What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  “I’m thinking the metallic wrappers may put them off,” she replied.

  Harlan signed: Mylar. Like what fancy balloons are made from. Not very thick.

  Willa nodded. “Not sure if they’ll chew through it or not. I think we need to mark our territory. Boys, I hope your bladders are full. Go around the bushes in a complete circle.”

  Harlan snorted. Cricket giggled. Both boys did as they were told, urinating on the dry grass encircling their food cache.

  Willa had no idea if it would work, but it couldn’t hurt. Most animals were put off by the scent of humans. Since animals used their own urine to delineate territory, they should understand human urine meant the same. Boy pee said: Stay outta our stuff! The notion of talking urine made her smile. Maybe she would utilize the concept in one of her books.

  As the trio plodded homeward, tired and full from their adventure, Harlan’s hand suddenly shot up — the gesture for STOP. She watched her brother’s head tilt sideways as his keen ears identified a sound. The hand’s next gesture was to point urgently downward with three fingers — the signal for HIDE.

  Cricket and Willa knew better than to say a word. Harlan could hear a mouse crawl over a twig from a dozen paces away. He heard something nearby that he didn’t like. Willa grabbed her friend by a scrawny arm and pulled him into a clump of juniper. Inside the dark thicket, Cricket huffed and puffed like a damn freight train. Willa punched him in the bicep, then pinched his nostrils together, forcing him to breathe through his mouth.

  She heard now what Harlan had picked up seconds earlier: Men talking.

  “Don’t seem right, though. I don’t care how smart she is,” a man said. Willadean recognized the voice. It belonged to one of the perimeter guards, the one Serena Jo argued with a couple of days earlier.

  “Ain’t just about her being smart,” came the reply. “She hauled all that gear from Knoxville. That bought her status.”

  The voice sounded similar to that of the first man. Of course it did. The two were twin brothers.

  “I call bullshit on that,” said Everett, the one who had spoken first.

  “You can call bullshit all day long. Ain’t gonna change anything,” replied Otis. “If it weren’t for that U-Haul and everything she was smart enough to load it up with, we wouldn’t be in such good shape.”

  “We’d be doing just fine. Holler folks have been taking care of business for generations. Little Miss Smarty Pants made life easier, but she didn’t save us from anything.”

  Otis grunted a noncommittal reply, but said nothing further. During the conversation, the brothers had been walking in the direction of the juniper clump. She pinched Cricket’s nostrils tighter. She didn’t know where Harlan was hiding, but the men would never discover him. Even Willadean couldn’t find him when he didn’t want to be found. Harlan could practically become invisible when he wanted to. She and Cricket weren’t as talented. Plus her friend breathed like a TB patient. He probably had some sort of asthmatic condition, which was proving to be inconvenient at the moment. She covered his mouth with her other hand just as the men reached their hiding place.

  “Maybe I just need to get into her Levi’s.” Everett stood just a few feet away now. “Show her what these fingers can do besides play the fiddle.” Willadean heard something in his tone that made her reach for her knife.

  “Good luck with that, brother. She’s an ice queen. I heard after she squirted out them kids of hers, she closed up shop.”

  “Maybe she ain’t met the right customer.”

  Both men laughed. Thankfully, the guffawing sound was receding now. Willadean released her hold on Cricket’s mouth, but not his nostrils.

  Just a couple more minutes...

  Finally, she let him breathe properly.

  “They’re gone,” she whispered.

  Harlan’s frowning face appeared between the juniper branches a moment later, deft fingers signing furiously: Did you hear what they said about Mama?

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “It’s just guy talk. Doesn’t mean anything. Besides, she can take care of herself.”

  “What did they mean about getting into her Levi’s?” Cricket asked.

  Willadean and Harlan rolled their eyes simultaneously.

  “When you’re a little older, I’ll explain the birds and the bees to you.”

  Harlan snorted.

  “They better leave your mama alone,” Cricket said, scrambling out of the juniper after Willadean.

  “Or what? You gonna ride up on a white stallion to save her?”

