“Correct . . . you may pass the night, and the boy. And this . . . girl.” The Baroness paused before Abigail. “But not the creature.”
“The creature?” Charlie whispered. “She doesn’t mean Franklin, does she?”
“It would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” the Ranger whispered back before responding to the Baroness. “But the creature, as you call him, is our friend. He is your friend, also—”
“No! It frightens me!” the Baroness shrieked again. This time Charlie had to cover his ears. “No! No! No! No! No! I know what it is! I can see all that it has done, all the horrors of its past!”
The Baroness floated back toward the ceiling, drew in another long breath, and was soon red again. Just then, the front door opened and Franklin entered with Ringo in a blast of winter air. The Baroness locked her eyes on Franklin and continued to hold her breath as Ringo jumped up on the table next to Abigail to bark at the apparition. Her face went from red to purple, then, perhaps just as the Baroness’s life ended, there was a loud pop, and she was gone. A cloud of snow and ice fell from the ceiling, splattering on the stone floor.
Ringo leapt down from the table and sniffed at the puddle of slush.
“What was that about?” Franklin asked, brushing the snow from his cloak.
“We’ve had a visit from the Baroness Draguta Flori. I’m afraid she’s not a fan,” Ignacio said, slapping Franklin on the shoulder.
“What did I do?” Franklin asked.
Ignacio only laughed and turned to roll out his bedding before the fireplace.
“I doubt it’s the last we’ve seen of her tonight.”
Abigail, Charlie, and Ignacio slept around the hearth in their bedrolls, but Franklin lay down on the other end of the room near the door, saying the fire was too hot for him.
Sometime in the night, Charlie woke up from his strange dreams and lay awake thinking about the letter he had written back home. He wondered how his parents and Old Joe were doing and if they missed him. He thought about Billy too, but that made him sad, so he turned to the encyclopedia to follow up on Rohmetall’s report about ghosts, and soon found himself flipping through the pages to the entry for the undead.
As he turned page after page, learning about how they came to be, Charlie felt sorry for these lost souls. The book suggested that such beings were often shrouded in mystery and could arise from “a variety of factors.” Usually it was something about unfinished business, or it could be as simple as an interrupted journey to the afterlife. But the worst cause of all, the one that stuck with Charlie, was that a being could be unaware of its own situation. It was possible for a death to be so unsettled that the soul failed to accept its fate. Charlie closed his eyes and wondered if this explanation could apply to the Baroness Draguta Flori. It was a lot to take in while trying to fall asleep.
The Baroness did return throughout the night but left almost as quickly as she appeared, usually at the first utterance or motion from Franklin. In the end, Charlie thought, the Baroness turned out to be more of a nuisance than actually frightening—though it was curious that even a ghost would find Abigail cold to the touch.
— chapter 28 —
Down from the Mountain
THE STORM HAD blown over by morning, leaving the pinewoods covered in a thick blanket of snow. Charlie stepped out of the lodge and pulled on his wool cap and mittens, grateful that Mrs. Winthrope had thought to pack them for him.
It was quiet and still in the forest, except for a lone magpie that was sitting on a crooked branch, cracking pine nuts in its long, curved beak. Charlie took a deep breath, feeling the cold air burn deep into his lungs, and then addressed the bird.
“Good morning, Mr. Magpie. Slept well I hope.”
But the magpie did not respond, nor did it give any sign that it was paying attention to anything other than its breakfast.
“You’re not the first magpie I’ve seen here, you know,” Charlie said aloud. He thought of Oscar and his rehabilitating pet and how that now seemed like such a long time ago. “We have magpies back home too, so don’t think I’m impressed. I met a ghost last night, and I know a boy who is a werewolf and another boy who can turn himself into a fish—well, kinda. What do you think of that?” Charlie asked, but the bird continued to ignore him.
Charlie shrugged and left the magpie, following the tracks to the stables, where he found Franklin brushing down the great horses.
