The Guardians

by William Joyce

  The children loved hearing about the singing mermaids from the island of Zanzibar. About the pirates of the Yangtze River. About the giant “Abominables”—furry snowmen who roamed the mountain ranges near the top of the world.

  But that morning, when Ombric returned from his talk with his insect friends, he needed to be alone in his study. There could be no children in Big Root today. He pulled the most ancient volumes from his library and read them intently. Silently. And with a frown. The insects had told him of things they had seen—disturbing things—in his enchanted forest! Shadows had come, cast from nothing that could be seen. Silent shadows in strange shapes. And they were coming deeper into the woods each night, closer and closer to Big Root.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Terrifying Walk in the Woods

  OMBRIC CONTINUED TO STUDY and worry in his Big Root lab until the first fireflies began to glow. An ancient evil was coming, he was sure, but he still had no plan or potion to fight it. However, Ombric was comforted in knowing he had some time to contemplate, for life all around him was unfolding as usual. Evenings in Santoff Claussen were not like those in other villages. For most villages, twilight signaled the day’s end, the time to close down shop. But here, telescopes were being erected, experiments put into place, the bustle of busy minds filled the air. Children peppered their parents with questions: “Can a dream be captured? If we dream of flying, do we actually fly? Do toys come to life at night when no one is watching?” Boundless possibilites were explored, at least until the children had to be home.

  The children were wily, even brilliant, at avoiding that dreaded span of the day called “bedtime.” It was the one nearly impossible task the village faced each and every night. One night the children disguised themselves as statues. Another, they figured out how to hide inside the paintings on the walls. Most often they’d simply duck into the forest, where even the bear would sometimes hide them. And the herd of Great Reindeer was clearly in on the game, for many were the evenings when they would gallop between the trees with the laughing children on their backs, just ahead of their pursuing parents.

  Child traps were finally invented, intended to shorten the nightly ritual. Gently but firmly, the traps would catch the children, wash them, brush their teeth, clothe them in the proper pajamas, and catapult them to their bedrooms.

  But the children were getting better at avoiding these traps. So the nightly struggle grew more complex. It was a game that the parents indulged and Ombric always enjoyed, but there were times when patience would wear thin. Once, the children even stood in plain sight atop the trees that ringed the village, but, having painted themselves with sky and stars—with Ombric’s magical paints, no less!—they were not discovered until dawn.

  On this particular evening, however, things were decidedly different. The children were tired, they said. Ready for bed, they said. They wanted to sleep. Early, even! The parents were unsure if this was a gift, a trick, or some sort of epidemic. Being parents, though—and tired of the nightly struggle—they gratefully went along. For once they would enjoy an early tucking in.

  But a childwide plot was afoot, and it worked perfectly. When their parents were sound asleep, the children snuck from their homes, made their way past Big Root undetected, and ran to the enchanted woods. For they had also spoken to the ants and slugs (slug merely being a variant of the worm dialect) after Ombric had sent them from his laboratory. What the slugs and ants had to say was difficult to understand since the words “infiltrated” and “unfamiliar” were hard to translate. One girl, the gray-eyed Katherine, the only child who was being raised by Ombric and who actually lived in Big Root, had the best grasp of the conversation.

  “There’s something new and strange in the forest,” she told the others. The insects weren’t sure what it was. The question of whether these invaders would turn out to be good or evil hadn’t entered the children’s minds. They were just doing as they had been taught: to be curious. So lanterns in hand, they set out, eager to discover their new mysterious guests.

  The children ventured deeper and deeper into the forest, following the familiar trails. Not an owl nor chipmunk greeted them. No skunk said hello. They couldn’t even hear the bear, whose rumble of walking or snoring was always a reassuring sound. Everything was oddly quiet. Moonlight barely pierced the thick canopy of limbs and vines.

  The children glanced at one another nervously. No one wanted to be the first to suggest turning back. Ombric called them his “hale and hearty daredevils.” How could they turn back?

  But then the air itself grew unnaturally still and for the first time, the children felt afraid. They huddled against one another and watched the dark grow darker. And then they, too, fell silent.

  The first scream didn’t come till the Fearlings had almost reached them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Out of the Shadows Come Deeper Mysteries

  THE SHADOWS MOVED SLOWLY, soundlessly, encircling the children, drawing closer and closer with each rotation.

  The children bunched together as tightly as they could. At first they had screamed, but that had only made the shadows come nearer, so they had again fallen silent. They watched one another’s faces stiffen with fear in the dim lantern light. How could they defend themselves against these unnatural things? What would Ombric have done?

  The eldest boy, Tall William, the first son of Old William, opened the vent in his lantern and held it high. But the spidery shadows grew longer, reaching for the mass of children even more menacingly, as if challenging the light. “I thought that would help,” he said, puzzled, trying to sound brave. He closed the lantern’s vents.

  “Perhaps if we run,” suggested another boy.

