Trix owed Tesera Mouton nothing. Help her? He had helped his sister Sunday in her lessons once, guiding her without telling her the answers, and when she had chosen to run from the prince who was her destiny, Trix had run with her. Sunday had always loved Trix, truly and unconditionally. Sunday would have urged him to journey onward, heedless of this nagging vision, and never look back.
Oh, Sunday, how I miss you.
Trix added his tears to the already salty ground. The sobs shot painfully through his aching chest, suppressed for so long and now filling with brilliant burning air that brought with it the briny taste of regret.
“He’s taking forever,” said a voice.
“Don’t be a toad,” said a second voice that sounded uncannily similar to the first. “Let the boy have his cry. He's been through a lot, poor minnow. He needs a hug.”
“You don't have hands, nitwit,” said the toad.
“At least I have a heart,” said the nitwit.
“Look, he wasn't the only one tossed about in that mad ocean. We've all been through a lot today.”
“It won't kill you to wait a while longer,” said the nitwit.
“One of us is already dead. We need his help. You there,” called the toad. “Boy! If you're all done with that cry, could you help us out?"
“You could at least say ‘please,’” the nitwit said softly.
Trix pushed himself up, though the muscles of his arms had intense feelings about being so tirelessly abused. His shirt was in tatters but his wounds seemed to have healed decently enough. The old blood had washed away in the sea, but an ache in his bones remained. Like when Grinny Tram predicted rain. Well, there had been rain. Rather a lot of rain. But Grinny’s aches usually came before the storms, not after. Perhaps Trix’s aches would reach synchronicity when he was older.
He fell more than turned over and willed his battered body into a sitting position. This was a strange shore. Not strange in the way that he did not recognize it, even though he did not, but strange in that it should have been an old hayfield gone to seed and not the edge of an ocean. The tide had gone out, he surmised, or the waking goddess had spent her anger and collapsed into a fitful sleep.
Beyond the field stretched a horizon of unbroken sea, the crashing waves winking the reflection of the rising sun over and over and over again in a soothing lullaby. Beside him lay a very long, very purple dragon with three heads.
“Dragon!” Trix screamed.
“Where?” one head asked to the sky.
“FLEE!” cried the second head with its eyes squeezed shut.
The third head said nothing. It looked asleep. Trix realized that it might be the one they had referred to as dead. How sad.
“Aren’t you a dragon?” Trix asked the heads.
“Heavens no, child.” The middle head laughed in relief.
“We are a lingworm,” said the first head.
“I am Trix,” said Trix. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Forgive me for not bowing before a being of such legendary grandeur, but my body seems to be on the outs with me at the moment.”
“So polite,” said the middle head. “Isn’t that nice?”
“It would be nicer if he could get to the point,” said the first head. Both were covered in curved indigo spikes, some of which remained taut as the heads conversed, and some of which flowed in the air above them like the plumes of an impressive bird.
“Forgive me,” said Trix. “Is there some way I can help you?”
“Yes,” said the first head.
“Thank you, dearie,” said the middle head.
“Do you have a knife?” asked the first head.
Trix wasn't sure how to answer. He'd had quite a few things when he'd left the towerhouse the previous evening, but he hadn't been conscious for long enough yet to make an inventory of what was left on his person. He did that now. His sea star friend had returned home, it seemed, as had that pesky vision of his birthmother. He was also missing one shoe, the sack he'd prepared with extra bread and clothes, and his lucky four-leafed clover. But he still had his wits, the scar on his finger where he’d pricked himself on Sunday’s spinning wheel, and the small dagger in his belt.
“I do have a knife,” Trix answered with confidence.
“Good,” said the first head. “We need you to chop off our dead Wisdom.”
Trix was fairly sure his ears were still stopped up with magic ocean water, because he couldn't have heard that right. “I’m sorry, you want me to do what?”
“You’re terrible,” the middle head said to the first. “We’ve only just met, and it's a ghoulish thing you’ve asked him to do.”
The first head sighed in exasperation. “We caught him in the Deep when he slipped off that leatherback in the current, and we carried him in our crest all night, until we reached this shore.”
“Thank you," said Trix, grateful that the fallen sea star’s gift had lasted well beyond his conscious state.
“You’re welcome, dearie,” said the middle head.
“He is a boy who can do things that need to be done," said the first head, as if it had never been interrupted. “This is something that needs to be done."
“I will help you if I can." Trix slid the dagger out of his belt; the small blade had been well protected by the sheath Saturday had fashioned for it. Trix made to polish it on his trousers, but hesitated when he realized his clothes were completely covered in layers of muck and slime.
“See?” said the first head. “He’s rethinking it already.”
“It’s a lot to ask," said the middle head.
“I’m not sure I understand," said Trix. The mud drying on his face made his cheeks stiff as he spoke. "What exactly is it that you're asking?"
“What do you know about lingworms?" asked the first head.
Trix shrugged. "I thought you were a dragon."
“And you scared me half to death!" said the middle head. "Dragons haven't been around for ages."
“Neither have lingworms," said Trix. "At least, not around here. But there's usually not an ocean around here either." He swung his arm to indicate the unharvested hayfield.
