Thieves of Weirdwood

by Christian McKay Heidicker

  Wally felt guilty for abandoning Arthur, Huamei, and Sekhmet. But he needed to be alone when he saw Graham. He’d never done it any other way. Besides, Wally felt useless to the Novitiates now. He wanted to help save Kingsport, but without Breeth to guide and protect him, he didn’t have anything to offer. He was just a sneak thief without his lock picks.

  The sun rose like a silver coin over the inky sea, giving the Mirror City a touch of normalcy. But the light seemed to disturb the Mirror citizens, who closed their shutters and slammed their doors. Black snow dusted the streets. Somewhere, children sang a dark hymn.

  Wally arrived at the Slopping District where beastly sellers packed up their strange wares for the day. The cobbles glowed in the silver sunlight. He found the puppet theater—right where Arthur said it would be. But its shutter was closed, the puppets tucked away in their drawers.

  “Graham?” he said softly.

  The street was silent. Then …

  “Brother?”

  Wally turned around and found a hand sticking out of a second-floor window.

  “Graham!” His eyes filled with tears of relief. “What are you doing here?”

  Graham’s hand craned down as if looking right at him. “Punch and Judy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Punch and Judy. Have you seen them?”

  Wally huffed. Of course he’d seen them. They were the loud, obnoxious puppets that performed on the docks for thrown copper pieces.

  “Graham, we’re in a dangerous place. This is no time to talk about puppets.”

  Graham’s hand smiled. “Perhaps, dear brother, now is the perfect time to talk about puppets.”

  The doctor at Greyridge had told Wally never to humor his brother’s delusions—that it would only make them worse. But Wally found that conversations with his brother went more smoothly when he just let Graham be Graham.

  “Fine,” he said. “What about Punch and Judy?”

  “Do they realize they’re on a stage?”

  “Of course not,” Wally said. “They’re made of fabric and wood.”

  The hand shook its head sadly. “And here I had hoped my brother had learned something since his adventures began.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The world is as real to humans as the stage is to Punch and Judy. People and puppets alike go about their day, unaware of the wonders that lie just beyond the walls of their reality—be it a cardboard stage or the sky above them. If they could just step outside themselves, they would experience the more interesting parts of the universe.” Graham’s hand sniffed, breathing in the Mirror City’s silvery air. “If all the world’s a stage, little brother, then you and I are currently backstage.”

  “Fine,” Wally said. “I get it. You’ve left the stage. Can we go home now?”

  “This is my home,” Graham said.

  “No,” Wally said. “Kingsport is your home.”

  Graham clucked his tongue. “Kingsport is as dull to me as a miniature set glued with cotton ball clouds.” He gazed around the Slopping District. “Until recently, I knew you weren’t ready to know of this place’s existence. Too many curtains in your brain, blocking the view. But now that you’ve been through the Manor … you’re finally ready to understand.”

  Wally hugged himself against the Mirror’s cold. “This city is evil, Graham. The creatures here have escaped into Kingsport and hurt people.”

  Graham’s hand nodded sadly. “Every city has its dark side. You know better than most that the people of Real Kingsport don’t need imaginary creatures to find ways to hurt one another. They have their own methods: stealing, starvation, gangs that take advantage of kids.” The hand gazed up at the golden clouds, the green, morning lightning. “The Mirror isn’t all Ogre Oakers and murderous authors, you know. Why, just this morning I watched a giant and his pale blue ox chop down a forest of hissing trees.”

  Wally marched to the door below Graham’s window. His brother may have been older, but he ate very little and didn’t get much exercise. Wally would carry Graham back to Kingsport if he had to. The door was locked, of course.

  Graham’s hand grinned above. “Now that you can visit me whenever you please, there’s no reason for me to return to that foul city.” His fingers tilted lovingly toward the crooked horizon. “I’ve wanted to live in this place since I was very young. And now I’m finally here.”

  Wally stared at the cobbles, following clues back through their childhood like bread crumbs. “Wait. You just happened to draw pictures of other worlds before a Manor that borders the worlds just happened to show up?”

