The Entirely True Story of the Unbelievable FIB

by Adam Shaughnessy

  Before she could answer, the giant bounded into view, homing in on the sound of the rattling bars and sweeping away the fog with his quick movements.

  The creature raised one arm above his head and curled his fingers together with terrible purpose. With the fog gone, Pru could watch each finger settle into place. She imagined she could hear the leathery skin stretching over the knuckles and each muscle tightening as the enormous fist formed.

  Another whistle screamed through the air, and Pru looked up to the top of the earthen mound behind them. Mister Fox stood above, flourishing his long coat to clear the mist that swirled around him. His outstretched arm held his magnifying glass.

  The giant also looked toward the source of the whistling sound. The instant the giant looked at the glass, there was a flash of golden light so bright that Pru had to cover her eyes.

  When she opened them, the giant had vanished.

  CHAPTER

  12

  THE AIR WHERE THE GIANT HAD STOOD SHIMMERED for a moment. Then the effect vanished and the Fort of the Fallen grew still.

  “What just happened?” Pru asked Mister Fox. “Where did the giant go? Did you kill him?”

  Mister Fox sniffed and the twitching of his nose subsided. “Kill him? Hardly my style. I simply sent him back to where he came from.”

  “How?” ABE asked.

  “With this, of course.” Mister Fox held out his looking glass. The glass itself was ringed by brass, which gave way to a wooden handle, blackened in spots with age. More brass had been fashioned into the shape of a fox’s head at the base of the handle. It reminded Pru of the pommel of a sword.

  “How did that get rid of the giant?” ABE asked.

  “Never mind that, ABE,” Pru interrupted. “How was there a giant in the first place? Giants aren’t real. How was there a giant?”

  “You have questions,” Mister Fox said, slipping the fox-­head looking glass into the inner pocket of his coat. “That’s understandable. It’s good, even.”

  “So you’ll answer them?” ABE asked.

  “Oh no. But I’ll tell you what I will do,” Mister Fox said with a final twitch of his nose. “I’ll tell you a story.”

  “We don’t need stories!” Pru said. “We need answers. That was a giant.”

  “On the contrary, answers are the last thing you need right now. Answers stop you from thinking, and you’re no good to me at all if that happens. A story is exactly what you need. A story will get you thinking.” Mister Fox looked around. “Not here, though.There could be other dangers lurking about.”

  Before Pru could ask what other dangers he was talking about, Mister Fox set off. Pru hesitated, noticing that ABE seemed equally uncertain what to do.

  “You can stay if you want,” Mister Fox called back as if he’d read their minds. “But your town is in danger, and you two are in the unique position to be of some help. Possibly. But only if you’re bold enough.”

  “Pru, I’m not sure we should . . .”

  “What choice do we have, ABE? We just saw a giant. A for-­real giant. Impossible things are happening. And he’s the only one who seems to know anything about it. And if the town really is in danger . . .” She shook her head and hugged her arms to her chest. “Besides, do we really want to stay here by ourselves?”

  ABE’s eyes widened at that, and they set off to follow Mister Fox.

  “A good story,” he was saying as they fell into step beside him. “That will sort you out. A good story will get you asking questions and get you thinking. That’s how you’ll make sense of what just happened.”

  “I don’t think what just happened will ever make sense,” ABE said, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “We’ll see,” Mister Fox said. “This happens to be a very good story. One of my favorites, in fact. And it starts like this—once upon a time, there lived a peaceful witch who was terrorized by a wicked village.”

  “Uh, sorry,” ABE said when Mister Fox paused for a breath, “but did you maybe say that part backward?”

  “If you’re going to tell us a story, at least tell it right,” Pru insisted.

  “I’m telling it just fine, thank you. Or I would be, if you two weren’t so quick to interrupt me.”

  “Sorry,” ABE said.

  “I’d still rather have answers,” Pru muttered. The exit from the park to which Mister Fox was leading them would take them back into the woods. Somehow, Pru wasn’t surprised when she realized that if they kept going straight, they’d arrive at the cemetery.

