Always October

by Bruce Coville

  LD squirmed to be let down. Jacob lowered him gently to the ground, where he began trying to grab the mist.

  “As to your question of whether you are pleased to meet me,” said Keegel Farzym to Jacob, “I would hope the answer is yes. Most monsters would consider it a great honor.”

  “They would?” asked Jacob.

  I kicked his ankle to let him know he sounded more surprised than was polite.

  Keegel Farzym nodded solemnly. “Poetry is very important in Always October. I am also the grandfather of Dum Pling, who is a very important child.”

  “He is?” asked Jacob and I simultaneously.

  I resisted the urge to punch his arm and say “Jinx.”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “How did you know we call the baby Little Dumpling?”

  Sounding surprised himself, Keegel Farzym said, “I had no idea what you called him. Dum Pling happens to be his name.”

  He made it sound like two words, a first name and a last, which made me mad.

  “You name your kids things like Dumb?” I asked. I probably sounded sassier than I should have, given the size of the creature I was talking to.

  Keegel Farzym shrugged, an oddly human gesture. “In the secret language of monsters, bob means ‘the sound of a large dog puking.’ This does not make us think that when you name someone Bob, you are calling him dog barf. In our language, the word dum means ‘sweet.’ The baby’s name, translated into your language, means something along the lines of ‘sweet William.’”

  I glanced at Little Dumpling. He was squishing mud between his hairy toes and eating a bug.

  “So what makes him so important?” demanded my grandfather.

  “Are not all babies important?” asked Keegel Farzym. “Does not each carry seeds of possibility that may change the world for good or ill? But in more than most, this is true of Dum Pling, on whose tiny shoulders rests the fate of Always October—and perhaps Humana as well.”

  “You keep talkin’ about Always October,” said my grandfather. “But that’s just a place this kid’s grandfather made up for his stories.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Carker, it is a place that Arthur Doolittle described for his stories, after he learned about it. And now you are here.” Extending his arms, he said grandly, “This is Always October. Here, twilight lasts for half a day, the moon is almost always full, and the sun is rarely seen. It is the home of the folk you call monsters, the place that haunts your dreams at night, the realm that whispers to you when you remember something frightening yet wonderful. In short, it is the world you fear but cannot bear to stay away from.”

  Following the sweep of his gesture, I realized that until now I had been too distracted to notice that even in the moonlight the trees were glowing with all the colors of autumn. A carpet of leaves rustled beneath our feet. The smell of fall hung sweetly spicy in the air.

  “It’s autumnalicious,” I whispered.

  Little Dumpling blew a spit bubble and gurgled happily.

  Looking at him, Jacob said, “If Little Dumpling is so important to Always October, how did he end up on my doorstep?”

  “Ah. Therein lies a tale. And within that tale lies the root of our problem. Come, we have a long way to go before we reach our destination. Walk with me and I will tell you some of it—though the main part must wait until we reach the Council of Poets.”

  Scooping up Little Dumpling, Keegel Farzym started out again. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “Stay with me. And if you value your lives, do not stray from the path!”

  Jacob, Gramps, and I trotted after him. Thick mist swirled around our legs.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” I asked, leaning close to Jacob.

  “You’re crazier than I thought!” he whispered back. Despite his words I noticed that he was smiling.

  Silver moonlight filtered through the branches above us.

  An occasional leaf, bright and perfect, fluttered down from the trees.

  In the distance, something howled.

  I shivered. Without saying anything, Jacob and I moved a bit closer together.

  I was as happy as I’ve ever been in my life.

  Despite Keegel Farzym’s promise to tell us more, the High Poet said nothing for the next several minutes. Little Dumpling grew restless and squirmy, stretching his arms back for Jacob. Once Jacob was carrying him, he stretched toward me. For the next several minutes Jacob, Keegel Farzym, and I passed the baby around as we walked.

  Grampa continued to mutter uneasily.

  The path was soggy, but firm enough to keep us out of the surrounding swamp. Sometimes it became too narrow for us to travel side by side, and we would be forced to drop into single file. Usually Grampa went last, but a couple of times Jacob took that position. I could tell, mostly by glancing at his hand to see how his fingers were moving, that being last made him nervous. I think he was terrified some monster might rise from the murky water and grab him from behind … that he might disappear without the rest of us even knowing he was gone.

  Jake tended to worry about things like that.

  Here in Always October his worries actually made sense.

  The full moon shimmered on the dark water and silvered the mist that wound around the twisted trunks of the great trees. An occasional ripple indicated some unknown thing slithering beneath the swamp’s surface. Eerie cries sounded in the distance.

  “What’s making that howling?” asked Jacob from the end of the line.

  “Just children playing,” replied our monster guide. “Lovely sound, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I really like it.”

  Twice we crossed paths that twisted away among the trees. They were scary but somehow fascinating. I found myself longing to follow them, to see where they led.

  “Don’t,” warned Keegel Farzym without even looking back. “Stay with me.”

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  Jacob and I asked the question at the same time. Another jinx moment I had to let pass.