  The hand shook its head. “Don’t be silly. That would be too great a coincidence. Too many coincidences spoil the story. No, I first dreamt of the coming of the Manor when I was six years old. And I saw the specific location in Kingsport where the Veil would grow thinnest, allowing me to enter the Mirror City with my portals.” Graham’s hand smiled toward the cliffs. “Of course it would happen at the mental hospital. The patients there are more willing to bend their views of so-called reality in ways the city dwellers are not.”

  “You saw all of this coming?” Wally said. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

  “Oh, but I did. How many times did I tie you up when you were younger? Did you think I was being cruel? I was preparing you to escape that Manor’s tower when the time was right.”

  Wally felt manipulated. Like his brother had been pulling his puppet strings since the beginning. “If you could see the future, then why didn’t you warn Mom and Dad about the Pox? You could’ve saved them! We could still be a family!”

  Graham’s fingers curved in an impression of a sad smile.

  Wally’s heart took a tumble. “You did try and tell them … But they didn’t believe you because—because who’d believe a kid who says a third of the city’s going to die?”

  The hand sighed. Then it vanished in the window.

  “Graham?” Wally called up. He tried forcing the handle. He pounded the door, bruising his fists. “Graham!”

  The door opened. Graham stepped out. He wore a cloak, his hands tucked in his pockets, no longer mimicking puppets. “Now you know why I don’t tell people about the future. Instead, I just try and prepare them for it.”

  Wally hadn’t felt prepared for anything that had happened over the last few days. But he wondered what would have happened if his brother had never tied him up when he was younger. Would he have even survived the Manor?

  Graham touched Wally’s arm. “I’m sorry, little brother. I’ve been used to the idea of the Mirror since I was very young. It must be overwhelming for you.”

  “Yeah,” Wally said. “It is.” He set his jaw and took Graham by the wrist. “Come on. We need to get you back to Greyridge. Maybe they’ve cleaned it up by now.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Wally,” Graham said softly.

  Wally stopped and studied his brother’s face. Graham was finally free from the hospital. The bill no longer had to be paid. Wally’s greatest dream had come true … So why did it feel like a nightmare?

  “What about me?” Wally asked. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You, little brother, have to go back.”

  Wally suddenly felt lost. Like a balloon with a cut string. He no longer had to pay off the hospital bills, but he was still at the mercy of the Rook. Wally would return to Kingsport and try to find a way to pay off his tribute to the Rook, then eke out a life for himself with the Black Feathers. That somehow scared him more than being stuck in the Mirror. With no family to look after, what would he fight for?

  “What are you going to do?” Wally asked his brother.

  “Oh, you know,” Graham said, rocking toe to heel, “watch the sky flora. Relish the inverted doughnuts.” He stared at the sky. “I also hope to teach the people of the Real how to leave their puppet stage and enter the Mirror. If they refuse—and they probably will, humans are nervous creatures—then I will break their stage so everyone can s
ee the wonders that await them on the other side.”

  A horror crept through Wally. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m talking about the fall of the Veil, brother!” Graham said with feverish excitement. “The merging of the Fae and Kingsport. Just think of it! Your wildest fantasies filling the city. A cake the size of a skyscraper! A drake cub curled in your lap. Children chasing their escaped eyeballs down the street. And that’s just on the Real side. The sugar in Kingsport alone could feed the starving elf children in the Fae for decades!”

  Wally took a step away. “But … that’s what that evil Order is trying to do.”

  Graham nodded. “The Order of Eldar.”

  “They want to overthrow Lady Weirdwood and the Wardens so they can control the border,” Wally continued. “If they tear enough Rifts, the Veil will fall, destroying Kingsport and the rest of the world. It would be an apocalypse.”

  Graham chuckled. “Apocatastasis.”

  “Whatastasis?”

  “A return to how the world was before humans mucked it up and drove all of the myths and dreams away. The rise of the Great Slumbyr.”

  Wally’s head felt heavy. These things didn’t sound as scary when his brother described them … But Wally was so new to all of this. He didn’t know what to believe.

