy limbs, wicked teeth, too many eyes, and could shoot webbing from its bottom. Who’d want a dog like that?
“Help, help!” cried Vision.
Midnight snorted. Both because Vision wasn’t being brave and because a single sprider was just a nuisance. Not a serious danger.
And also because Midnight was summoning her fire.
A big gout of red flame belched from Midnight’s mouth. The fire struck the sprider web and burned it up. The flame raced up the webbing and burned the fairy monster on its bottom.
It yelped and leapt higher into the branches.
Scuttle…scuttle…scuttle…They could hear it racing away.
“See,” said Midnight. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry about?” said Vision. “I was very nearly dinner.”
“You weren’t,” said Midnight. “And anyway, I think spriders are nocturnal. So you would have been more like breakfast.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” said Vision. “I don’t want to be anyone’s breakfast or dinner. I don’t want to be out here after dark at all.”
“I’m sorry,” said Midnight. “But this really is important.”
“I know, the Plan.”
“You don’t know the Plan,” said Midnight. “Only I know the Plan.”
“No, what I mean is—”
“There it is!” yelled Midnight in excitement. “Look.”
Vision looked and saw a weird, wispy, glowing blue light shining some distance away through the woods. It was almost too far to see. Almost. But not quite. Midnight couldn’t be after one of those, could she?
She could!
“Don’t let it get away!” yelled Midnight.
“Wait,” Vision said. But Midnight didn’t wait. She took off.
Vision watched her go for a moment. Then she ran after her friend. Chasing after Midnight was better than being alone in the Whisperwood at night.
But she wasn’t alone.
There was a pumpkin patch just a few paces from them. And in the patch was a pumpkin, just as you might expect. But there was one thing about it you wouldn’t expect.
The pumpkin was watching the night mares.
Watching? How could a pumpkin do that?
How could a pumpkin do anything?
This one could. This one did.
Now, are you curious yet?
Being curious can make life difficult.
Or rather, being Curious can make life difficult.
Certainly, being with Curious could be difficult.
What do I mean?
You’ve guessed it, right? The Curious I’m talking about is a somebody.
And not just anybody.
Curious was a unicorn.
Curious was a yearling. Just like Midnight. And Curious was always curious. Always. And by always I mean always.
As far as I know, he’s the only unicorn in the herd who ever was.
Oh, unicorns could be a lot of things. Unicorns could be noble. Dignified. Glorious. They could be majestic. And all of them from the littlest filly or colt to the biggest mare or stallion thought very highly of themselves. Oh, yes, they did.
But one thing they weren’t, they weren’t curious. Why would they be?
When you know you’re the best, you don’t worry overmuch about the rest.
So they were never curious.
But Curious made up for it by being curious enough for all of them. By being the most curious unicorn ever.
And did they appreciate it?
Oh, no.
Quite the opposite. They didn’t care for his curiosity one bit. In fact, they’d really prefer it if he wasn’t curious at all. Because curiosity was always getting Curious into mischief. And upsetting the herd.
Like the time when Curious tried to trap a gigglepuss to see how its laugh-inducing purr actually worked. But then he accidentally-on-purpose sort of set it loose during the fairy queen’s summer festival. The fuzzy, furry, funny thing ran purring right down the middle of the big parade, its tickly whiskers swiping all the unicorns’ legs. And all the stone-faced unicorns had started snickering. Then giggling. Then laughing uncontrollably. Then they were falling out of line and rolling on the ground, hooting with their hooves in the air. You should have seen it! It was ignoble. Undignified. Inglorious. It was very definitely not majestic. And it made the fairies think very poorly of the unicorns.
The herd had never been so embarrassed. The whole parade was ruined. Oh, the queen had been upset! She’d made it rain on them for a week! A whole week of being wet and miserable without any sunshine. And it was all Curious’s fault.
Then there was the time Curious wondered about fairy doors and what was on the other side. You know about fairy doors, right? Tiny little doorways. They pop up in the trunks of very old trees or under certain rocks. You see them in the stems of mushrooms. Or shimmering in the broken gate of an old wooden fence. If you’ve ever glanced through one, then you know what they are. They’re passageways, secret corridors from our world to Elsewhither, the land all fairies come from originally.
