by M. D. Elster
But then I hear a sound and freeze. The dizziness goes away; fresh fear has enervated me. I realize with a sense of blood-curdling dread, I am not alone.
“Who’s there?” I call out. I am no longer afraid of being discovered, for it is plain that someone or something has been watching me all along. “Show yourself!” I shout.
I wait and listen, holding my breath. The room has grown very, very still. I begin to wonder if I haven’t just spooked myself. I make an effort to calm down, to breathe easy, convincing myself it is only my imagination.
But no sooner do I tell myself it is nothing and regain my composure than I hear something lunge at me from across the room. In a split second, the mystery creature tackles me. I feel hands gripping my shoulders, throwing me to the ground. It is too black to make out the identity of my unseen assailant, but I can see the electric flash of two yellow eyes, full to the brim with predatory hate. I fight back, I wrestle with the intruder, but I am quickly losing ground.
He pins me, and slides his hands around my throat. I know I am losing; I am certain this will be the end of me.
But then, just as he begins to squeeze my windpipe, I hear him let out a sudden yelp, followed by a tremendous gasp and groan, as though I have punched him in the stomach. But I have not. I couldn’t have; I am absolutely pinned, helpless. The strength slowly goes out of his grip, and to my surprise, he collapses… suddenly still.
I cry out in horror. He has slumped over on top of me and I am repulsed and scared. I try to roll over or at least wiggle out from underneath him. All I can think of is getting away from this terrifyingly lifeless body.
“SHHHH — Anaïs! Anaïs! Calm yourself!” comes a voice. I become dimly cognizant of the fact there is a third person in the room. “It’s me,” the voice says, “Mr. Fletcher!”
A match is struck and he lights an oil lamp, slowly dialing the flame up to illuminate the room.
“Oh!” I cry, reduced to hysterical tears. I have never been so relieved in all my life to see the bizarre figure of a man with the head of a fox. My eyes adjust further to the light and I focus now on the creature lying on top of me.
“Help me!” I cry to Mr. Fletcher, and he obliges, heaving the body to one side while I scrabble away. Once on my feet, I look down at the corpse. It is one of the Lion King’s lynx-headed guards. His now-lifeless body looks surreal; his head eerily resembles a taxidermy head more than ever.
And then I see what killed the intruder: He is bleeding from what appears to be a deep stab wound to his upper back. I can see the hilt: polished gold with a sparkling ruby inlay, protruding from the lynx’s flesh. The blade pierced him from behind, but was driven so deep I can only imagine it perforated his heart. I suppose this explains his sudden gasp, his rapid demise as the strength went out of his grip.
Wild-eyed, I look from the body to Mr. Fletcher, and back to the body again, comprehending what has just taken place.
“My dear!” he exclaims. “Your face! — It is so very pale. Come now, all is well. He cannot harm you any longer.”
“You killed him,” I blurt out, awestruck.
“Yes,” Mr. Fletcher says, his voice taking on a somber tone. “I am afraid I have, and it is quite a shame. But I don’t want to think about what state you might be in right now if I had walked in five or ten minutes later than I did.”
He has a point. I think I know exactly where I might be without Mr. Fletcher, and, picturing it, I shudder.
“You’re right. I guess I mean to say… thank you.” I feel a bit unnerved, but I do feel grateful.
“Well, now… that’s more like it,” Mr. Fletcher smiles, patting me reassuringly on the shoulder. He stoops to reclaim his dagger, yanking it cleanly out of the lynx’s back, and extracting a white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the blood from its blade. It is a slim, elegant weapon. I can’t quite see all the details in the dim light of the single oil lamps, but it is somewhat ostentatious, a showy weapon, beautiful and ornate. Silently, I wonder if Mr. Fletcher has been carrying this dagger on his person during all the time I’ve known him — during, for instance, our trips together to Raven’s court, and Lion’s court. At the thought of the Lion King’s court, my attention snaps back to the dead body in the room.
“He was one of the king’s guards,” I say. “We saw him just recently, at the Court of the Lion King.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Fletcher says. “Good memory.”
“But why is he here now?”
“The Lion King sent him,” Mr. Fletcher answers. “He has declared martial law over the Glade of Commoners. I’m afraid our visit to Lion’s kingdom turned out to be a disaster, Anaïs… I have been officially named a wanted creature now, and the Lion King has lost all reason. Mr. Thomas, Mrs. Hobbs, Mr. Croft — all the others — they have all gone into hiding.”