  Cricket’s chin quivered. “I ain’t got no stallion, but I got this.” He withdrew a rusty steak knife from the bib pocket of his overalls.

  “Where’d you get that? The dump?”

  “Don’t matter where I got it. I’ll use it on anyone who tries to get into your mama’s Levi’s.”

  Willadean smiled with affection at her friend. “Okay, killer. Just don’t cut yourself with that rusty blade. Have you ever gotten a tetanus shot, you little hillbilly?”

  Cricket shrugged. “I got some shots so they would let me in school. Don’t know what was in ‘em, though.”

  “How about I ask Mama to get you a better knife?”

  “You think she has one in that U-Haul?”

  Willadean pondered her answer. She and Harlan knew more about what was in that U-Haul, currently hidden a mile or so from the village, than anyone else. Serena Jo had sworn them both to secrecy. Not even Pops knew about all the stuff she had brought from Knoxville. Some of the firearms and ammunition had already been distributed to the folks who hunted for food and kept the perimeter secure. But there were additional weapons — along with a ton of other useful items — secured in the truck with a heavy chain and padlock. Serena Jo believed she was the only person who knew where the key was hidden, but Harlan had found it. His knack for finding things was almost as impressive as his invisibility talent.

  “I’m pretty sure I can hook you up. In the meantime, why don’t you ditch that pig sticker. Seriously, Cricket, I don’t want you to get lockjaw.”

  “I will when you give me the new knife.”

  “All right. Let’s get home and I’ll see what I can do.”

  The walk back to the village proved fruitful. They presented mama with a few handfuls of slightly shriveled huckleberries and more than a pound of oyster mushrooms, harvested from a giant fallen Fraser fir. It was late afternoon, and several of the porch lanterns had already been lit.

  “It’s Friday night, Mama,” Willadean said soon after, as they headed up the path to the communal dining building. Like the school house, it was a converted, upgraded shanty that served as kitchen for the village cooks and offered inside and outside tables and chairs for its diners. Mama preferred that everyone eat together. She felt it helped strengthen the community bonds.

  “Yes, I know. As soon as you finish supper, you two can go spend two hours with Pops. I don’t want him telling spooky stories, though. Last time Harlan had nightmares.”

  Willadean wanted to argue, but decided her request for a knife took precedence. She knew better than to press for more than one favor at a time.

  “Cricket needs a knife, one like mine and Harlan’s. Do you have more in the U-Haul?” She whispered the last part. Discussing that subject in public wasn’t allowed.

  “You think he’s ready for that? Seems a little young and clumsy to be carrying a weapon.”

  “It’s not really a weapon, you know. It’s more like a tool. And the rusty steak knife he’s got is a danger to himself and innocent bystanders.”

  Serena Jo laughed. “He’s not much younger than you two, now that I think about it. Speaking of, your birthday is coming up. I can’t believe my babies are turning twelve.”

  “You know what comes after twelve?”

  “Teenagers. That’s what comes after twelve.”

  “That’s right. Practically grownups in this day and age.”

  Harlan withdrew a Swiss Army knife identical t
o Willadean’s from his jeans pocket, then signed: Maybe we can get an upgrade on these for our birthday?

  Serena Jo raised an eyebrow. It was her noncommittal eyebrow. “We’ll see,” she said.

  “Ugh, I know what that means,” Willa mumbled.

  The other eyebrow lifted now too. That meant there was hope.

  “Not necessarily. I just need time to process the fact that my children are growing up in a world vastly more dangerous than the one I grew up in.”

  “Okay, but can you make it fast? Cricket can have my old one if we get new, better ones. I know you don’t want him to get tetanus.”

  “No, I certainly don’t want that. I’ll decide after supper while you two are at Pops. How’s that?”

  She kissed Mama’s cheek, then darted inside the kitchen house with Harlan at her heels. They knew to get in line early before the cornbread ran out.

  ***

  “Come on, Pops,” Willa begged. “One spooky story. We won’t tell Mama.”

  “Can’t do it, child. Ain’t worth it. You should know better than anyone that you gotta pick your battles with her. I ain’t gonna get sideways with your mama over something so...inconsequential.” He winked at Fergus who was sitting in one of the two chairs in Pops’ cabin.