“Pitiable, uneducated youngling,” said the first head.
“You have our sympathies," said the middle head.
The first head straightened his neck tall, as if it were sitting upright and not attached to a long, segmented body that sprawled and curled around itself for a hundred feet. It spoke as if reading from a book. "The legendary lingworm dwells deep beneath the Seven Seas. There are few descriptions of this serpent, because spotting it is so rare."
“’Tis luck to look on a lingworm," said the middle head. "That's what the sailors always say."
“The lingworm has three heads," the first head continued. "A Head of Truth, a Head of Compassion, and a Head of Wisdom."
The middle head tutted over the third, lifeless face with its spikes limply splayed on the ground. "Poor Wisdom."
“Should any one of the lingworm's heads be removed, it will grow back," said Truth. "Only by removing all three heads can the lingworm be killed."
“What a horrible thing to imagine,” said Compassion. A shudder echoed down the segmented length of the sea serpent.
Trix heard this all as very good news. “Then you have nothing to worry about! Your Wisdom will grow back, maybe even better than before."
“Only it has to be removed first," Truth repeated.
“He’s right, actually," said Compassion. “He usually is.”
“Oh,” said Trix. He looked at the very large head and very large neck of the very large sea serpent, and then down at his very small dagger. "This is not going to be pleasant."
“I imagine not," said Compassion.
“But it needs to be done," said Truth.
Somehow, Trix forced his sore body to stand. Broken shafts of hay stabbed into the pad of his shoeless foot. Each head of the lingworm towered above him, almost as tall as
the trees in the Wood with those enormous plumes. Truth and Compassion looked back at him with eyes as big as his head, their matching irises as deep and green and cloudy as the deep and green and cloudy sea. Trix told himself to walk over to the fallen head, but himself would not obey.
“I’m afraid," he explained to the heads. “You are a very large beast, and I’m a very small boy.”
“We will promise not to bite you or swallow you whole, or swat you with our tail," said Truth.
“Yes,” said Compassion. "We promise."
The lingworm waved the end of the tail in question—the indigo spikes there were tipped with wicked barbs. Trix was not inspired by this. But the lingworm had carried him safely to the shore. To refuse performing a kindness in return would upset the balance of the universe, and the universe had enough of an upset goddess already.
“I will do this," he told his body more than the lingworm.
“Thank you," said Truth.
“Thank you," said Compassion.
Trix took a breath, held it, and then plunged his dagger deep into the giant neck of the lingworm. He was glad then that he'd held his breath, for the odor that released from the dead Wisdom was fetid and foul. When Trix finally was forced to take a breath, he choked and gagged.
“See?” said Truth. "You are still alive."
“You live up to your legend," Trix said to the lingworm. He scraped a few scales aside and plunged the dagger into the sea serpent's flesh again. It wasn't too different from cleaning a fish, he thought, if the fish were as big as a horse.
“So do you," Compassion replied, just as Trix hit his first vein. Sluggish golden blood welled up out of the ragged tear he'd made in Wisdom's neck and spilled over his hands.
“Wait,” “said Trix. “You’ve heard of me?”
“The Lingworth are old enough to know the prophecies of this world, clever enough to remember them, and wise enough to have created a few ourselves," said Truth.
“There are few who do not know of The Boy Who Talks to Animals," said Compassion. "It is a tale that beasts have passed on to their children, and their children's children, throughout time. It was a story told before gods were gods."
The gods had been something else before being gods? The thought baffled Trix, but not half as much as the thought that no one else in the world had the same ability he had possessed all his life. "No one else can talk to animals?"
“Not to all the animals," said Truth.
“Not like you," said Compassion.
“What makes me so special?" asked Trix. It was a stupid question. There were a lot of things that made him special. But he suspected he wasn't aware of just how special.
"Chaos is coming," said Truth.
“There is an imbalance in the world," said Compassion.
“I don't know that I'm special enough to set that to rights. You need someone more like my sister for that." Trix didn't specify which sister—for a boy with seven extraordinary sisters, it didn't really matter.
“Oh, the world will need your sisters, too," said Truth.
“There are prophecies enough for everyone!" cheered Compassion.
“But you will need to be the voice of the animals," said Truth. "It's a very important job."
“Be careful who you tell," said Compassion. “Men have been committed to slavery for far less."
“And still are," added Truth.
“And still are," said Compassion.
Trix was sorry now that Wisdom had not survived, for he would have liked that head's advice on what to do in his current situation. But if Wisdom had survived, Trix would not be in this current situation, and he would not know that the animals had been talking about him behind his back for centuries upon centuries upon... How long had the gods been gods, anyway? Not that it mattered. Everything happened for a reason, just like Mama always said.
At a loss, Trix concentrated on finishing his task. His dagger disappeared into the golden mess over and over again, blindly hacking into the stinky dead flesh with the goal of simply making it through to the other side. The sun continued to rise and Trix began to sweat into the lingworm's blood and flesh as he stepped further and further inside the carcass (losing his one remaining shoe in the process). When his right arm began to fail him, he sliced with his left, again and again and again. When he encountered bone, he pushed his body into the worm’s neck with all his weight until he heard a crack. And just when he began to lose hope of ever finishing, the head of Wisdom fell away before him.
