by N. D. Wilson
“You stopped stealing?” Penelope asked. Frank glanced at her. She sounded hopeful.
“They stopped catching me.” He kicked the little saplings. “But they found lots of trees.”
“What are you doing?” Frank asked. “Won’t you need your clothes?”
Voices echoed above them. Feet descending ladders. Monmouth turned and scrambled quickly down the walkway between the slaves, spotted an empty seat on the top tier of oarsmen, and clambered up like a furless monkey. Then he hunched over an invisible oar. The slaves around him straightened, looked at him, and then watched the ladders, confused.
The masters descended.
“Sleep,” Frank whispered. “We’re all asleep.”
“Two days with this wind,” one of the oar masters said. “And then the channel and the lovelies of Dumarre.”
“Not for you,” said another. “They’d as soon look at a three-legged goat.”
Four men with wool in their noses stepped in front of Frank, all with their backs to him, swaying with the creaking rise and fall of the ship.
“We’ll be weeks in the harbor, and that means weeks in the inns. Captain wants to sell off this lot at a seasoned price and bring in fresh backs. Never liked mastering new meat. They’re all weepers, begging to tell you of their mothers or wee things back home. It takes a few moons before they’ve hardened silent.”
“It’s not the weeping I mind,” said the first man, twisting his whip. “It’s the dying and the crabbing oars. Half lost in the first week.”
“We’ll fatten plenty of gulls and beasties, right enough,” said another. He looked back over his shoulder, then looked away. After a moment, he tapped the man beside him, and they both turned. Frank watched them through his lashes, a bead of drool hanging off his lip.
One of them thumped the empty sack with his whip handle. Dust rained down. He looked at the floor. “Trees?” he asked.
The others scanned the hold nervously. Stepping forward, the largest of the masters uncurled his whip. “This’ll be joy to the captain. The little greenie loose and leaving his mark.”
Farther down the hold, a chain rattled. Then another. The masters shifted on their feet. The smallest turned and hurried to the ladder.
Henry sat at the dining room table. It was nice being out of the dim attic, being entirely out of Endor or any smell of Endor. Sunlight poured through the broken windows. The white curtains, brightened by the sun, stroked the breeze as it climbed into the room. The room echoed with the sound of water splashing down the stairs. The ceiling dripped.
He was wet, extremely wet, and so were Henrietta and Zeke, but he still kept his feet up off the floor, where sea-water rippled an inch deep. Beo had splashed around in it so madly that they had finally let the dog out the front door. That had calmed things. Henry struck his last match, lit a paper, and threw it onto the table in front of the others. It whitened and shrunk. Henrietta pulled her shortened curls straight and let go. They bounced back up to the top of her head.
“What is it?” she asked. “The sun?”
Zeke scratched his cheek and watched the paper soften and gray until only a rectangle of ash was left. The rectangle grabbed on to the breeze and rolled toward Henry, disintegrating as it went.
“It looks like the ball the old man had,” Zeke said. “The man who crawled out of the floor.”
Henry nodded. “The Blackstar. But why is the picture hidden in the papers? The faeries might be able to tell us. At least I hope so.”
“You think that picture is going to help us find it?” Henrietta asked.
Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. But the words mean something, and someone put them there for a reason.”
Zeke glanced at the seawater running across the floor and straightened, stretching his back side to side like he did before a pitch. “Your dad wants us to take these papers to the faeries?”
Henry braced his feet against the table legs and tipped back in his chair, brushing the ash off his lap and into the water. “Try for the Faerie Queene and then the Chestnut King. That’s what we do.”
“But we’re supposed to wait a day?” Henrietta asked. “Where? There’s no house. There’s nobody.”
“The Horned Horse,” Henry said. “We’re supposed to wait there. I don’t know where it is.”
“It’s on the square.” Again Henrietta pulled at her hair and felt it bounce. “Una took us. I don’t know where you were. Maybe playing baseball.”
Henry thumped his chair flat. “You don’t have to keep doing that. Pulling your hair. It’s not going to make it longer.”