“Quite a sight to awaken to,” Franklin said, gesturing to their wintery surroundings.
Charlie stood at the open door of the stable at the edge of the snow and hay. “I like it. The snow,” he said. “It’s quiet.”
“Yes, it is.”
They stood, taking in the silence of the snow-laden trees until Franklin set down the brushes and gathered the horses’ harnesses.
“Are we taking Abigail with us?” Charlie asked, stepping into the stable to help him.
“What would you suppose we do with her? Leave her here?”
“No. It’s just, I wasn’t sure. With where we’re going . . .”
“If we even make it,” Franklin added.
Charlie picked up a saddle blanket and handed it to the Monster.
“Regardless, I do not know of a suitable place to leave her along the way,” Franklin continued. “I’d trust her to Mrs. Winthrope, but I am afraid at this point that is no longer an option. I suppose we will have to find a home for her with the Mumiya.” Franklin threw the blanket up on Goliath’s back. “You are wise to worry, Charlie. Some apprehension is healthy. But as your, who was it, your grandfather says, chin up. We will do all right, as will your Abigail Rose.”
Franklin walked around the front of the horse, playfully punching Charlie as lightly as he could on his good shoulder as he passed. “Besides, there’s plenty to keep our minds occupied—there’s the upcoming talks, our cartography lessons, and then to find your cousin Billy, right?”
“That’s right,” Charlie said, starting to smile. He looked up at Franklin and said it again. “That’s right.”
Rohmetall joined them by the stables, pulling the cart out to harness the horses in the morning sun. Then with Franklin and Charlie, he brought them all around to the front of the lodge. True to Ignacio’s promise to the Baroness, they cut plenty of wood to replenish what they had burned during the night and a little extra.
“You know, between the excitement of the trolls and then Miss Rose, I almost forgot to ask,” Ignacio said as they finished stacking the logs. “When we first met, I was looking for a lycanthrope that’s known to roam these parts. Younger, but no longer a pup; he’s a bit of a lone wolf, really, goes by the name of Dwight York.”
Charlie looked to Franklin, who was helping Rohmetall load their supplies in the cart.
“Just lookin’ to consult him about these raids down below. He’s green, but he’s been useful in the past, talking sense into some of the more youthful packs. Wanted to see if he’d be willing to engage them in talks again. We could use all the help we can get.”
“Ah, yes, Dwight York. We’ve seen him, back toward the river. But that was days ago,” Franklin said. “I spoke to him about his duties, though. Under the circumstances, he may come around . . .”
“Much appreciated,” the Ranger answered, turning his attention to his horse. “Well, I must get back to my tasks. Have the relief patrol to meet, anyway.”
“I understand.” Franklin added one more crate to their load and then approached Ignacio to bid him farewell.
“I’ll more than likely see you below if I find him,” Ignacio said, shaking Franklin’s hand. “I’m afraid these impending troubles will bring us together again.”
“And do not forget the dispatches . . .”
“Yes, yes, directly to the Prime Minister. I’ll send an express rider right away,” Ignacio said as he swung up into his saddle.
“Do you think you could mail this one for me?” Charlie asked, handing the Ranger the letter he had written to his mother.
“Of course. It’s not an official dispatch, so can’t guarantee the timeliness of the delivery, but I’ll see to it.”
Ignacio straightened in his saddle.
“Good luck with your search, and you take care of this big fellow, will you? Abigail, you take care of Charlie.”
“I’ll do my best,” Abigail replied.
“Mr. Rohmetall, Ringo, well, huh, good luck to you too.” Ignacio waved his hand, and stepping his horse back toward the river, he began to sing.
“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties
And things that go bump in the night.
O Lord, won’t you save us from the horrors that haunt us
And give us good dreams till the light.
For we are the Rangers, the hard-riding Rangers,
And we’ll give all those nasties a fright!
Those ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties
And things that go bump in the night.”