  “The Order of Eldar is greedy,” Graham continued. “On that much Lady Weirdwood and I agree. But if the Veil falls, then no one can control it. Both the Order and the Wardens will be powerless. When the Order succeeds in overthrowing the Manor, they will help me realize the potential of both realms.” He placed a hand on Wally’s shoulder. “As will you.”

  “Overthrow the Manor?” Wally said, feeling sick.

  He remembered the Golden Scarab Graham had given to Arthur. The mechanical insect had poisoned Lady Weirdwood, leaving her in a coma. Graham’s eccentricities had always felt harmless, but now …

  Graham squeezed Wally’s shoulder. “It’s the only way.”

  Graham suddenly looked like a stranger. Wally could barely recognize him.

  “But if more creatures pour into Kingsport,” Wally said, “then more people are going to die.”

  Graham nodded sadly. “As in any revolution.”

  Wally pulled his shoulder away. “I refuse to be a part of this. I’m not going to help bring down the Veil or whatever it is you want me to do.”

  “Haven’t you been listening, brother? You don’t have a choice. I’ve already seen it happen. Call it genes. Call it fate. Call it the great puppet strings that make the world spin round. You’ll make the Veil fall simply by being you.”

  Wally felt frozen. He didn’t dare move a muscle.

  “Your intentions are good, Wally,” Graham said. “That’s what matters. You’re going to try and help people. And that will make all the difference in the end.”

  Fear pumped cold through Wally’s veins. “How will I bring down the Veil?”

  Graham got a glazed look in his eyes.

  “Huh?” Wally said. “Answer me!”

  Graham stared over the rooftops. His face fell slack. “Oh.”

  “What?” Wally said. “What is it?”

  “The dragon is about to die.”

  Ice touched Wally’s heart. “Huamei?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Because you might have saved him,” Graham said. “The Veil cannot fall without Huamei’s death. It’s tragic. But that’s how this story goes.”

  “I have to save him!” Wally said, backing away.

  “You can leave whenever you want,” Graham said. “It won’t help.”

  Wally was torn between dragging his brother back to Greyridge and rescuing Huamei.

  “Don’t worry, little brother,” Graham said with a smile. “I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

  Wally ran back toward the greenhouse.

  “Farewell, Wally!” his brother called. “I wish you the best of luck and all of the strangeness I can muster. And remember! What goes best with Graham?”

  Wally kept running. He didn’t have time for riddles.

  19

  THE AUTHOR IN THE MIRROR

  “I’m going after him,” Sekhmet said the moment they realized Wally was gone.

  “I’m coming with you,” Arthur said. “I don’t want a warthog or something turning my friend into a pet.”

  The moment he was done speaking, he smelled a pleasant scent, as if his words were as fragrant as flower petals.

  Sekhmet pointed her sword at the silhouette in the fogged greenhouse wall. “You and Huamei need to stay here and keep an eye on Moore. If he could track our actions in the Real, he may know we’re here and try to escape.” She looked at Huamei. “You keep an eye on Arthur.”

  Huamei sneered. “I wasn’t aware babysitting was part of my Novitiate duties.”

  “Just do it,” Sekhmet said, holstering her sword. “I’ll be back.”

  She ran down the street, and Arthur studied Moore’s silhouette behind the fogged glass. The Mirror writer was still writing. Arthur knew that Valerie Lucas was the actual creator of Garnett Lacroix, but he couldn’t help but have an attachment to Moore. When Sekhmet returned, she was going to lead a full-on attack against his favorite author. Arthur couldn’t watch that happen.

  He stared at the scribbling silhouette. “He doesn’t look harmful.”

  “Few things in the Mirror do at first glance,” Huamei said. “Think of the porcelain doll.”

  Sure, Arthur thought. But that doll didn’t write the greatest adventure stories ever told.

  Garnett Lacroix would never just up and murder one of his enemies, no matter how evil they were. He would use charm and cunning to disarm them. And if that didn’t work, only then would he defeat them with a battle of wits over a poisoned cookie or something.