Henrietta dropped her hand. “Do you realize how short I’m going to have to cut it now? It’s ridiculous. I’ve got these straggles on the sides and it’s super short on top.”
Zeke smiled. “Next time, Henry, try to cut it even.”
Henrietta snorted. “Next time, Henry, don’t cut it at all.”
“I’ll work on that,” Henry said. “I really will. How’s your neck?”
Henrietta turned around and lifted up her short hair. “It doesn’t hurt.”
Both Henry and Zeke leaned forward. A thin black scab ran across her neck where the sword’s edge had parted her skin. The skin itself, on both sides of the cut, was dry and flaking.
“I can’t believe you leaned back like that,” Henry said. “I thought you were dead.”
Henrietta dropped her hair and turned around.
“I’m glad you’re not,” Henry added.
“I’m glad I’m not,” she said. “Your turn, Zeke.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Zeke said.
“Ha.” Henrietta kicked him, and her foot splashed water beneath the table. She turned to Henry, and her face shifted serious, the smile gone from her eyes. “What did you mean when you said you were dead already? Why would you say that?”
Henry licked his lips. He leaned forward, braced his elbows on the table, and rubbed his eyebrows. His hands wanted to be somewhere else. They wanted to be scratching. His stomach burbled and tightened. Hunger, he decided. It was only hunger. He needed to eat something. He dropped his hands and looked in his cousin’s big eyes, set in her filthy face. He looked at Zeke. His friend was slouching in his chair with his arms crossed and his chin down.
The seawater stream burbled on the stairs. Outside, Beo shot past the window.
Henry pulled his ear and then let his hand drift down to his jaw. His fingernails picked at the dying skin. “My old burn scar is growing. Pretty fast.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Henrietta said. “I’m sure they can do something.”
“Who’s they?” Henry asked, studying the tabletop. “The witch’s blood got into me. I can fight it. My body can fight it. But nothing can stop it. My dad doesn’t know what to do. He said that he wouldn’t have survived as long as I have. Everything around the scar is dead and cold. Eventually it will reach my mind. It will shut me down. Who knows, maybe I’ll go crazy, and you’ll have to kill me. Maybe the witch will be able to control me. Maybe I’ll kill you.” He looked up. It was strange, letting his fear come out. Embarrassing. And it didn’t make him feel any better. “The fingerlings can find me anywhere because of it. The witch gets in my dreams.”
Henrietta’s eyes bounced around Henry’s face. Zeke looked up at the dripping ceiling.
“Well, then, who does know?” Her voice rose. “Someone has to. You can’t just let it kill you.”
“What do you think this has all been about?” Henry swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “My dad and Caleb were in Endor trying to find some way to kill the witch. If her blood wasn’t in me, they could just seal her up again. That’s why they weren’t in Hylfing when the soldiers came. That’s why everyone got tied up and taken away; that’s why the house burned. If they’d been there, instead of out trying to find some way to save me, then everything would be different. But right now, everything is pretty scrambled. I don’t even know where they are or what they’re doing.” Henry breathed slo
wly. “I don’t want to die, but if I had already, things would be better for everyone else.”
Zeke smacked his lips. “Nobody would be happier with you dead,” he said quietly.
“I know that much,” Henry said. “That’s the problem. My dad’s trying to keep me alive.”
“Shut up, Henry,” Henrietta said. She stood and crossed her arms. “Really, just shut up. I’m sorry about your face. I am. But I always thought boys liked scars. And if you’re still alive, then act like it. It’s not that hard to figure out what we have to do.”
Henry raised his eyebrows. “What?”
Henrietta gave her hair one tug and dropped her hands to her hips. “We kill the witch.”
Henry laughed, but Henrietta continued. “Where is she? When was the last time anyone tried? The FitzFaeren arrow worked on Darius. Why don’t we see if we can borrow it?”
“It’s not the same—”
“I don’t care if it’s the same!” Henrietta yelled. Henry ducked his head and ran his hands through his hair. “We have to try, and we have to try everything! Can we poison her? Can we steal a bomb and bring it through the cupboards? Can we burn her? Does she melt?”