Truth and Compassion cheered. Trix might have too, but for the golden blood that now covered him in yet another layer from head to toe.
“Now take Wisdom back to the ocean," said Truth. "You must carry him as we carried you for a time."
One good turn deserved another. That was not something Mama always said, but it should have been. Trix wove his hands deep into the hairs that covered the top and back of Wisdom's head, mindful of the deadly indigo spikes there. The hairs were soft and hollow, crushing beneath his fingers as he found purchase in the locks. Where they bent, the indigo disappeared from the shafts, leaving them colorless. It made Trix think of the ink the great squid had released, and of his poet sister, Wednesday, with her penknife always at hand. This much ink in this many quills would have set her up forever. It was almost a shame to toss it into the sea. Perhaps, with luck, the damaged head would find its way to Faerie, where Wednesday played apprentice with their Aunt Joy. Wednesday would know what to do with it. Wednesday would not be afraid. In Trix's eyes, Wednesday had more Wisdom than this head could ever hold.
The head of Wisdom was heavy and unwieldy. Step by slow step, he dragged it with him into the sea.
“Wash yourself, Golden Boy," said Compassion.
“You’re fey enough to live a long life without the help of our blood," said Truth.
The lingworm's words continued to baffle Trix. No one could know how long anyone might live, but then, he'd have thought no one could know he was going to exist once upon a time ago. Or better, know that he could talk to animals. Why hadn't all the animals he'd played with as a child told him this before?
Trix had thought to heave the head over his shoulder and into the surf, but the reality of that plan proved impossible. Trix dragged the head behind him into the sea until it was deep enough in the water to lead the way. Trix let Wisdom pull him under a bit before allowing the head to roll away, down the rest of the hill that used to be a hayfield, to the bottom of this magical ocean, wherever that used to be.
If this ocean ever went away again, some farmer was going to find quite a surprise in his yard. Goodness…what would Mama say? Thankfully, if this chaos had consumed the towerhouse, then his haphazard wish had saved the Woodcutters as well. He silently thanked the gods once more. He hoped they weren’t tired of hearing from him.
Trix flipped and dove in the waves, swimming strong, as the fish in the river had taught him to swim. (Not like the fish in the cow pond had taught him, for they were lazy.) He shook vigorously, darting in and out through the underwater hay in an effort to clean himself. As he came back to shore he rubbed at his skin, making sure every speck he could reach was free of blood and mud. His mind might not be settled inside, but his body could be clean on the outside.
As Trix walked back to the lingworm through the new tidal surf, something bumped into his bare ankle. He reached down and pulled up what looked like a long, white stone. Upon further examination, he realized it was the point of a tooth. The only animal he'd ever met with a mouth this large was the lingworm, so it must have come from Wisdom.
“And so we send the dead to sea," said Truth.
“Whatever comes back to us is what they wish us to have," said Compassion.
“I should keep this?" asked Trix.
"Yes," said Truth. “It will help you on your travels.”
“Whenever you need advice,” said Compassion. “Wisdom is very helpful that way.” The head looked down at the
neighboring neck-stump, already sealing over nicely with a thin violet skin.
“You should also keep your dagger,” said Truth.
Trix had not intended to dispose of his dagger, though he hadn't considered what effect the lingworm's blood would have on the blade. He pulled it from his belt and wiped at the gold blood with the bottom of his wet shirt. He wiped and wiped until he realized that there was no blood; the blade and hilt had turned completely gold.
“That blade will now cut through anything,” said Truth, “and nothing born of earth can destroy it.”
“Have a care not to lose it,” said Compassion.
“Thank you,” said Trix. While he wasn't sure yet how he might put Wisdom's tooth to use, the dagger was an instant treasure.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Boy Who Talks to Animals,” said Truth, and Trix took pride in the compliment.
“We look forward to telling the King of the Sea about you,” said Compassion. “We are honored to have been part of your story.”
With a flip and a roll powered by energy that Trix would not have believed the injured lingworm to have, the sea serpent slipped through the hay and disappeared into the waves of the magical ocean with fluid ease.
“So am I,” Trix said to the vanished legend, equally as honored by the experience. “So am I.”
4
The Golden Girl
Now fully awake and no longer deterred by the rich stink of golden lingworm blood, Trix's stomach growled. Judging by the sun, it had been the better part of a day since he'd eaten anything that hadn’t been magically poisoned. What food he'd brought with him had been lost with his sack in the impossible ocean. He stood amidst a sea of tall hay that wouldn't prove much for him in the way of sustenance, but where there was a hay field, there was usually a farmer. A lazy farmer, judging by the state of this hay, but a farmer nonetheless. Making sure the golden dagger was securely fastened in his belt, Trix set off in the one direction that made sense: away from the ocean.
While Trix was not as tall as his sister Saturday (and probably never would be), the hay did not completely obstruct his view as he climbed the gently sloping hill. The field went on, unbroken, for miles. His stomach protested.
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