  “I think we can handle this ourselves,” Arthur said. “Without a flood.”

  Huamei narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to save the life of someone you’ve never met? Let alone never existed?”

  “I’ve never met Little Red Riding Hood either, but I don’t want the wolf to eat her.”

  Huamei’s lips coiled, like he was trying not to laugh. He considered the silhouette. “Dragon bones aren’t to be trifled with. A mere scribble of that Quill could summon creatures that—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Arthur said. “I know.”

  He needed to find the thing that would get Huamei on his side. Arthur studied the dragon boy’s face—his flared nostrils, his raised chin. Pride. That was the key.

  He nodded toward Sekhmet, now a small figure in the distance. “Do you usually take orders from her?”

  “I do not,” Huamei said, clearly annoyed.

  “Then why start now?” Arthur said. He nodded toward the greenhouse. “I could go in there and try to reason with Moore. If he summons a wave of chain saw crabs or something, then you can turn into a dragon, swoop in, and rescue me. We can secure the Quill and get you back to the Cloud Kingdom. And you won’t have to take orders from a mere human. Whaddaya say?”

  Strangely, the pleasant flower scent faded.

  Huamei narrowed his eyes at Arthur. Then he took out his calligraphy brush. “I’ll be on the roof. It’s foggy enough, and my scales will camouflage with the sky. If you’re in trouble, send a signal, and I’ll break through.”

  “Perfect,” Arthur said.

  With great swooping arcs, Huamei began painting a coiling blue body in the air. Arthur stared at the greenhouse and tried to formulate a plan. He remembered an unsettling detail from the story that had tried to murder Valerie Lucas and knew just what he needed.

  “Wait,” Arthur said to Huamei, who was partway through his transformation. “Can I borrow your ink?”

  Dragon Huamei wrinkled his scaled forehead.

  “Trust me,” Arthur said.

  Huamei reached a clawed hand into his robes, which were slowly transforming into his mane, and drew out an ink bottle. Arthur pocketed
it.

  Soon, Huamei was no more—vanished within his own dragon painting. Using his coral-sharp claws, he scaled the greenhouse.

  “Okay,” Arthur whispered to himself as he entered the glass door and pressed through the coils of purple and green vines. “Here I go. Into adventure. All by myself. This is great. This is what heroes do.”

  It was warm and dark in the greenery. The air felt sweaty. The plant life stretched so wide and deep, Arthur felt as if he were lost in a jungle. Anything could part the leaves and attack him at any moment.

  Arthur took a breath and relaxed his shoulders. It was important, he knew, to maintain a confident air when the world was crumbling around you. When your city was attacked by monsters. When your childhood hero was little more than bones and cobwebs. When the author who created him was an imaginary pen name who killed innocents. When you didn’t have a single coin to pay off the gang leader who wanted your father dead.

  That last thought made Arthur hold his stomach.

  He was wheezing by the time he reached the back of the greenhouse. Not out of exhaustion but out of fear. He tried to remind his quaking heart that he was an expert on everything Moore and not just a twelve-year-old kid in a strange land that he barely knew anything about.

  Candlelight flickered behind the leaves. The dragon-bone Quill scratched. Arthur took a deep breath. “Hello?”

  The Quill stopped scratching. “Who is it?” The voice was quiet. Haunted.

  Arthur cleared his throat, hoping to banish the butterflies in his stomach. Then he opened his lips and let the words flow. “Door-to-door sales, sir!”

  Another silence. “In a greenhouse?”

  “We’re specialized, sir! Only selling to the most imaginative artists deserving of our wares.” Arthur took out the bottle of ink. “You wouldn’t happen to be a writer, would you?”

  Silence.

  Arthur gave the bottle a shake. “I have in my hand the finest ink you’ve ever dipped quill in,” he continued, summoning the voices of the Market Square sellers. “Ten out of ten writers call it a necessity to finish that pesky manuscript. Whether writing your hero out of a death-defying predicament or penning a gruesomely believable monster, this ink will serve you.”