The Guardians

by William Joyce

  Then he opened the Fearling’s jar. The creature streaked out and flew about the room, swirling and diving through the bunks. The children ducked under the covers as it neared. Their parents reached out to protect them, glancing at one another nervously. The next instant, a moonbeam shined down from the Moon and chased after the Fearling. Light is quicker than shadow so the beam easily caught the Fearling, and with one touch, the awful creature dissolved into nothingness.

  As the room calmed, Ombric approached this new moonbeam. “Did Lunar send that glowing boy?” he asked with urgency in his voice. The children grinned at one another. Of course Ombric spoke the language of moonbeams! The beam dimmed and its light flickered. Ombric nodded. “No? Most interesting.” He stroked his eyebrows. “Now return to your home, young soldier,” he told the moonbeam. “Tell Tsar Lunar what you’ve seen. Send what help you can.” The moonbeam paused for a moment and then shot back up through Big Root’s open hollow, into the sky.

  “Will it help us?” asked a boy named Fog.

  “I have every hope,” replied Ombric.

  “I don’t want to have nightmares,” cried Fog’s sister.

  “Will I be turned into a Fearling?” asked Katherine, who sat in her usual bed.

  Ombric turned to Katherine. He’d cared for her since she was a baby, so she held a special place in his heart. “Not as long as there is breath in this old wizard!” Then lowering his eyebrows to their usual calm position, he twirled a single finger to shut the portal at the top of Big Root’s hollow and bade the parents good night. The most they could do was try to get some sleep. But in the darkest part of the night, sleep was shattered. A terrible, ground-trembling, ferocious roar sounded out through Santoff Claussen.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nicholas St. North (A Most Unlikely Source of Help)

  LATER THAT NIGHT, IN the raggedy camp of the wildest ruffians of the Russian plains, there slept a young bandit chief named Nicholas St. North. No one knew exactly how old he was, for even he did not know his birthday, but he was old enough for the beginnings of a beard and was without argument the most daring young rascal in all the Russias. A hero he was not. But it was said that he once defeated an entire regiment of cavalry with a bent steak knife—while he was eating. Impressive swordsmanship indeed, but not the kind of achievement that would make a mother proud.

  North had no mother or father or family that he could remember. He had never been tucked into bed. He’d never known the safety of a home or the tenderness of a mother’s embrace, nor the happy camaraderie of a father’s company. His boyhood was spent in the wilds, aware of himself only as both predator and prey. There are skills that develop when one grows up forgotten and wild: keen eyes, light steps, impossible quickness. These skills would become North’s native tongue—that and a preternatural sense of where danger lies. As a boy, he fled from that feeling, but as he grew older he pursued it.

  Trees produce growth rings for each birthday, but North had no way to mark the time that had passed. He was somewhere in his teens, though, when he was taken in by the Cossacks, the most savage tribe of warriors in the Russian Empire. Soon North became their greatest fighter. With dirk, dagger, or pistol, he was matchless. They taught him their language. And then he charmed them out of rations, supplies, and common sense. It would be logical to assume that a taste of civility (if one can call the Cossacks “civil”) would tame the lad, but North remained just as wild—only now, having learned from these warriors, he was more cunning, powerful, and well fed.

  Still, along with all these dubious qualities, there came a ready smile. “Life is made up of danger and heartbreak,” he’d boast. “I laugh in the face of both!” Yet for all his humor and charm, North thought of no one but himself, caring only for the thrill of battle and the pursuit of treasure. But Cossacks were, at heart, a cruel bunch, and North, even with his meager moral outlook, could not abide their disregard for human life.

  And so he had left the Cossack brotherhood to become a bandit—the most notorious in Europe. Never caught and always at the ready, he and his ragtag band of outlaws had plundered half the wealth of the continent. But the money never lasted long. They gambled and wasted it away almost as quickly as they stole it.