  Pops had made those chairs by hand out of burled oak. He had even sewn the cushions himself, and to keep his cabin smelling sweet, he regularly replaced their feathery bald cypress leaf and fragrant rosemary stuffing. A cheerful fire crackled in the wood-burning stove. Willa and Harlan sprawled out on the braided rug which covered much of the cabin’s interior floor. The sun had fully set outside the spotless window; stars sputtered to life on the other side of the glass. Willa’s belly was full to bursting with cornbread and rabbit stew. And she didn’t have to go to bed for at least two hours.

  Friday evenings at Pops’ were her favorite time of the week.

  “What if I tell a spooky story?” Fergus said in the deep voice so at odds with his size. “Was the directive for everyone or just your grandfather?” Blue eyes twinkled.

  Willadean liked this little man more every day.

  “Her exact words were: I don’t want him telling spooky stories. ‘Him’ meaning Pops. She didn’t say anything about you, Mister Fergus.”

  Fergus looked at Pops, who shrugged, then focused on her brother. “Harlan, do you promise not to get nightmares?”

  Candlelight flickered in her brother’s dilated pupils. He pondered the question, then nodded. Slowly. Harlan didn’t like the spooky stuff the way she did.

  The wiry, red beard twitched, which she now knew meant their teacher was amused. That beard twitched a lot during school sessions.

  “Very well. Once upon a time, there were two children. A sister and a brother. They lived with their parents on the outskirts of a mysterious forest...”

  “Wait,” Willa said. “This isn’t Hansel and Gretel, is it? We’ve heard that one a million times.”

  “Not Hansel and Gretel, Maximus Interruptus. May I tell the story, please? Sans disruptive outbursts from the peanut gallery?”

  Harlan snorted. Pops gave a small chuckle. Willa grinned. She would add peanut gallery to her lexicon.

  “Sorry. Please continue.”

  Fergus rolled his eyes dramatically. “They lived with their parents on the outskirts of a mysterious forest. The children weren’t allowed to enter the forest, not because of the child-eating, gingerbread house-dwelling wicked witch who did, in fact, live there. But because of the witch’s neighbor. In order to get to the gingerbread stucco, the buttercream-frosted roof tiles, and the gumdrop shrubbery, the children would have to travel past a decidedly less enticing and undoubtedly worse-tasting house. The creature that dwelled within that abominable abode sparked fear in the hearts of all the forest’s inhabitants, including a few enlightened but enchanted frogs who had the sense to avoid the place at all costs. Nobody in their right mind would stick a toe, webbed or otherwise, inside its rickety front gate.”

  Fergus paused.

  Willa couldn’t stand it. “Who lived there?”

  “I was getting to that. Shall I continue?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Pops fetched two ceramic coffee mugs from a cabinet, splashed a bit of ‘shine in both, and then handed one to Fergus. Red caterpillar eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  “Much obliged, Skeeter.”

  “My pleasure. Makes the stories easier to tell.” Pops winked.

  “I daresay. Let’s proceed, then. It’s more a matter of what lived there, rather than who lived there,” he said. “Yes, yes. It looked human on the outside...but its alabaster skin was too flawless to be human. Its hair too luxurious and shiny to be human. Its figure too shapely, its waist too tiny, and its legs too long to be human.”

  Willa frowned. “You just described Barbie.”

  One caterpillar levitated while blue laser beams targeted her. “Exactly. Barbie was a monster.”

  “Barbie was a lump of molded plastic.”

  “That’s what the toy manufacturer wanted you to believe, but in fact, the real-life inspiration for that lump of plastic lived and breathed, just as real as all of us sitting here, and dwelled within the mysterious forest.”

  Willa had to give the little man points for creativity.

  “Her real name was Barcaloungerbeelzebub, but Mattel shortened it to Barbie because it tested better with the focus groups. Until word got out about Barbie’s true nature, many folks and creatures went missing, lured into the house by her superficial beauty as well as the freshly baked dingle-berry pies perpetually cooling on the sill of an open kitchen window. On a side note, this is where the wicked witch came up with the idea for her gingerbread house. She figured an entire edible house would work better than one pie, and since she had to compensate for warts and green skin, it was definitely a smart career move. But I digress...”