  “It was an easy guess,” rumbled the High Poet. “Those paths are woven over with spells to lure you in.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Keegel Farzym shrugged. “It differs from path to path. Usually it’s because something terrible waits at the other end, hoping to catch the unwary.”

  The strip of dry land was wider here, and Jacob moved up beside me. I saw him swallow before he asked, “What kind of terrible something?”

  “That also differs from path to path,” replied Keegel Farzym softly. “Best not to speak of it, really. Therefore, the last thing I will say on the matter is this: if you should venture onto one of those paths, I cannot protect you.”

  “Well, ain’t that convenient?” snorted Grampa.

  The High Poet shook his shaggy head. “It is ancient law, enshrined in rhyme:

  “To each monster safe his home,

  Where he may set the rules,

  And none may therefore venture in—

  Not even to spare fools.”

  A few minutes later we saw a distant cliff. At the top of the stony height loomed a dark mansion. A single light shone in its tower window.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Cliff House,” replied Keegel Farzym. “It is home to the Library of Nightmares. From topmost tower to deepest dungeon it is a very scary place.”

  Jacob leaned close and whispered, “If this guy thinks the place is scary, it must be downright terrifying!”

  “I know. But doesn’t it kind of make you want to go there?”

  He sighed and handed me the baby.

  A few minutes later we had to go single file again.

  A few minutes after that I turned to talk to Jacob.

  He was nowhere in sight.

  16

  (Jacob)

  THE DREAM EATER

  When the trail narrowed once more, we were forced to revert to single file, this time with me at the end. We had walked this way for maybe ten minut
es when our route was crossed by another of those fascinating paths. I paused to gaze into it.

  As I did, I felt my fear melt away.

  Without intending to, without realizing what I was doing, I stepped forward. The instant I set foot on the path, I was filled by a desperate need to explore it. What I felt wasn’t mere curiosity. Whatever was drawing me on was something deeper, stronger, far more compelling.

  I’ll only go a little way, I thought, feeling oddly brave. I just want to see what’s down there.

  That feeling of bravery was delicious in itself. Fear had been so much a part of my life since Dad had disappeared in that cave that to finally be without it was like having a huge weight fall from my shoulders. Though I intended to take just a quick look along the path, then turn back, I wanted this feeling to go on.

  As I continued, the path became too fascinating to abandon. I knew if I followed it long enough, I would find the answer to an important question, a question I didn’t even realize had been bothering me. Twice I thought, I really need to go back and catch up with the others! But each time I actually tried to turn back, my heart ached with a horrible sense of loss.

  “Just a little farther,” I told myself both times. “A little farther and then I’ll turn around.”

  Except I knew it wasn’t true. Deep inside, I knew I had to discover what was at the end of the path.

  The farther I went, the stronger grew the feeling that something wonderful, something important, was waiting for me.

  It wasn’t until the path led me into a large clearing that I realized what a fool I had been.

  And by then, of course, it was too late.

  Across the center of the clearing stretched a great web. Its silvery strands, thick as yarn and intricately woven, shimmered in the moonlight.

  In the center of the web, its reddish-black body divided into two great lobes by an absurdly slender waist, was a spider the size of a coffin. Its eight black legs were thick as a man’s forearms where they arched out from its body, but tapered down until they were toothpick thin at the ends. As for the creature’s face, though you couldn’t actually call it human, neither was it truly spiderlike, since it jutted forward on a solid neck and was framed by oily curls of lavender hair.

  Arrayed across the upper part of that face were four enormous eyes. The outer two looked like basketballs made of black glass. The inner two, merely fist sized, had yellow-gold irises and pupils like a cat’s.

  They were gazing directly at me.

  Beneath the eyes gaped two large holes—nostrils, I assumed.

  Below the nostrils stretched a mouth so wide, it seemed the creature’s head would split in half if it smiled too broadly.

  The sight was so terrifying I could hardly breathe.

  And that was before the creature did smile (the head didn’t split, which would have been a relief) and murmured in a low, feminine voice, “Hello, little one. I was hoping you would make it all the way here. It takes a brave boy to do that. I like brave boys.”

  “Really?” I asked, trying not to stammer.

  The spider creature’s smile grew broader. “Oh, yes indeed. They’re much tastier than the cowardly ones.”

  My heart began to hammer, and I knew she was wrong about me being brave. I wanted to turn and run. No, I ached to turn and run. The problem was my body had frozen in place, unable to move. As soon as I thought that, I realized it was not actually true; even without trying, I knew I could walk toward the spider creature.

  “What’s your name, boy?” she asked in her dulcet tones.

  “J-J-J-Jacob,” I stammered in reply.

  “Ah, that’s a lovely name. And I am called Octavia. Now tell me, J-J-J-Jacob, what brings you here on this beautiful night?”

  “I j-j-j-just wanted to see what was at the end of the path.”

  She smiled again. I wished she hadn’t.

  “I’m so glad you like my path. I worked very hard to make it. I’ve found that boys, especially, can’t resist it.”

  “Can I go now?”

  Her laugh was low and musical. “You’re so sweet! No, I don’t think it’s time for you to leave. It’s been a while since a boy came to visit, and I’ve been … lonely. Besides, you have something I want.”