“What’s that he’s singing?” Charlie asked, looking from Ignacio to Franklin. For a moment he thought the song sounded familiar.
“It’s what the Rangers used to sing once upon a time,” Franklin said, holding his head a little higher. He cleared his throat. “From an old Scots prayer, I believe . . .”
“So step up your horse, and set out your course,
For we Rangers protect what is right!
And be warned, all you ghoulies, you ghosties and beasties,
All you things that go bump in the night!”
Ignacio continued, whistling the tune as he rode off through the pine trees.
“Come on, boy,” Franklin said. “We have a long ride ahead.”
Franklin set Abigail next to Rohmetall on the bench of the cart, and they left the lodge, traveling up a long ridge that allowed them to see out to the Agrarian Plains. Despite their frequent surveying stops, they made better time on the descent out of the mountains. They spent the night in a rocky crag just below the tree line, and began the next day’s journey before the sun had risen.
As the day wore on, the air grew warmer and drier; the trees were smaller and sprouted in wild spirals, and the ground cover changed from the thick carpet of the forest floor to jagged rocks. Abigail and Ringo slept in the cart as they rode, the horses ripping at the clumps of faded green and brown vegetation that sprang up from the cracks in the mushroom-shaped stones.
“They sense what is coming,” Franklin said, pulling on Faust’s reins to guide him back to the trail. “The aridness of this place concerns them. They know without water there can be no food.”
Franklin leaned forward to stroke the side of the big horse’s neck. And once more, Charlie thought he saw something in the Monster’s eye. Again, just a flicker, but he could have sworn that Franklin almost smiled, this time in his admiration for the animal perhaps or the excitement of the adventure that lay ahead—Charlie couldn’t say.
“This is their first journey to this place. Just like you. Prepare yourself, Charlie, because when we get there, you will not believe what the Mumiya have accomplished.”
Franklin sat back in his saddle and rode next to Charlie as he spoke.
“They brought with them the practices of their ancestors and have built great aqueducts and canals. They channeled the river as it comes from the mountains, so they can now grow crops in the desert. It is truly a sight to see. There are fish farms and botanical gardens, spring-fed pools and machines with pulleys and cantilevers that can lift with the strength of a hundred men. They are impressive mathematicians, astronomers . . .”
The trail worsened in places and became steep, but Franklin kept their minds occupied, sharing with Charlie a brief history of the Mumiya. He spoke of them, of their great achievements, with a deep respect. He told with great enthusiasm of their roads and of course the pyramids, and he marveled again at the crops they were able to produce at the edge of the great desert.
“And their medical advances, well, they are truly second to none,” Franklin continued. “But as a society, they are no different from most, plagued by such troubles, you will see. They grow gorgeous rows of corn, fields of wheat as far as the eye can see, and yet they rarely have the manpower for a proper harvest.” Franklin shook his head. “It rots, Charlie. The crops actually rot standing in the fields.”
“I don’t understand,” Charlie said, thinking about the orchards back at Old Joe’s farm. He couldn’t imagine Old Joe letting his apples rot.
“Well, it is simple, really. Along with the skills of their ancestors, they also brought with them their ancient caste systems, which no longer allow for a sustainable working class,” Franklin explained. “The Mumiya are all royalty, or so they say. In their past lives, the great pyramids and such were built by slaves. But slaves had not the means for mummification. This was a privilege reserved for the upper class. Sure, some slaves were mummified along with their masters, pets too for that matter, but apparently not at similar rates.”
“Mummified?” Charlie repeated. “Did you say mummified?”
“Well, of course they are mummified. They are known as the Mumiya after all, aren’t they? Have you been reading that book or simply pretending to? The word is a medieval Arabic term, I believe, or mumia in Latin,” Franklin said, shooting Rohmetall a look that further definition would be unwelcome.