  North was, in fact, sound asleep and dreaming of just how to steal the other half of the continent’s riches when a moonbeam, sent by the Man in the Moon himself, shined down into the bandits’ camp. It darted from outlaw to outlaw, flickering to the ear of Sergei the Terrible. Nope, wrong thief. Putin the Creepy. Not right either. Then Gregor of the Mighty Stink. Yikes! Wrong again. Then, finally, it found North. Ah yes, the bandit prince! In perfect Russian, the moonbeam began to transmit the message, the story-dream that the Man in the Moon suspected would entice young North.

  Nicholas St. North mumbled and squirmed in his sleep, trying to swat the moonbeam away, but the beam persisted. This was a very important mission, and when it finally managed to embed the story-dream in North’s sleeping mind, it darted back into the sky.

  If anyone in the camp had been awake at the time, they would have seen North with his eyes shut, cocking his head from side to side for several minutes as if listening to an astounding tale. Then North began to laugh, a loud, deep, rumbling laugh that went on and on. It grew louder and fuller, until it woke his men. They looked at their leader in surprise. He still was not awake, but he was still laughing away.

  Finally, even the horses began to stir. And of all who were there, only North’s horse, Petrov, had the courage to approach. His fellow thieves all respected Nicholas—admired him, even—and would follow him anywhere. But he was rash and unpredictable—most definitely NOT the type of person you woke up! Petrov, however, walked calmly through the camp and stood over his master. He was a smart horse—smarter than most of North’s men. With a quick shake of his head, he managed to drop the ends of his reins onto North’s laughing face.

  The bandit chief awoke, but his laughter did not stop. It only grew louder. Still laughing, he leaped to his feet, grabbed two pistols from his sashed belt, and fired them into the air. Then, with a single jump, he landed in Petrov’s saddle, grabbed the reins, and rode off into the darkness without saying a word.

  His men squatted by the campfire, baffled by North’s strange departure. Then one by one, they rose up, mounted their own horses, and rode into the black night after their leader. Dark it may have been. Certainly too dark to see. But that didn’t matter. They could still hear the laughter. And they knew by its tone that Nicholas St. North was leading them to adventure and riches beyond anything they’d ever dreamed of.

  North has a two-shot dream.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Is Not Really a Chapter at All—Just a Piece

  of the Greater Puzzle

  ON A CRAGGY MOUNTAINTOP high above the Russian wilderness, that boy, that spectral boy who braved the Fearlings and shadows, hid from the moonlight. He peeked out from between boulders left behind by ancient glaciers, then instantly hunkered back into the darkness. The Moon knew he was there. A handful of moonbeams danced about the rocks as if teasing him out. The boy peeked again, drew back, then couldn’t resist one more look. The beams bounced from rock to rock, and slowly, hesitantly, the boy stepped forward into the light and gazed up at the Moon.

  For once, he stood perfectly still, staring intently at the Moon’s glowing orb. He began to recognize the face—a face from long ago. It was the face of his oldest and dearest friend, whom he had not seen since the fateful battle with Pitch. Dozens, then hundreds, of moonbeams shined down and danced around the boy. The wind began to pick up, and misty mountain clouds swirled by him, not but an arm’s length away. The moonbeams started to strobe and flicker.

  The beam trapped inside the boy’s diamond-tipped staff flashed excitedly. The staff began to shake in the boy’s hand. He brought it to his face and looked closely at the beam. It seemed to speak to him. He instinctively raised the staff to the sky. The moonbeams around him then focused on the diamond. In feve
red bursts of light, they appeared to celebrate the finding of their lost comrade. Messages were apparently being sent and received, then the staff pulled the boy toward the passing clouds. As a brilliant glow filled the air, the boy stepped right off the edge of the mountain peak. But he did not fall! As his foot reached the open air, it landed upon one of the clouds that was soaring by.

  The spectral boy took one step, then another. He looked down around himself. He was standing on a cloud!

  The next instant, he was running, bounding from cloud to cloud, faster than seemed possible. He was smiling, as no boy, spectral or otherwise, has ever smiled before.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Where the Impossible Occurs with Surprising Regularity

  NICHOLAS ST. NORTH AND his men rode all night, but it was a most unnatural evening. North’s laughter had finally subsided, but still he charged relentlessly south, like a cheerful madman. The Moon seemed to light the way for them, leading them through the darkest gorges and densest forests.

