by Ken Brosky
A sloppy hand came down and I dashed between two little cars, timing my jump for when the hand hit the ground so I would be spared the shockwave. I ran faster, trying to put some distance between us, feeling the burn in my legs. My heart beat wildly in my ears. Sweat loosened my clay mask, which was locking in all the heat.
“Not the best idea I’ve had,” I said, forcing my mind to not think about what this giant would look like in an hour. When Hungary’s army arrived. And were promptly squished. Oh gawd.
I felt as if I might pass out but I kept going, not bothering to turn around again because I couldn’t spare the moment of distraction and finally—there! The rear entrance to the lobby! I pulled open the door, shutting it quickly behind me.
“Everyone get to the front of the building!” I shouted. I must have looked sufficiently scary with my melting mask because the last couple dozen people finally pulled away from the windows and hurried down the hallway leading to the other side of the spa.
I spared one quick look out the window. An “Eep!” escaped my mouth when I saw the hand slam down right outside, the blobby flesh jiggling like Jell-O. The window cracked. The empty glasses on the tables in the dining room tumbled over, crashing onto the tile floor.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I told myself, running down the hall to the stairwell. I took it two floors up, then ran back toward the rear of the building to a fancy fireplace lounge complete with half a dozen blue plush couches flanked by green ferns. In one corner, the room’s brick walls closed in a half-circle with a narrow opening leading to a metal spiral staircase.
A hand crashed through the rear-facing windows, rattling the building and knocking me over before I could reach the stairs. The fingers were like putty, squished, with big shards of glass digging in like spikes. The giant’s head rose up. His left eye was still massive, bloodshot, squeezing out the rest of his face. He roared, raining bucket-sized drops of spittle onto the couches.
“Ga-ross!” I yelled, hurrying to the staircase. I took the metal steps two at a time, shortening my breaths so the pain in my ribs was manageable. At the top was an open hatch. I climbed through it, getting helpful paw from Briar.
“Thanks, pal.” My head was dizzy. My cold, numb fingers could barely clutch the magic pen. “Is it primed?”
“Indeed!” Briar said, hopping back.
The building shook again, rumbling the ancient-looking cannon. Its wheels had been stripped away and replaced by cinderblocks. It had a short, decorative barrel and looked like it hadn’t seen any real fighting in centuries, if ever. It sat with the barrel resting lazily on the lip of the circular opening. The entire tower was made of brick, save for the roof, which was built of old wood panels that had begun rotting.
“At least it’s pointed in the right direction,” I said, leaning hard on the rear of the cannon so that the barrel tipped upward. I pulled the brochure out of my pocket and unfolded it, holding it above the barrel.
“What are you doing?” Briar asked hurriedly. The building shook again. There came a roar directly below us. The smell of sulfur wafted into my nostrils.
“I’m saving the day,” I answered, drawing a large circle on the brochure and imagining a big ball of iron. The image shimmered like a neon light. I touched it with one finger, and at once the cannonball materialized, ripping away from the paper.
Rolling right down the barrel of the cannon.
“Brilliant! But the gunpowder they use is incredibly weak,” Briar said, handing over a box of long matches. “A cheap mixture whose sole purpose is to make the cannon go boom during their festivities.”
“The cannonball doesn’t need to travel very far,” I said, striking a match on the brick. I leaned hard on the front of the cold barrel, pushing it back into place. Below, I could see the giant. Both his putty-like hands were clutching the building as he slowly pulled himself to his feet. The yellow nails splintered as each finger slowly grew again.
Another roar. The top of the giant’s head appeared in the opening. He grunted, causing the entire tower to rattle. The building was coming apart. Briar screamed at the top of his lungs as the looming figure rose into view.
The giant’s bloated left eye appeared, glaring at me. I gave a little wave, then sparked the breech.