  “As I was saying,” Mister Fox continued, “once upon a time there was a peaceful witch who was terrorized by a wicked village. Mind you, the village didn’t start out wicked. When the village first rose up in the ancient forests of what we now call Russia, the villagers were thrilled to discover they had a witch for a sometimes neighbor.”

  “What do you mean, ‘a sometimes neighbor’?” Pru asked.

  “The witch traveled a lot. She had a magical house that could go anywhere. Think of it as the first mobile home, only made entirely of wood and—well, other parts. Anyway, the witch traveled all over in her magical house. But since even houses have their homes, the witch returned regularly to the spot near the village in the Russian forest. When she did return, the people of the village flocked to the witch to ask her about her journeys. And the witch answered their questions, every last one, despite the cost to her.”

  “What kind of cost?” Pru asked. “Why should she have to pay for answering their questions?”

  “She shouldn’t have had to. But witches are magical beings, and when it comes to magic, there’s always a cost involved. So it was with the witch. In her case, it happened that every time she answered a question she aged one year.”

  “What? Seriously?” Pru shook her head. “If I was the witch, I would have sent those people packing. Or turned them into toads, maybe. Or newts.” Pru was not exactly sure what a newt was, but she was under the general impression they were the sort of thing associated with witches.

  “Well,” Mister Fox replied, “then I suppose it’s lucky for those villagers that you weren’t there. The witch was more generous. Witches are long-­lived, you see, so at first the loss of a few years didn’t matter to her. And, more importantly, the witch loved sharing her stories about distant lands. She loved the villagers’ curiosity and was glad to encourage it. But things changed, over time, as they always do.”

  “What do you mean? What changed?” ABE asked.

  “Everything. The witch, the village, the world. Ages of enchantment gave way to ages of reason and industry. As humankind grew up, humans lost their fascination with witches and the wider world. I guess you could say that the bigger the world got, the smaller the minds of people in the village grew. As the village became a town, the townspeople cared less for stories of faraway places and became far more focused on themselves and their own well-­being. They became distrustful of things that were different, especially witches. Of course, that didn’t stop them from visiting the witch still, on occasion.”

  “Why would they visit her if they didn’t trust her?” ABE asked.

  “You’d be amazed what most people can overlook when it benefits them to do so. The witch had a lot to offer. She was an excellent healer. The best. And she still knew many answers the people sought. If they wanted to know about a particular ailment or injury, or why their crops weren’t growing, or if they had troubles with a neighbor, they would visit the witch. They continued to borrow knowledge against the witch’s years. They stole her youth and, in time, they stole her middle years, too.”

  “But why did the witch let them?” Pru protested. “Why didn’t she stop them somehow, or just leave? That’s what I would have done. Or the toad thing.” She’d given up on newts. The whole idea of newts seemed too vague.

  “Eventually, the witch did leave. But it took time. She kept hoping, I think, that things would go back to the way they’d been and that the townspeople would rediscover their curiosity
and their tolerance. They didn’t. They did give the witch something in return, though, before she left the forest. They gave her a new name to replace the forgotten name of the young woman the witch had been, back at the start. They named her Baba Yaga. Sometime after that, the witch Baba Yaga took her house and she left the forests of Russia.”

  “Where did she go?” ABE asked.

  “Here and there,” Mister Fox said, shrugging. “Also hither and yon, probably. She traveled about while she could. It wasn’t as easy as it had once been, though. She’d lost so many years. And still, from time to time, people would approach her with questions. In time, Baba Yaga took measures to frighten such people off and protect her remaining years. She encouraged the rumors that were spreading about her, rumors that said she ate children and such. It worked, too, more or less.”

  As Mister Fox spoke and the trio walked on, the area through which they traveled began to look familiar to Pru. Their trail must have intersected with the trail she and ABE had taken the last time they’d ventured into the woods. Pru shivered, remembering.