  After several hours at a hard gallop, they came to a river that was too swift to cross. Before the bandits could even slow down, they saw a streaking figure—Was it a boy? Made of light? There followed a dazzling flash that illuminated the water in a strange, otherworldly way. North peered at the river, his instincts kicking in. He was a betting lad, after all, and he sensed that these moonbeams were coaxing him to trust in the impossible. With a nudge, he urged Petrov forward, and they strode right onto the river. They did not sink but rode atop the water! North’s men dashed after them. It was like that again and again. Lakes, streams, fjords—any body of water that blocked their path would light up and magically support them.

  And then, as they climbed high into the mountains, something even more astounding occurred. At the edge of a steep escarpment, the mountain sheared off into nothingness. North pulled on Petrov’s reins; the horse reared back just in time to avoid a plummeting drop. North surveyed the edge—below them was nothing but clouds. If they pressed ahead, they’d fall. There was no telling how far, but it was certain death. Then there it was again—that glowing boy, the burst of light coursing through the clouds! And yet again North laughed out loud. He cracked Petrov’s reins and they raced forward. Before his men could shout for him to stop, he’d hurtled off the edge. North and Petrov fell a few feet, then landed on a cloud. They rode on, North now laughing with a reckless joy.

  Stunned, his men soared after him, and they, too, began to laugh at the wild, fantastic folly of what they knew was impossible, and yet there it was happening. On and on they rode through these new cloud mountains and valleys, across the white glistening landscape of the air.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Battle of the Bear

  THE ENCHANTED CLOUDS SLOPED past the high hills just outside of Santoff Claussen. North and his men skidded down the last cloud’s wavy edge and jumped to the solid ground just below.

  Dawn was breaking; the sky was just beginning to brighten with hints of purple and blue.

  North barreled forward, urging Petrov toward a dense wooded grove that he suspected surrounded a village. For it was this village he was headed toward, the village called Santoff Claussen, as he’d explained to his men as they’d thundered through the night. “Riches, lads!” he’d bellowed out. “I saw it all in a dream. Treasures like we’ve never seen—not by a half! Not by a tenth! And they’re ours to find!” He’d warned they’d be tested: “Vines with thorns that can cut you in two; trees with roots like lashes. A bear thirty feet tall!”

  One of his men shouted out, “But, Captain, no bandit has ever faced those defenses and lived!”

  North let out a great “Ha!” He paused only for an instant. “WE are no ordinary bandits!” Then he cracked his leather crop and stormed onward.

  Now, just ahead of the sun, the men quickened toward the row of titanic oaks that lined the outer edge of the forest, their huge roots rising up and blocking any path inside. North did not flinch. With Petrov at a full gallop, he rode straight at them. At the last moment the mountainous roots groaned to life. They arched and shifted like prehistoric serpents, forming an entrance large enough for North and his men to ride through. North was sure this was a sign. The village’s defenses are already surrendering! he thought. Perhaps the defenses know exactly who they are up against! “The forest fears us, lads!” he crowed. With whip and spur, they galloped on.

  They rushed through the vast, heaving tumult of tree roots, then hurtled into a barbed tangle of giant vines. The vines untwined their centuries of knotting and let them pass. North glanced at the retreating vines’ spearlike thorns with disdain—this was almost too easy! He grinned back triumphantly at his men. Now, bring on the bear.

  The first streams of sunlight began to flicker through the fortress of limbs and tree trunks. North could make out the tracings of a well-worn trail and, farther ahead, the open knolls of the village. He raised an arm, urging his men onward, when a terrifying roar shattered the early morning quiet. The bear! The roar echoed out again, louder, closer. North drew his sword and rose up in his saddle, eager to see the beast. His men followed suit. So there was going to be a fight after all!