Chapter 11
I let Briar tell the entire story for Attila, up to and including the cannonball that killed Tom Thumb. Attila confessed he’d nearly peed his pants when he saw the giant rise up from behind the resort, but was confident I could handle myself.
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I mumbled, using the borrowed resort towel to wipe the last of the clay off my face. “Let’s just hope everyone at the resort convinces themselves there was a reasonable explanation for all of this.”
“How did you know cannonball would work?” Attila asked.
“Yes, I have been wondering that myself,” Briar said.
I shrugged, using one of the spa’s crisp towels to wipe some of the slimy mud off my face. “In my dream, the hero used a catapult to take down a giant. I kept thinking to myself, how did she draw a catapult? She didn’t. She built it, then drew the boulder. And she drew it right on the catapult’s dish thingy, so that she wouldn’t have to pick it up and place it there.”
“Ah, you see?” Briar said. “You see, Attila? She’s an extraordinary one, all right!”
“Indeed, bunny. Ah, look.” He pointed to the windshield. We were coming up on the town, its circle of lanterns still lit. “We are safe for another night. Thanks to two heroes now.”
We took the main road into town, which was flanked by two of the lanterns. A strange, queasy feeling came over me. I doubled over, waiting for it to pass.
“Is everything all right?” Briar asked, one paw on my shoulder.
“Ach,” Attila said as he turned onto the street where our hotel was. “Look!”
I sat up. There, two blocks down, was the inn. Parked outside were six black cars. “Prince Leo Vontescue,” I whispered.
“Are you sure?” Briar asked.
“Yes. Turn at the next street,” I told Attila. “We’ll walk. Whatever is happening, you don’t need to be involved.”
“Attila not unhappy about your decision,” he mumbled, turning onto the next street and pulling over. He sighed, looking in the mirror. “You listen to Attila now. Do not trust the prince. We hear stories of his castle. Rumors. Whispers. Disappearances and superstitions and magic.”
“Magic!” Briar exclaimed.
Attila looked at me with concern. His bright brown eyes looked sad. Worried. “Cast a light upon his shadows. Always.”
“I will. Thank you, Attila.”
We stepped onto the sidewalk, hurrying to the end of the block and peering around the little two-story brick building. Yup, those cars were definitely for the hotel.
“How do you know it’s this prince?” Briar asked.
“Call it my spider-sense.” I took a deep breath, fighting the pain in my ribs. “Stay back and keep out of sight.”
“Right-o.”
I stepped out from behind the building, walking across the street as casually as I could. My eyes glanced at the black cars as I passed, but the dark tint of the windows obscured the drivers. My hand clutched the magic pen in my pocket as I walked inside the hotel.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw everyone waiting for me. They all stared at me, a mixture of frustration and anger on their faces. Mr. Whitmann clapped his hands a few times.
“Thank you for finally making it,” he said sarcastically. “How’s the extended family?”
“Uh … good?” I noticed the suitcases at their feet. “What’s going on?”
“The train’s repairs were delayed, so our generous host decided to come pick us up,” Mr. Whitmann said. “But surprise, surprise, we were one person short. So we’ve been waiting. And waiting.”
“And waiting,” Seth added with a yawn.
“But now we can finally go,” Mr. Whitmann said. He nodded t
o my left. “Mr. Vontescue? Or Mr. Prince, I mean? Or … what should we call you?”
I turned in time to watch the prince smoothly pull himself off the couch, standing and grabbing the glossy wooden cane that had been leaning beside it. He stood, adjusting his black overcoat. He was tall, leaning only a bit on his cane, his black glove crackling as his hand squeezed the golden tip. He had black hair slicked back and narrow, almost horizontal eyebrows. Square jaw. High cheekbones. Dark, dark eyes.
No glow. Not Corrupted. The opposite of Corrupted … it was as if the shadows in the room were drawn to him.
“Call me Prince Leo,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. “And I am honored to meet you all.”
Outside, the hero’s bell began ringing.