  “Are you sure this is safe?” she asked.

  “There aren’t any giants here,” Mister Fox replied before continuing with his story. “Now, for the most part, people learned to avoid the house of Baba Yaga. There were exceptions, of course. I know of at least one person who approached the witch’s house, despite the rumors.”

  “Who?” ABE asked.

  “A young boy, about your age. He’d heard the stories of the terrible Baba Yaga. So when he came upon her house, there was a part of him that wanted to run. Part of him wanted to flee to someplace safe and familiar. He didn’t, though.”

  “Why not?” ABE asked. Pru could tell from ABE’s tone that fleeing seemed like the sensible option to him.

  “Well, as far as feeling safe goes, it’s possible that the boy felt like there was no place he could return to that was safe. He was lost, in so many ways. And the thing about familiar places is that they are so familiar. There’s nothing new there, nothing to discover. And though he was lost and frightened, somewhere deep within him the boy still had a love for exploration. So, in the end, you could say that the boy did not run away because he was curious. And I think Baba Yaga sensed that genuine curiosity, because she eventually accepted the boy into her home.”

  Still some ways ahead, the small shed that Pru had glimpsed the last time she and ABE had been in the woods came into view. They had reached the border of the cemetery.

  “Inside the house of Baba Yaga, the boy encountered things both terrifying and wondrous. And, naturally, the witch had him for dinner.”

  ABE paled.

  “By which I mean she invited him to dinner,” Mister Fox continued. “Much to the boy’s relief, Baba Yaga did not eat the boy right away. She threatened to. She had a reputation to maintain, after all. But she fed him and gave him a place to sleep. Then she set him some chores around her house. They were difficult. Since Baba Yaga’s house is a fantastic and impossible place, household chores take on a whole new meaning. But the witch told the boy that if he finished the chores and did not ask any questions, she would let him live. And that’s just what the boy did. Oh, he had plenty of questions. But he set about finding his own answers.”

  As they drew closer to the shack, Pru noticed with some surprise a thin tendril of smoke snaking its way from a small chimney. She wouldn’t have thought the shack or shed or whatever it was would be large enough to have a fireplace.

  “Weeks passed like that, then months. Every day, the witch set the boy a new task and every night she’d say, ‘Well done, my little Mister Fox.’ That was a name she’d taken to calling him. ‘You’ve a clever mind and you answer your own questions. I think I’ll let you live another day. But I’ll probably have you for breakfast tomorrow.’ ”

  At the mention of the boy’s name, Pru and ABE exchanged startled looks.

  “She never did have the boy for breakfast, though. Because in him Baba Yaga found something she’d long searched for—someone like her. She’d found someone curious enough to ask questions but clever enough to seek his own answers. Baba Yaga and the boy lived together for a time like mother and son. After a while, she built the boy a house, much like her own.

  “Baba Yaga explained to the boy that there were whole other worlds beyond ours out there, connected to us by avenues of possibility and perception—worlds of magic, where witches live, and giants, and so much more. The boy’s new house would take him to those places. It would take him anywhere imaginable.

  “And after she had explained to the boy about the wonders of his new house, she set him his one final task. He was to travel in his magical home and explore those worlds. He was to ask questions and seek answers. He was to discover and investigate all the mysteries of magic and rejoice in them. And, finally, he was to return to the witch from time to time and share what he had learned. Because Baba Yaga had given those villagers and her young Mister Fox almost all her years, and travel for her was hard.”

  Mister Fox moved more quickly now, and soon they were standing before the old shack.

  “It was much less than the witch deserved as payment for all the kindness and generosity she’d shown over the years, but it was the best the boy could do. So that’s exactly what he agreed to do, for as long as he could.”

  Stopping, Mister Fox turned to look at Pru and ABE.

  “Well, then, here we are.”

  “What do you mean?” Pru asked. “Where’s here?”

  “My home,” Mister Fox said, and he gestured grandly to the miserable little shack behind him. “Welcome to the Henhouse.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  “YOU LIVE IN THAT?” PRU ASKED.