  He took a sip of the ‘shine, which made the blue eyes water suddenly.

  Willa grinned at ‘dingle-berry pie.’ The story wasn’t spooky at all, but she suspected Fergus would be entertaining reading an instruction manual.

  “For years, Barbie used her beauty and her dingle-berry pies to lure hapless folks and unsuspecting woodland creatures into her house, where she would consume them, bones, eyeballs, gall bladders...everything.”

  “How did she consume them?” Willa interrupted.

  “How do you think?”

  “Well, each type of monster has its own MO. Vampires suck blood, zombies eat brains, and werewolves pretty much just rip you to shreds.”

  Fergus nodded. “Indeed. Did you know that the digestion process of many spiders actually begins outside the spider’s stomach? After trapping its prey, the spider will inject it with venom, wrap it in silk, and wait for it to die. To get a jump on things, Spidey vomits digestive fluids onto the unfortunate moth or the grasshopper with bad timing, then sucks up the liquefied meat juices.”

  “That’s gross.”

  “Spidey doesn’t think so. Barbie’s process was similar. Once she lured her prey into her house and disabled it, she would spew it with stomach acid and suck its meat juices with a shiny straw. Not a plastic straw, but an earth-friendly stainless-steel straw, because Barbie was a monster, but she was an environmentally conscious monster.”

  Pops snorted. The red beard twitched.

  “One day, Barbie noticed movement in the nearby woods, so she quickly placed a freshly baked dingle-berry pie on the window sill and waited. A handsome woodsman with blond hair, a chiseled jaw, and impressive glutes appeared just outside her gate. Barbie’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Her stomach juices didn’t gurgle like they usually did when she spied prey. Instead, her heart began to flutter and the palms of her hands became sweaty. She decided she wanted to kiss that handsome woodsman...she had read about kissing during her monster teen years.

  “So she opened her front door and struck an enticing pose. The woodsman, coincidentally named Ken, smiled a charming, handsome-wo
odsman smile, walked toward Barbie, swept her off her feet and into his strong arms, and then carried her into the house. She slipped her arms around his neck while he gazed down at her with adoration. Just when she thought he was about to kiss her, he vomited digestive fluid all over her pretty face and luxurious hair, waited for her to congeal, and then sucked her up with a brightly colored plastic straw. Because Ken was a monster who didn’t care about the environment.”

  “Nice!” Willa said. “What happened to the children, though?”

  “Oh, right. So the children came along soon after Ken had consumed Barbie, and since he had also eaten the dingle-berry pie on the windowsill as a post-Barbie dessert, they passed right by the rickety gate and proceeded toward the gingerbread house a bit farther down the road. Within minutes, they stood on the path leading to a golden-brown front door framed by candy canes. It stood slightly ajar, beckoning them to enter. The sister tugged on her brother’s sleeve, gesturing that they should go inside. But the brother, who was wise beyond his years...” Fergus winked at Harlan, “Shook his head adamantly. No, it’s not safe, he said. Can’t you see that this is a trap? To which the sister replied, Yes, of course, but we’re faster than that old, warty green hag. We can grab the sweets and be out of there in two farts of a swamp rat.”

  Willa snickered. Harlan grinned.

  “And because the sister usually got her way, the children crept up the path and peered through the open front door, which smelled of cinnamon and molasses. But the aroma emanating from inside the house wasn’t so pleasant. Before the children could decide what to do next, two gnarled, green hands shot through the door and dragged them inside the house, after which they were promptly thrown into a pre-heated commercial convection oven — the witch had recently updated her large kitchen appliances — and were eaten for dinner. The end.”

  Willa said, “Wait, what? That’s not how the story ends.”

  “That’s how my story ends because it’s a parable. Can you identify the lesson?”

  Harlan tapped her arm and signed: They got eaten by the witch because the sister was over-confident.