Zeke laughed. “Maybe she has a ring. All we need is a hobbit and a volcano.”
Henrietta pointed at him. “Don’t make fun. Henry’s giving up, and he can’t give up. Not ever.”
Zeke held up his hands. “I wasn’t making fun of anything.”
“I’m not giving—”
“Shut up, Henry. I’m not finished. If I were you, I wouldn’t be all mopey. My family got tied up, too, and I can’t flame up my hand or turn knives into dandelion ninja stars.”
“Henrietta,” Henry said. “If I admit that you’re better than me, will you stop?”
“I’m not better than you,” she said. Her eyes shone, and she blinked the moisture quickly away. “That’s the whole point. I’m not. I’d have been dead a long time ago if it weren’t for you. So why don’t you start acting like it.”
Zeke stood up. “I think we’re all hungry.” He slapped Henry on the back of the head. “And Henrietta’s right. You got this, Henry. You always have. I thought we were dead on that bell tower. I thought we were dead when the fingerling jumped through the library window. I thought we were dead in the crypt. That’s three times wrong. This witch can’t hit your heater.” He smiled. “Keep it coming. Down the pipe. Straight fire.”
Henry pushed his chair back and splashed his feet down in the water. “They don’t die. But I do.”
Henrietta stepped over beside Henry. “Yeah, well, if you die, do it trying. I don’t think the rest of us will be too far behind.”
“Who’s depressing now?” Henry asked.
Henrietta slapped his butt. “Atta babe,” she said. Zeke burst out laughing. Henry stared blankly at them both, and then, carrying Coradin’s sword in its black sheath, he splashed through the water into the kitchen and stopped by the back door.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “We’ll just grab some food, and then we’re off to Hylfing. We can sleep there while we wait.”
“Henry York’s got the heat,” Henrietta said. “H-baby. Hot Yorkie. Comin’ for ya with the Henry Monster.”
“Henrietta,” said Henry. “You need to stop now.”
“The Henry Monster?” Zeke asked.
Henry turned the knob.
“Maccabee, Maccababe.” Henrietta laughed, while her cousin opened the door. “No one hits the Maccababy.”
Freckles stood nervously beside his stepfather. He’d had plenty of discussions with policemen in the past, but he liked it this way better.
He had swiped his stepfather’s video camera and set it up beside the hole. Then his stepfather had tracked him down, and at first he hadn’t been happy. In fact, he’d been extremely unhappy, more so about his camera and tripod being used than the cigarette that Freckles had been smoking.
And then the water had started. A trickle at first, and then a mini-waterfall a little more than two feet wide. The water spilled out of the empty air just inches above the edge of the hole and tumbled down its side. His stepfather had tasted it and declared it salty. They’d trained the camera on the water, and then they had both stood, side by side, mesmerized. Truthfully, it was the first moment the two of them had shared.
When the policeman came, he’d been angry, yelling about trespassin’ and danger. But then he saw the water.
“Chiggers and ticks,” he’d said, and he watched it with them. After a while, he ran his hand through the air above and behind it. And then he had asked for a copy of the tape. His wife, apparently, had been making fun of him for his firm belief in a paranormal explanation of The Willis Disappearance, as the town of Henry now called it. A few people in the barbershop had been calling it The Willis Abduction.
After a while, the water level in the hole was noticeably higher, and the radio on the cop’s hip began to crackle.
He ignored it. He didn’t want to miss a single salty drop.
And that was when the doorway opened in the air. More water slopped out of its base, but no one was looking at the base. Three humanoid figures stood in the sky door. One appeared to be gripping a weapon. They were laughing. Cackling almost. A high female voice, lilting, almost singsongy, issued a proclamation.
“No one hits the Maccababy.”
The door slammed. The air returned to its normal shape beneath the Kansas sky. The water trickled on. The policeman lunged forward and waved his arms through the space.
“Sir!” said Freckles, pointing down, jiggling his arm. “Sir!”