  “You call your house the Henhouse?” ABE said at the same time.

  “Yes. On both counts.” Mister Fox turned to ABE and tipped his hat. His chest was puffed out in pride. “I call it the Henhouse for two reasons. First, I like the sound of it. Come on. Fox in a Henhouse? That’s fantastic. Admit it.”

  “What’s the other reason?” ABE asked, admitting nothing.

  Mister Fox didn’t answer, but his nose twitched.

  “No,” Pru said. “Seriously. You live in that?” The shack looked like a once-­grand house that had been shrunk down to the size of a garden shed and then left to the rain and rot for a few dozen years. A rusted weather vane in the shape of a hen rose up from the roof. It squeaked slightly as it turned to face her.

  There wasn’t any wind.

  She began to walk about the ramshackle hut, noticing with distaste the rotted wood and boarded windows. As she completed her loop, she saw something that assured her that Mister Fox was joking.

  “You can’t live here. This thing doesn’t even have a door.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Mister Fox asked with exaggerated surprise.

  Pru’s certainty faltered as he retraced her path and disappeared around one corner. Had she missed something?

  “Why, you seem to be right,” Mister Fox said as he circled around the Henhouse and appeared on the other side. He walked between and past Pru and ABE. They both turned their back to the shack to follow him with their eyes. Mister Fox faced them again, his coat sweeping the autumn leaves around his ankles, and ducked his chin and adjusted the brim of his hat, pulling it low over his face. The action blocked Pru’s view of his eyes and his nose, big as it was. The hat didn’t quite cover his mouth, though, not from where Pru stood. Sometimes it helped, being small for one’s age. She carefully watched his lips move and saw that he was muttering some sort of incantation.

  As Pru studied Mister Fox’s lips, she heard a sound like the rustling of feathers. She turned to look back at the Henhouse.

  An ornate, arched set of double doors now occupied the side facing her. They stood atop a rickety porch. A round window stood directly above the doors, like a single, unblinking eye. The window was decorated with a complicated pattern of interlocking circles.

  “Where did those doors
come from?” ABE asked, staring.

  “I think you’ll find that the Henhouse is full of surprises.” Mister Fox approached the double doors. Pru heard a click as he turned the knobs and the latches in the doors released. Curiously, she also heard a string of identical clicks, each sounding a moment after the one before it, like a dozen other doors being opened one after another.

  “It’s funny . . . we were talking about Baba Yaga just now. There are so many stories about her, but here’s the thing. They never get the house right. Some of the stories say that Baba Yaga’s house was so small that she had to curl up to fit inside and that her knees and nose scraped the ceiling. Other stories describe a house filled with rooms and servants. And in all this time, no one’s tried to reconcile those two images.”

  With that, Mister Fox pushed open the double doors. He had to stoop to do so, as the top of the arched doorframe barely reached the top of his head. Pru expected the doors to open to a ratty little room occupied by spiders or bats or other assorted vermin.

  They didn’t.

  Instead, the doors opened to reveal another set of double doors exactly like the first, only slightly larger. They, in turn, opened on their own, revealing yet another set of doors. This continued until, in just moments, a long, arched hallway stretched out in front of Mister Fox, expanding in size as it went.

  “But that’s not possible,” ABE said. Eyes wide, he sidestepped to the edge of the building and peered around the corner. Pru knew that he was discovering what she already knew from circling the Henhouse earlier.

  “It doesn’t fit,” she said. “That hallway . . . it’s longer than the whole house.”

  “It’s impossible,” ABE insisted, returning to stand next to Pru.

  “How?” Pru asked. Her voice sounded faraway to her own ears, like a part of her was already racing down that impossible hallway to discover the wonders inside.

  “No.” The curt word cut through the air and snapped Pru back to herself. “That’s the wrong question.” Mister Fox’s voice was solemn. And though the laughter still lurked in the depths of his eyes, they shone with challenge.