The Lost Diary of Abigail Bauer: Part 1
The horse did what the fox asked, and then the fox went to the lion, who had his den not far off, and said, "A dead horse is lying out there. Just come with me, and you can have a rich meal."[iv]
May 15, 1817
The dreams do not change. Always, it is a man of medium build, with a thick brown mustache and immaculately combed blond hair. He’s always wearing a brown suit coat with polished brass buttons. He looks dignified. He looks and behaves like a doctor.
He is not.
May 16, 1817
My pursuit of the doctor has been put on hold for the time being. Last night, I had a vivid dream of a fairy-like creature hiding away in the very same forest that I have been traveling through. I could tell because the local cherry trees are so distinct in size and shape: thin brown trunks and tall proud branches full of bursting bright red flowers. There was a fox with the fairy, leaving behind glowing golden paw prints as he followed at her heels with more than a little trepidation.
The fairy looked just as I’d always imagined fairies. She was wearing a bright white dress and had two rounded glass-like wings protruding from her back. Only … her face. It was so angry, sopping up the soft moonlight slipping through the trees.
She found a traveler. A merchant who reminded me of my father. A donkey pulled his cart full of blankets, and it gave a start when the fairy appeared in the road. She beckoned him forth and he obliged, momentarily stunned by the sight. But as he got closer, he saw the frozen rage on the fairy’s face and turned to run. Too late—her wings fluttered and carried her over him. She dropped onto him and began devouring him like a hungry wolf.
I woke this morning and deviated from the dirt road, searching the forest until I found the glowing paw prints. My predecessor, a young woman named Hanna, had told me the trail of these creatures would be bright both at night and during the day. For me, the trail is always faint no matter the time. It leads me to believe we chosen ones do not all possess the same qualities.
I did not want to do this. Hanna had told me so little before she died, and the thought of fighting some kind of monster made my entire body tremble. Still, I moved through the forest, as if my body were fighting some unseen force pulling me toward it.
It was not long before I came upon the pair. They’d stopped at a pond, where the fox was in the process of splashing in the shallow water like any other woodland creature. A normal creature. He was of middling size for a fox, with a dark red fur coat and a black snout and black ears. His very natural behavior made me second-guess myself … until he turned and spoke to me, that is.
Needless to say, my conversation with the fox was jarring. He had the gall to lecture me on a woman’s role in society! Namely, that I should not be wandering around this particular German territory without a male guardian. The fairy concurred with a pitying nod, and pointed her white magic wand at me. I ducked behind the cherry tree to my right, feeling a strange pull. The invisible magic had dissolved the grass where I’d just stood, withering it and turning it black.
The fairy screeched an ear-splitting screech, calling me all manner of names. There was little time to think. I would have to confront this woman just as I had months ago confronted the glowing man. I could not show fear—my life depended on it. The pen nearly slipped from my shaking hand as I peered around the trunk. I nearly bumped into the fairy’s pale face: angry, aged, darkened like the inside of an apple not eaten quickly enough.
Suddenly, she fell back. The fox! He’d grabbed her mud-stained dress in his mouth, pulling hard. She turned to him, hissing. He stepped away, but it was all the time I needed to gather an ounce of courage. I sprang forward, swiping at her bare arm with the nip of the fountain pen. She screamed, staring at her arm. We both watched in equal horror as the burning blackness spread up into her body, turning her to ash.
“Now, now,” said the fox, backing up a bit. We were at the edge of the pond, where the earth was mostly mud. Yellowing reeds choked the shore. “I’m not so bad, you know. I hunt rabbit.”
“You will become like the others,” I told him in a shaky voice.
“How are you so sure?” he asked.
“Because the woman who gave me this,” I held up the magic pen, “told me so.”
“And do you trust everything people tell you, girl?”
“No. Yes. I mean … I’m not sure.”
The fox’s ears stood straight, indicating interest. “Perhaps we can help each other. What do you know about me?”