  I was silent, too terrified to speak.

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?” she asked, sounding as if my silence had hurt her feelings.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I have to tell you anyway. It’s one of the rules. Come closer and I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

  Though everything inside me was screaming that I must turn and run, run now, run fast, my body refused to obey my commands.

  I took a step forward.

  Then another.

  Octavia lifted her first set of legs and placed them gently on my shoulders. I wanted to close my eyes and block out the sight of her. I found that I couldn’t. I had no choice but to look at her mouth. It was surrounded by coarse, stiff hairs, each as thick as a pencil. In front glistened a pair of curved black fangs, about a foot long. Attached to the sides of her mouth were two things that looked like small arms.

  Pulling me still closer, she said softly, “Even though you wouldn’t ask what I want, I’m going to tell you.”

  I was surprised I could hear her over the pounding of my heart.

  Drawing me so close she could put her mouth to my ear, she whispered, “Your dreams, boy. I want to eat your dreams!”

  I shuddered, and my mouth went dry with fear.

  “Not just your night dreams,” she continued. “I’m going to eat your other dreams, too … your hopes, your goals, your desires, your ambitions.” She sighed, then said softly, “Boy dreams are so lovely. They’re like green sprouts just unfurling, all tender and delicious!”

  She drooled in anticipation, a dark-green trail of saliva that sizzled when it fell to the leaves below.

  I flinched away.

  “Don’t struggle! That will only make it hurt. If you stay still, I won’t have to silk you.” She smiled and added, “Of course, we can do it that way if you prefer.”

  I was too frozen with terror to respond.

  Octavia lifted the armlike things that sprouted from the sides of her mouth and placed them against my head.

  She inserted the moist, pointy tips into my ears and began probing inward.

  I was about to pass out when someone shouted from behind me, “Let the boy go, you monster!”

  It was Gnarly!

  The Dream Eater screamed in rage, then cried bitterly, “Can’t I ever have a meal in peace?”

  “Let him go, or I bury this pickax in that fat belly!”

  Still clutching me by the arms, the Dream Eater scrambled up her web, moving backward with astonishing agility. Soon my toes were dangling about six feet above the ground.

  “Don’t think you can get away by doing that,” shouted Gnarly. Pulling a pair of pruning shears from a pocket of his coveralls, he began snipping at the finger-thick strands that anchored the web to the tree at the right side of the clearing.

  Octavia squealed with new fury, her green spittle flecking my face. It burned where it touched me.

  “Drop him, or this entire web is comin’ down!” shouted Gnarly.

  “He’s mine!” cried the Dream Eater. “He answered my call and followed my path and came to my home, and therefore by right and by rule and by rhyme and by rune he is mine, mine, mine!”

  Gnarly clipped several more strands. The web sagged. Octavia screamed again, a sound like a handful of broken glass being dragged across a chalkboard. Gnarly grabbed a fallen branch, thrust it into the web, and began to shake it, bellowing, “Let the little idiot go!”

  “His dreams belong to me!” shrieked Octavia. “And I am sooooo hungry. It has been too long since I feasted on the brains of a boy.”

  “If it’s brains you want, you got the wrong kid!” Gnarly’s voice was closer now, and I twisted in Octavia’s grip to see where it came from. To my aston
ishment, he had started to climb the tree to which the right side of the web was anchored. He was clipping the silvery strands as he did.

  Octavia’s web sagged worse than ever.

  “Stop!” screeched the spider creature. “Stop! Stop!”

  “Not until you let the boy go!”

  “All right, take him!”

  With that, Octavia flung me away. My arm caught in her web, pulling a large section of it with me as I arced through the air. I landed hard, and it knocked the breath from my lungs. I didn’t mind. I would have gladly fallen several feet farther—would have leaped from a cliff, actually—to escape Octavia’s grip.

  Gasping raggedly, I scrambled toward the path, trying to scrape off the clinging webbing.

  It wouldn’t come.

  A cry from behind made me turn back. The Dream Eater had leaped to the ground. She was advancing on Gnarly. The old man held his pickax before him. Swinging it back and forth, he snarled, “Don’t make me hurt you!”

  Octavia laughed.

  I wanted to run, I really did. But I couldn’t leave Gnarly to face Octavia on his own.

  She continued toward him, waving the armlike things at the sides of her mouth.

  Gnarly held his ground. “I swear I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, tightening his grip on the pickax. “Jest let me and the boy go, and we’ll call it done.”

  “He came to me. He answered my call and he came to me and he was mine until you interfered. I let him go, as you demanded while you were destroying my beautiful home. But someone has to pay a price for that. Someone has to die!”

  I knelt behind Gnarly and scrabbled in the dirt. The soil was soft and loose, so it didn’t take long before I had a double handful. Darting to Gnarly’s right, I flung the dirt at Octavia’s eyes—not the black, glassy ones, but the bright yellow ones at the center of her face.

  She screamed with pain.

  “Now!” I cried. “Kill her now, Gnarly!”

  “Don’t be stupid!” snapped the old man. “Come on, let’s git while we can. Move, boy. Move!”