&
nbsp; Well, Curious wanted to see that land. He wanted a view of Elsewhither with its so-green hills and its so-blue skies. He wanted to know how much greener and bluer things could be there than here. So he crouched down as low as he could and peered into a door that had materialized in a tree stump for a good glimpse of Elsewhither. Only he couldn’t see very well, so he decided to stick his head in. But what you stick might get stuck. And wouldn’t you know it, he got his head stuck. For a whole day. And part of a night.
You’d think he wouldn’t be curious anymore after that, but you’d be wrong. He was as curious as ever.
“Oh, Curious,” the rest of the unicorns said, “why do you have to be so curious?”
But Curious couldn’t be any other way.
His friend Grace, however, could do without being curious.
Grace was just about Curious’s age. She had a star-shaped marking on her forehead, right where her very large horn grew. But other than that, she was very typical for a unicorn. She was every bit as pretty and vapid as the rest of them. In fact, the only thing atypical about her was that she was out in the dark with Curious at night, instead of being curled up asleep inside the fairy ring in the glen in the middle of the Willowood with the rest of the herd. And she didn’t know what she was doing there.
“It’s okay,” Curious assured her. “I know what I am doing.”
“You always say that,” said Grace.
“You do,” said Wartle. “You always do.”
“That’s because I always know,” said Curious.
“He does,” said Wartle. “He always does.”
“But why did you drag me out here with you?” said Grace.
“I know why he dragged me,” said Wartle. “I know, I know.”
Wait a minute, you’re thinking. Wartle? What’s a Wartle?
Well, it’s not a wart-turtle, that’s for sure.
And, obviously, it’s not a unicorn. Not with a name like that. Unicorns have names like Sparkle, and Shimmer, and Radiance, and Glory, and Summersunshine, and Starlight Gl—Well, anyway, they don’t have names like Wartle.
Wartle is definitely not a name for a unicorn.
It’s definitely a name for a puckle.
Which is good, because Wartle was a puckle.
And puckles, my friend, are a nuisance. A bothersome nuisance. A blithering nuisance.
Those hairy little fairies get their noses into everything. And if they think it’s shiny, they’ll take it. If they think it’s tasty, they’ll eat it. If they think it’s funny, they’ll laugh at it. They’re furry and smelly. They pick their nostrils and don’t wash their hands after. They leave grubby little paw prints on your best tea sets, on the polished banisters of your palace, and on the gleaming glass of all your magic mirrors.
Puckles weren’t evil. They weren’t Wicked Fairies, but it was also hard to call them Good Fairies. The queen called them pests. Bothersome ill-mannered little pests, said the queen. Grace agreed with her. So did most unicorns.
But Curious liked them. Or at least, Curious liked Wartle.
They had met that very day when he’d gotten his head stuck in the fairy door.
Wartle had planned to come through that door to visit the Glistening Isles, and he had to wait a day and part of a night to do so. But he’d kept Curious company while Grace had run off for help. Curious had wanted to know about how there were little doors for little fairies and big doors for big fairies, and how most of the big doors were shut and most of the little doors were open. He was fascinated. And he asked all kinds of questions. Wartle had never had anyone ask him anything. In fact, he’d never before met anyone who wanted to listen to him at all. So they had talked and talked. And they had been friends ever since.
Now you might wonder, what does a unicorn get out of being friends with a puckle, and what does a puckle get from being friends with a unicorn?
For Wartle, Curious would sneak him out occasional marshmallows from the queen’s palace. The queen’s occasional marshmallows were the best marshmallows in the world.
And for Curious, one thing about Wartle that wasn’t a nuisance was that the little hairy guy had…
“Hands,” said Wartle. “I’m here because Curious needs my hands.”
He held up his little pink paws and wiggled his fingers.
Grace blew a skeptical blast of air from her nostrils.
“You could never run a mile on those,” she said. “Anyway, I really don’t know why anyone would want hands when they could have hooves.”
“Yeah?” said Wartle. “Try picking up one of these, then.”
And with that, he reached in his little red jerkin, the one with the shiny black buttons that he always wore, and he pulled out a sparkling purple roundish gem.
Grace was so startled she whinnied.
“Curious!” she shouted. “Is that one of the queen’s Absorbing Orbs?”
“Umm,” replied Curious. “Will you be upset if I tell you that it is?”