  “No!” cried Katherine. “We must stay together. Look! Something’s coming!” She pointed to tiny lights that were beginning to dot the forest around them. Fireflies! In numbers too vast to calculate, they swarmed forth and attacked the shadows like luminous darts released from an invisible bow. Moments later the birds, the reindeer, and nearly every creature in the forest joined them! Then the trees began to swing their branches; the vines lashed out like whips. But how can a shadow be fought?

  The shadows splintered apart. But since they were shadows, they instantly came together again, taking new forms. They snapped and crushed the vines and hurled the forest defenders as if they were leaves in the wind. Undaunted, the forest army fought desperately on, rising repeatedly to protect the children. Still, the shadows slipped past them and began to envelop the children in a blanket of darkness. The older children immediately draped themselves over the younger ones in a last effort to protect them. And where is the bear? Surely the bear will help us, they thought as the inky blackness flooded over them.

  Then out of the night sped something swift and bright—something that moved almost too quickly to be seen. It was brighter than fire, and the shadows cowered. And then there was laughter. The bright laughter of mischief.

  And in a single perfect moment the children saw what looked to be a spritelike boy holding a staff with a brilliant moonlit glow at its end. He seemed to glisten like beads of light. He stood calmly amidst the chaos, his laughter bringing forth swirls of mist that hovered in the air. Then, in an instant, he blurred into a hundred shafts of refracting light that came together around the children like a protective cone, driving back the shadowy blanket. Then he blistered out in all directions, driving back every shadowy creature that could be seen.

  When the shadows vanished, so did the spectral boy, leaving behind only a breeze of misty laughter that drifted over the woods like an echo.

  The children stood up slowly. The forest creatures righted themselves. As the boys and girls looked around in stunned disbelief, they saw their parents and Ombric approaching from the edge of the forest. For once, in this town where surprise was the order of the day, no one knew quite what to say about what they had just seen. Even Ombric was rendered momentarily speechless. But the wizard now understood what they were all abo
ut to face.

  “I suggest, given current events, that the safest place for the children to sleep this night is Big Root,” he said finally. “An ancient evil has awakened—and I must tell you more. Come.”

  And before anyone could agree or not, the wizard threw open his cloak and transported them all to the tree.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Golden Age

  FOR SUCH AN OTHERWORLDLY fellow, Ombric was a very thoughtful host. Not only had he brought everyone in the village to his tree, but with a quiet command, he asked Big Root to form sleeping quarters for all the children, and the tree complied, as it always did, with his wishes. Bunk beds materialized from its hollow center, fanning out like the spokes of a giant wheel. Each row was stacked five beds high. And twisting down the center was a spiral staircase.

  Cookies, chocolates, and warm cocoa hovered in the air by each bed. The fear ebbed from the children as they reached for the sweets. The adults were more wary. They knew these treats were meant to comfort. So they were braced. . . . What was Ombric going to tell them?

  While the children delighted in which type of cookie they’d received, Ombric stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up pensively at the high hollow of Big Root. He raised one finger skyward and twirled it in a circular motion. From the top of the tree’s hollow, bark began to peel back until a large round portal, like a window, opened up.

  The whole village was there, parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles. The children leaned out from their bunks. They could now see up to the starry sky and the Moon, glowing bright and beautiful.

  “Tonight we find ourselves at the center of an ancient war,” Ombric began, walking slowly up the staircase. “Look at our Moon. It was not always there to light our night. A war brought it to us—a war with the Nightmare King.” He paused and waved his arm toward the glowing sphere.

  There once was a time called the Golden Age. It is said that there has never been anything as magnificent before or since. Travel among the planets and stars was common then. The galaxies were filled with airships of every size and shape imaginable. And the universe was ruled by the Constellations—groups of stars and planets led by great, benevolent families who governed with imagination, fairness, and flair. Of these regal families, the House of Lunanoff was most beloved; if the Golden Age had true royalty, it was Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff.

  Early on, however, the Seas of Space were rife with treacherous bands of outlaws: Fearlings, Nightmare Men, Dream Pirates. The Lunanoffs had pledged to rid all evil from the Golden Age, and together with the other Constellations, they built a prison out of lead in the farthermost regions of space. There, they entombed the criminals of the cosmos in eternal darkness until they became little more than shadows. And the Golden Age flourished.

  But darkness came in the shifting shape of a villain named Pitch. Pitch had been the Age’s greatest hero. He had led the Golden Armies in capturing the Fearlings and their ilk. And when all the evil had been rooted out, he valiantly volunteered to guard the prison’s single entrance. The Constellations agreed, for with Pitch on watch, no nightmarish prisoner would ever escape.

  But evil is a cunning force. It can find the weakness in any man, even the bravest. For years Pitch listened to the constant whispered chatter of the prisoners pleading through the door. “One breath of fresh air. Please,” they hissed. “One small breeze.”

  It only takes a single weak moment to let evil in . . . or out. And one day Pitch opened the door. Just to let in some air.

  That was all it took.

  The evil shadows rushed out and engulfed Pitch. They poured into him, possessing him utterly until they darkened his soul forever. From that moment on, he was a madman—his strength and abilities increased tenfold, and his heart, once noble, was now cold and cruel. His mind was twisted with the shadows’ thoughts of vengeance. He would destroy the House of Lunanoff. He would end the Golden Age he had once loved and defended. And he would do it by turning all good dreams into nightmares.