“Nowadays, this society can no longer support itself this way. Made only of kings and queens, the hierarchical disputes are endless. Each one claims to have authority over the other. Their system was never properly designed for the realities of the afterlife. And let me tell you, a former king is hardly decent stock for a solid laborer, or a queen a scullery maid. After all, these are skilled positions and what would a king or queen know of that? And then there are the bog men. I wouldn’t know where to begin; we haven’t the time. They say some of them are almost seven feet tall . . .”
Charlie enjoyed listening to Franklin as they rode. He had become accustomed to his gruff cadence, but he also noticed that something about him had changed. Franklin spoke of the Mumiya with an energy Charlie hadn’t seen before. Swept up in their history, he described the inner workings of their city-state with great excitement. Franklin, the Monster, seemed almost carefree. The small birds and butterflies that flitted from the scrubby underbrush must have sensed this too, because Charlie noticed that they flew without fear from the branches, almost welcoming Franklin as he rode by, some even landing on his shoulders for a moment before darting back into the air to flutter around him.
Abigail had woken up somewhere along the way and held her hand out for them to land on if they cared to. When they did, she beamed and giggled, and so did Charlie, along with Ringo, who barked. Even Franklin now smiled as he spoke.
“Oh, and do the Mumiya hold a grudge. Always squabbling about some old family drama, past double crosses and the like. That’s the reason for this diplomatic business. A brother and sister—can you believe it? I knew their mother and father, and I tell you they would not have stood for it. Not for a minute. They are a tough lot. We will have our work cut out for us the next few days to be sure.”
Franklin spoke with a frenzied liveliness for the rest of the afternoon, stopping here and there to attend to his maps and dispatches. As the sun set on the horizon ahead, they found themselves back by the river. The flies were thick by the water’s edge but did not bother Charlie or Abigail, preferring instead to collect at the jagged seams at the Monster’s wrists and neck. They made a small fire, which helped with the flies, and had a good dinner of trout pulled from the river. Then they camped that night on a sandy shore among the scattered rocks.
Abigail seemed more at ease the farther they traveled from the dock where she once lived. She sat by the fire, rubbing her leg where the c
hain had been attached to her, stopping from time to time to stare into the flames. Rohmetall stayed at the edge of camp with the horses and cart, and Ringo curled into a ball in the sand, content not to move after the long day’s travel. Abigail and Charlie laid out the bedding and were soon asleep.
But just a few hours later, Charlie woke to the quiet flow of the river. He looked around the camp, realizing that at some point Franklin must have left for his nightly wanderings.
Charlie rolled over on his side. Abigail was asleep with her back to him, and although partially concealed by the torn layers of her dingy clothes, he could see the welted line of scar tissue on her ankle where the iron cuff had been.
“Are you asleep?” Abigail said, startling Charlie.
“No, I’m awake.”
The wind blew and the firelight danced around them, shrouding Abigail in shadow.
“I haven’t thanked you for rescuing me. Thank you, Charlie,” she said, her back still turned from him.
Charlie thought of her chained at the dock instead of here with their little group. He tried to answer, but his words were caught in his throat.
“Of course.” He coughed. “It was nothing, really. You saved me too. I’m not sure what I would have done if I hadn’t caught hold of your fish net.”
“Well, thank you all the same,” Abigail said. “And, Charlie . . .”
“Yes.”
“I heard you’re searching for something, looking for someone who got lost.”
“Yes, my cousin. His name is Billy.”
“He’s lucky. To have someone willing to do that . . .” Abigail’s words sounded distant, as if they were floating in the wind that blew across the sand.
“It is strange here,” she continued. “The farther we go, the more I can remember. I can remember that just before that dock, I think I was wandering. I’m not sure where I was going before that man caught me, and now I wonder if there was someone like you out there, maybe looking for me . . .”
“I’d bet someone was,” Charlie said. He paused for a moment and thought of his family back home, considering the possibility that despite his letters, his parents and Old Joe might be out looking for him too.
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