“That you are Corrupted,” I said. “The woman who gave me this pen told me that the Brothers Grimm used black magic to bring their fairy tales to life. I must hunt down those who do not belong before … before …”
The fox cocked his head. Something very close to a snicker escaped his long muzzle. “Before we change?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, moving closer. I drew back, clutching the pen like a knife just as the woman had taught me before she died. The fox narrowed one eye. It was a very human sort of thing to do.
“But not all of us have changed,” he said. “Not yet. I pose no danger to this world. I am merely a talking fox who spends his time chasing rabbits and exploring the countryside. Had that blasted fairy not caught me, we would no doubt have never crossed paths.”
“But you will change. Eventually.”
“Yes,” he said. “And when that time comes, a hero will seek me out and destroy me. She will dream of me, and that is how she will find me.” He took another step closer. “Who do you dream of, girl?”
“I … a … a man. A doctor.”
“What fairy tale is he from?”
“The Spirit in the Bottle. He was once a young man who tricked a spirit, and at the end of the story he became a famous doctor.”
“Good, good. And have you discerned where he is?”
“North of here,” I answered. “I recognize the town. I’ll say no more.”
“Good, good. Trusting one of us is, I suppose, unwise.” He sighed and stepped away from the shore of the pond, sitting on his haunches in the grass. “Do you know my story? It’s called The Fox and the Horse.”
“Tell me.”
“Well … like many of the Grimms’ fairy tales, mine was short and played out quite quick once we were brought to life. Here’s how it goes: I happened upon an old horse who was going to be killed by his master unless the horse proved that he was still strong enough to bring the master a lion.” The fox lowered his head and snorted, sending up a plume of white daffodil seeds. “Hardly fair, wouldn’t you say? But as the story goes, I happened upon this horse and told him to play dead while I sought out a lion who had a den nearby.”
“A lion? Here, in Germany?” I asked.
The fox nodded. “All part of the story, remember. And so I told this lion about the horse and offered to tie his tail to the horse’s tail so that he could drag the horse back to his den and eat in peace. The lion agreed, salivating at the very thought of such a big dinner. When it was done, I told the horse to gallop home to his master, which he did, dragging the poor lion behind him. The master was so impressed that he let the horse live.”
“And that is where your story ends,” I said.
“Yes,” sa
id the fox. “But then what? Of course, that all depends on how the brothers ended each fairy tale, doesn’t it? The last line of our story is … And he gave him plenty to eat until he died. Meaning the master gave the old horse plenty to eat until the horse died. A bit open-ended, don’t you think? What do you suppose happened after our story finished playing out?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”
“The master put the lion in a cage. And then the lion grew Corrupted, changing into something even bigger and more frightening! Eventually, he broke through his cage and ate both the master and his horse!”
An eerie calm had descended on the pond. Frogs stopped croaking. Birds flew overhead with no interest in stopping for a drink. I was speechless. In shock, perhaps—the woman who had given me the pen had never said anything about the magical creatures’ stories playing out. I’d just assumed the Brothers Grimm had brought these characters to life. But according to the fox, they’d each performed a script, like actors who had appeared for a play and then simply dispersed afterwards with every intention of going back to their regular lives.
“And so now you know something new,” the fox said. “Corrupted can kill each other. It is not an easy task, though, given our magical nature. Why, I could break my leg tomorrow and the following morning, it would be fine! A hunter could shoot me only to find his bullet lying in the grass an hour later with no sign of his prey.”
“Hanna never told me this,” I confessed.
“Likely she didn’t know. Your kind don’t seem to live so long, if my experience is any indication.”
“How do you know so much?” I asked.
The fox shrugged. “I am inquisitive by nature. Many foxes in the brothers’ fairy tales are tricky, cocky and downright mean. I was spared these qualities. In my tale, I was helpful and selfless, seeking no reward for helping the horse. And so I am.”