“Upset?” yelled Grace. “Absolutely I’ll be upset.”
“I’ll be sure not to tell you that, then,” said Curious.
Grace whinnied again in frustration.
“You know the Orbs are off-limits! We’re not supposed to touch them.”
“He’s not touching them,” said Wartle. “I am. Hands, see?”
But Grace wasn’t listening to the puckle.
“Oh, Curious,” she said, “why do you have to be so curious?”
(I don’t know the answer to that question either.)
“Look, I only borrowed it,” Curious explained. “I need it for my Grand Experiment.”
“What do you need to do grand experiments for?” said Grace. “Why do you have to go question everything? Isn’t it enough that the sun is always shining and the grass is always green? Why do you have to go asking why?”
“Because I want to understand,” said Curious.
“What’s to understand?” said Grace. “It’s the queen’s magic, is all.”
“Yes, but how does it work?”
“That’s simple,” said Grace. “Magic works by magic.”
“By magic,” repeated Wartle, bobbing his head.
“Yes, but how does it work?”
“I just told you. Magic works by magic! So now you know. Can we please go home?”
“No,” said Curious. “Not until I’ve got what I need for my Experiment.”
“And what is that?”
“Something rare,” said Curious. “Something…there!” He indicated with his muzzle.
Grace looked and saw a weird, wispy glowing blue light shining some distance away through the woods. It seemed to be hovering in the air. It was almost too far to see. Almost.
“Wait,” she said. “That’s a wispy wood wink, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Curious.
“What’s it doing outside the Whisperwood?”
“I don’t know,” said Curious.
“They never come this far into the queen’s territory.”
“I know,” said Curious. “But Harmonyhoof said she saw one last night, and there it is.”
“Oh, I get it! I get it!” said Wartle. “That’s what the Absorbing Orb is for. The fairy queen uses it to store light for the night, and you’re going to use it to trap a wispy wood wink so you can study it!”
“Exactly,” said Curious. He gave Wartle the sort of approving nod a teacher might give a bright student.
“Why would you want to study it?” asked Grace.
“I want to know why it’s blue.”
“Because it’s magic,” said Grace. “That’s why.”
Curious sighed and explained. “Not all magic is blue,” he said. “The queen’s magic is more purply. The Wicked Fairy magic is black. When our horns heal a hurt, the
y glow golden. And a night mare’s fires burn orange and red.”
“Magic comes in a rainbow of colors. So what?” said Grace.
“So I want to know why,” said Curious.
“But, Curious,” protested Grace. “Wispy wood winks are dangerous. They lead you astray.”
“I’ve never been to Astray,” said Wartle. “Is it nice?”
“They get you lost in the woods,” continued Grace. “And then they drown you in the bogs.”
“Bogs?” said Wartle.
“That’s only because they charm you,” said Curious. “But I am immune to being charmed.”
“Why are you immune?” asked Grace.
“I am immune because I have a Scientific Mind. And scientists all know how to keep themselves detached. I don’t want to look at their pretty color. I want to study them objectively. Therefore, I cannot be charmed.”
“I don’t know,” said Grace. “That doesn’t sound very accurate.”
“You don’t understand because you are not a scientist,” said Curious. “But don’t fear. I am. And I know what I am doing.”
“You always say that,” said Grace.
“You do,” said Wartle. “You always do.”
Fortunately, before Curious, Grace, and Wartle could be trapped in a circular conversation, the wispy wood wink bobbed in the air and retreated.
“Quickly,” said Curious. “After it.”
Wartle leapt onto his back, and Curious took off at a gallop, chasing the wood wink.
“Wait! Wait!” shouted Grace as she ran after him.
“Science doesn’t wait!” Curious replied.
Grace did not have a Scientific Mind, so she couldn’t argue the point, but she did have an unerring sense of when Curious was heading for trouble. She galloped after him.
When she caught up with him, he had stopped. That was because the wispy wood wink had stopped too.
Grace felt the pull from its strange mesmerizing light. She turned her eyes away.
“Don’t look at it,” she advised him.
“It’s okay, Grace,” said Curious. “I have my detachment, and I won’t be affected, not at all, not a bit…even if the wispy wood wink is…fascinating…mesmerizing…and…pretty.”