  But as they rounded a bend in the path, it was not a bear they saw at all. Blocking their way was a beautiful misty figure—Ombric’s last line of defense, the Spirit of the Forest. Her shimmering veils, laced with tiny gemstones, shifted and floated around her, as if moving to a breeze that only she could feel. The men reined in their horses and glanced at one another. Not even North’s dream had told of this creature. The Spirit beckoned them closer. As they neared, her eyes glowed and glistened, greener than the emeralds they’d once stolen from the sultan of Constantinople. She seemed made of jewels—the most extraordinary they had ever seen. This must be the fabled treasure!

  Though the bear’s bellows continued, the thieves heard only the jangling of the Spirit’s bracelets. North’s men began to dismount their horses, mesmerized. They walked toward her, lowering their swords. But North was unsure. He looked in the direction of the bear’s roar, then back. A shaft of dawn’s light illuminated the Spirit, and her radiance was now blinding. Feeling hypnotized, even North could no longer pull his gaze from her. The world around him seemed to fall away as he imagined the treasure she must surely be guarding. She reached a pale hand toward him, then opened her slender fingers—gold! North began to lower his saber, ignoring Petrov, who was shaking his mane in frustration.

  The Spirit looked into North’s eyes. She drifted forward, holding the gold coins higher. Then she held out both hands—thousands of coins were spilling to the ground. The treasure was there before him. He need only take it. He wanted to take it. But Petrov reared up and slammed his hooves against the ground. Suddenly North could hear screaming from the village. He tore his eyes from the spirit—the roar of the bear and the panicked screaming flooding his ears. The screams were coming from children! It sounded as if . . . they were screaming for their lives! The sound pulled at North’s soul, reached into a place in his heart he did not know existed. And for the first time in his life, he turned away from treasure.

  He snatched up Petrov’s reins and wheeled away from the glittering phantom. “Lads! This way!” he barked, but they were transfixed. Slapping the reins against Petrov’s neck, North shot his men one last look, just in time to see them scrambling after the loose coins. To his horror, the moment their fingers grasped the coins, they turned to stone. Dashing bandits no longer, they froze into hunched, hideous trolls and elves.

  Before North could fathom what this meant, he heard the children’s cries again. As in all moments of true bravery, North’s heart beat so strongly that it filled his whole body with a steady, urgent pulse, flooding his head until there was no thinking, just action. The pounding of his heart was echoed by the drumming of Petrov’s hooves as North raced toward the screams. A second chorus of screams rose up, and North urged Petrov even faster.

  But when they reached the town center, Petrov reared back. The sc
ene before them was like something out of a nightmare. North had seen many things, but nothing in his young life to match this. A tree, an oak of staggering size, was actually fighting an enormous black bear. His muscles, dense and flexed with aggression, rippled under an endless mass of fur. The tree’s roots had torn from the ground and were thrashing and grabbing at the bear like an octopus. It swung a massive limb to strike at the bear, but the creature blocked the blow, snapping the branch off at the trunk and sending it crashing into a house. Then the bear clawed at the tree’s trunk, digging holes that revealed the tree’s hollow.

  It was there, inside the tree, where North saw the children, at least a dozen of them, cowering and terrified. In front of them stood an ancient wizard madly waving a wooden staff, shouting what sounded like the beginnings of an incantation. But before the wizard could finish, the bear shredded away a huge swathe of bark and snatched the wizard from the hollow, gulping him down in one ferocious bite. The children burrowed deeper into the farthest notches of the tree, quivering.

  The tree gave a great shudder, then its roots and limbs fell limp. The bear sprang free. He eyed the children and raised a massive paw. But North had begun his charge. He had the advantage—he saw the bear, but the bear had not yet seen him! He rammed Petrov into the bear’s black fur at full speed, knocking the brutish creature off balance. Drawing a second saber, North managed a half dozen deep wounds before the bear regained his footing. With a roar that shook the forest, the creature swung around faster than North ever thought possible. One single swipe was enough to fling thief and horse into the air. North landed in the tree’s hollow. Though badly wounded, he did not falter. With the children huddled behind him, he stood his ground.