“Oh,” I murmur, confused. “When I found the key… I just assumed you’d sent for me.”
“I did,” Mr. Fletcher says.
“You mean you wish to continue our investigation of the remaining two courts?”
“Well, yes and no. I have called you here tonight, Anaïs, to ask you to take on a tremendous burden, and it is not without its risks,” he replies.
I blink, and find myself dreading what the favor might be. “What would you have me do?”
“First, we must rejoin the others, and then I’ll explain.”
“I thought you said everyone had gone into hiding?”
“By ‘others’ I mean the Young Cwen has come to meet me in secret, along with… well, a second concerned party…”
“Oh?”
Mr. Fletcher smiles and gives a small shrug. “You’ll see. I’m not sure you’ll like it, but you’ll see.”
He leads me out of his cottage and into the surrounding woods, to a small shed mostly covered over with brambly blackberry vines and dead leaves. He carefully parts the thorny branches and reaches for a broken door. I can see a lamp burning very low inside.
“After you,” he says — and for the slightest of seconds, I have a funny feeling about Mr. Fletcher. But then it passes. I step inside and my eyes adjust to the darkness.
First, I make out the figure of the Young Cwen. She looks composed and calm, considering what has happened. But then I see a second figure standing in the shed.
“You?” I say, shocked. “What are you doing here?”
“Trust me when I say, I can hardly believe it myself,” Sir Lewin replies.
CHAPTER 26.
“What is Sir Lewin doing here?” I demand, whirling around to face Mr. Fletcher. “If the Lion King has demanded your arrest, why would you want him here?”
“Indeed, he came to arrest me,” Mr. Fletcher says, “but the Young Cwen and I managed to talk him out of it when he caught wind of our plan.”
“What is the plan?” I ask.
“Yes, we ought to tell her, Fenric,” the Young Cwen says. I look at her. For some reason I don’t care for the way she says ‘Fenric’ — I fear her cozy influence over Mr. Fletcher.
“I agree,” Mr. Fletcher replies. He turns to me and sighs. “The Young Cwen believes she can make a case for the Unicorn King to grant me asylum in the Northern Kingdom,” he explains. “And I’m inclined to concur — I realize you haven’t met him yet, but of the Four Kings, Unicorn is famed to be the most orderly and the least warlike, and I have a good rapport with him. With the Young Cwen at my side to vouch for me, he will surely listen — he’s always had a fancy for the Young Cwen.”
At this, the Young Cwen blushes, but Mr. Fletcher politely pretends not to notice.
“In her wisdom, the Young Cwen thinks we should not waste any more time, and go there straightaway.”
“All right,” I say, leveling a wary glance at the Young Cwen and trying not to roll my eyes at her blushes. “I understand that much.”
“Now, even if Unicorn grants it, my asylum is likely to be temporary, and the only way to prove my innoc
ence in the long run is to prove the true villain’s guilt… Having eliminated Raven and Lion, we’re more certain than ever the true villain is the Snake King.”
I am slowly beginning to comprehend my role in all this.
“Anaïs,” says the Young Cwen, “it is quite a lot to ask of you, but we want you to pay a visit to the Snake King.”
“By myself?”
“With Sir Lewin,” Mr. Fletcher replies. “He has agreed to guard you and protect you.”
I arch a skeptical eyebrow at Sir Lewin.
“If the Snake King tries to attack you in any way to get a hold of your blood, Sir Lewin will defend you, and he will bear witness to the other kings.”
“And if the Snake King plays it cool and doesn’t reveal himself to me directly?”
“Well, then we think you may be able to charm him into showing you his infamous grimoire…” Mr. Fletcher replies.
“Why would he do that?”
“If you tell him you’re from New Orleans, if you talk to him about Voodoo, and you say that you’re very very interested in black magic… well, it just might pique the Snake King’s interest. It really is his Achilles’ heel, his enthusiasm for black magic.”
“And if you can get a look at his grimoire, you can find out whether or not the Snake King has the spell for the ritual of human blood in his possession,” the Young Cwen is quick to add.
“Sir Lewin will devise a way to steal the page that contains the spell, and to deliver it to us in Unicorn’s Kingdom,” Mr. Fletcher says. “That would certainly exonerate me, and it would get the other kings looking in the right direction, so they may challenge this villain head-on, for once and for all.”