  With his shadowy Nightmare Men and Fearlings, Pitch sailed the heavens on waves of fear, plundering planets, extinguishing stars, and scuttling any airship that crossed his path, savagely stealing every dream and replacing it with misery and despair. The dreams he hungered for most were those of children—the pure of heart. He could sense children from seven planets off, and with a mere touch of his hand, he could leave them plagued with nightmares for the rest of their lives. And for some there was a worse fate. Pitch turned some children into Fearlings, glorying in their pathetic moans and cries as he transformed them from humans to dark phantoms.

  Pitch had ravaged every outpost of the Golden Age, except the Constellation Lunanoff. He had saved the best for last. For the Lunanoffs had a child. A son. Not just a son, a prince. Prince Lunar. And the prince had never had a nightmare!

  For that youngest Lunanoff, Pitch had a special fate planned. The Nightmare King would make him one of his own. No lowly Fearling would Prince Lunar be. Instead, he would be the Prince of Nightmares!

  And so the hunt began. The Lunanoffs knew that Pitch would come for them. They had constructed a remarkable craft called the Moon Clipper that was not only the swiftest ship in the galaxies but, with the flick of a switch, could transform itself into a Moon. The Lunanoffs were at full sail toward a distant galaxy with their stalwart crew of Moonbots. Their destination: a small, uncharted green and blue planet known only to them. It was called Earth. In those days Earth had no Moon, which made it a perfect destination. If Pitch came near, they would go into hiding, disguised as a Moon.

  But despite the Lunanoffs’ best efforts, Pitch had spotted them. He attacked just as they neared the small planet. It was the last great battle of the Golden Age and unlike any the galaxies had ever seen, for Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff would die rather than have Pitch take their child. The crew, too, was ready to fight to the last, and they knew the secret of how to fight a shadow. Meteors or shooting stars carved and fashioned into swords, spears, and bombs were filled with an astral brightness that shadows could not withstand.

  Though the Lunanoffs heroically defended the Moon Clipper, the outer hull of their craft was blasted and battered until its guns were too damaged to fire. Then Pitch, with his innumerable phantoms, were able to overwhelm the Moon Clipper. Just as they captured Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff, there was a great explosion—brighter than twenty suns. The cause of that explosion has never been known. Who or what stopped Pitch is one of the greatest mysteries of the Golden Age.

  Pitch and his Fearlings were never seen again. Nor were the young prince’s parents. And the Moon Clipper would nevermore set sail. It would rotate forever around the Earth—by all appearances, a lifeless rock.

  And what became of the baby prince? His parents had sequestered him during the battle, deep in one of the Moon’s many hollow chambers.

  The prince survived, as did a small contingent of Moonbots and other Moon creatures. But Prince Lunar was no longer a prince. He was now the new Tsar Lunar, the only surviving member of the House of Lunanoff. The Moonbots’ devotion to the young tsar was unflagging, and they did everything in their power to make up for the loneliness he felt without his parents. He was doted upon and indulged. With the entire Moon as his playground, his life was a never-ending series of wild, hurtling, do-as-you-please days. There were tunnels to explore. Craters to slide down. Mountaintop jumping (a benefit of little gravity).

  There was no school, no schedule, no bedtime, no real rules. But the planet became his school by virtue of its wonders. He learned to use the battalions of telescopes his parents had secreted in the hidden caves of the Moon Clipper. He began to observe the nearby Earth and its people. This became one of his favorite pastimes—watching the Earthling families, who were so much like his own had been. Knowing that others were close gave him comfort and lessened his loneliness.

  As he grew, the young tsar came to look upon the children of Earth as his friends, and he began to send them dreams, using machines that had been d
eveloped during the height of the Golden Age and were still aboard the Moon Clipper. And the Earth began to flourish as never before.

  But Tsar Lunar always keeps watch, wary that someday Pitch may somehow return and destroy the new Golden Age he hoped would begin on our Earth.

  Here Ombric stopped his story. The images on the Moon faded away. The villagers turned to the wizard.

  “Pitch has returned,” said Ombric evenly. “We’ve seen the proof.” He pulled a small glass jar from his cloak. Inside was a fist-size Fearling, churning and desperate to escape. A chorus of worried gasps came from the children and their parents.

  “It can’t get out,” Ombric assured them. “The glass is made from star sand, like the windows in Big Root.”

  Everyone nodded with relief. Then a flood of questions sounded out.

  “But are we safe?” asked one parent.

  “Will they return?”

  “How do we fight them?”

  “Are you powerful enough to stop them?”

  “Who was that boy with the staff?”

  “You can see the future! Tell us!”

  Ombric held up his hand to quiet them. He looked at his friends with ancient eyes, his brow furrowed deeply. “It is true, I know many things,” he said. “But this is beyond even my abilities. I am certain of only this: We are strong. We are brave. But we will need help. The children will sleep here tonight where they are safest.”