Where the water appeared, a corner of parchment now dangled. The policeman gripped it carefully and pulled it out of nowhere. One corner had been burned away, but otherwise the dripping yellow page seemed fine. Its ink hadn’t even run.
“It’s alien,” the policeman said.
Henrietta snorted with one hand clamped over her mouth.
“Was that a video camera?” Zeke asked.
Henry nodded. Somewhere that cop had his glove. For a moment, he thought about stepping back out and asking for it, but that wasn’t really an option.
Henrietta couldn’t stifle her laughter any longer. She slumped against the door, shaking. “Maccababy,” she said. “What’s a Maccababy?”
Henry felt his smile growing. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried.
“Whatever it is,” Zeke said, “don’t hit one.”
Henry’s laughter grew quickly. “I wish we could see the tape.” He wiped his eyes. “Your mom might see us on the news. Do you think they’ll recognize us?”
Zeke shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t know. The camera was a little low. Maybe not.”
“Either way,” Henry said, “we’re eating in Hylfing. Does The Horned Horse have hamburgers?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Red-shirts marched the walkway. Cracking whips kept the slave heads down. The captain stood in front of Frank, with his hands behind his back.
“Stand up!” he demanded. “Now.”
Frank smiled. “Can’t. Tried. But can’t.”
The captain pulled keys from his belt and bent down to unlock Frank’s shackles. “What have you been doing, Francis? Trying to take your hands off?”
Frank’s arms fell loose, and he stood slowly, refusing to look at his wrists, though he heard Dots gasp behind him. He nudged Monmouth’s clothes with his toe. “He went out the hatch. The back door for the dead.”
“We are a great distance from land,” the captain said. “It is only a shadow on the horizon.”
“Must be a swimmer,” said Frank. “Why else would he leave his clothes?”
The captain looked around inside of Frank’s eyes and then scanned the hold. “Why would he leave you?” he asked. “Did he learn the lesson I did so many years ago? Was it time to shake off the horrible taint of your family? Only fools stand with you.”
“Maybe,” said Frank. “But here you are, right beside me
, little Roderick from Hylfing. How close do you have to get before you’re tainted?”
The shorter man turned and stood chest to chest with Frank, flaring wool-filled nostrils. “Your family is done. Hylfing will be just another northern port, smelling of fish and poverty. You will not survive the anger of the emperor.”
“We’ve survived worse, but then you know that already.” Frank patted the captain on the cheek. His wrist was banded with blackened blood.
Roderick knocked Frank’s hand away and drew a knife from his belt. Behind him, the sound of a long chain snaking through a hook and collapsing to the deck echoed in the beams. And then another. And another. Three at once. Chains were dropping on both sides of the walkway.
Green leaves sprouted from the beams of the ceiling. Silver bark began to wrap them. The soldiers on the walkway stepped back, ducking, pushing to get out from underneath the creaking growth.
An oar slid in from its oarlock and cracked a soldier in the temple. And then, from both sides, slaves leapt from their seats, yelling, brandishing chains.
The soldiers fired crossbows into the swarm, but the bodies tumbled on. A big man, with dark skin and a bald head above his full beard, cracked bones with his blows. The soldiers were trampled like grapes, whipped with chains, and crushed with knees and feet. James stepped through the mob of skin and anger and grabbed the captain’s wrists. He dropped his knife and tried to twist away. James cracked him head to head, and the big man stepped from behind James and looped a chain around the captain’s neck.
“No!” Frank yelled. “No! Deal with him later.”
A space cleared around the ladders. Crossbow bolts were pouring down into the hold. The slaves, still yelling, sending taunts up through the decks, stripped weapons off the killed soldiers. There was no fear. These men had forgotten to care for their lives long ago. They scrambled up the ladders like so many half-naked pirates, and Frank listened to the pounding and the shouts of victory, the shrieks of killed and killer.
James ripped the keys from the captain and jumped to his mother. Frank pulled the captain to himself, the heavy chain dangling loosely around his neck.