“So, your plan is… that I go to the Southern Kingdom, have a laugh with the Snake King, hope he doesn’t sacrifice me and drain my blood, and steal a page from his beloved grimoire?” I say.
Mr. Fletcher sighs. “Yes. As the Young Cwen said, we know it’s a lot to ask.”
I turn to Sir Lewin. “And you’ve agreed to this?”
“It’s either that or drag the fox back to my King right now, and let Lion do with him as he pleases. I’d be even more content to do that, to tell you the truth.”
“I see.” I realize the whole plan — and basically, it is a plan to save dear Mr. Fletcher — is entirely dependent on my involvement. I bite my lip, deliberating. “All right,” I say finally. “How do we get to the Snake King’s palace?”
Mr. Fletcher draws us a quick map, detailing a series of landmarks.
“The road to Snake’s palace can get a bit… well, soggy,” he says. “And you will eventually have to utilize a boat. I’ve stashed one just here, and it should get you there safely.” He points to an “X” on the map.
“Okay,” I say. I give Sir Lewin an uncomfortable look. “Let’s go.”
Mr. Fletcher and the Young Cwen hurry along the road to the north, and Sir Lewin and I are left to follow the road that leads to the south, and to the Snake King’s dominion. It is easygoing at first. The terrain is flat and the road is made of smooth, white, chalky clay. We wander through alley after alley of majestic oak trees, until they begin to give way to swamp cypresses, and swamp cabbage grows along the sides of the road. Long drifts of Spanish moss hang from the trees, swinging gently in the breeze like a million bits of a torn wedding veil. The scenery reminds me of the bayous that surround New Orleans. There is a hint of comforting familiarity about it, at least.
“Back there in the shed — you looked surprised to see me,” Sir Lewin says.
“Mr. Fletcher didn’t warn me beforehand.”
Sir Lewin smirks. “Perhaps he thought you’d avoid getting involved if you knew it was me.”
I don’t answer right away.
“Ah, true feelings revealed!” Sir Lewin says in a brisk voice. “Well, no matter; I assure you I feel very much the same.”
“Fine, then,” I say. “But I still don’t understand — why are you helping Mr. Fletcher?”
“I didn’t like the thought of you going to Snake’s Court all alone,” Sir Lewin answers.
I feel my cheeks color in reply.
“Because of the danger to us all, of course,” Sir Lewin adds. “I’ve told you how dangerous human blood can be. I don’t want to see it fall into the wrong hands.”
My blush quickly fades. “Of course,” I say. “Won’t the Lion King be angry if he discovers you are helping us?”
“Well, the Lion King sent me to the Glade to find and arrest Mr. Fletcher, and now I’m helping the fox instead. So, yes. I assume the King will be furious,” Sir Lewin says, “…that is, if he finds out.” He smiles a lopsided smile. “He’d likely even expel me from his court.”
“You’re risking an awful lot. You’ll lose the title you love so much.”
“If the fox is telling the truth, my King won’t like that I’ve disobeyed him, but he will pardon me. And you have assured me several times already, Mr. Fletcher is not working against my King, and only wants to save the land from out-and-out war.”
“He does,” I say with conviction.
“We’ll see,” Sir Lewin murmurs, shrugging and falling silent.
The road turns increasingly muddy and wet, and we skirt puddle after puddle until there are so many puddles that they all connect, and we are both trudging through a few inches of water as we go. A few inches turns into six, and now I understand Mr. Fletcher’s warnings. On three separate occasions, one shoe or the other gets stuck in the muck, and my foot comes up without it. I dig it out, of course — the last thing you’d want to do is walk barefoot through a swamp — and I re-tie my shoelaces as tightly as I can. I have fleeting thoughts of turning back, but according to Mr. Fletcher’s hand-drawn map, the boat is not far away now.
Finally, Sir Lewin and I discover the boat, hidden as promised, in a little cave made up by the thick roots of several mangrove trees.
“Climb in,” he says, gesturing to the rowboat floating amid the mangrove roots. It is a small rowboat, but looks sturdy enough. I climb inside, grateful to have my feet and ankles out of the murky water. Sir Lewin climbs in after me, and uses the oars to jimmy the boat free from the snarl of tall roots. We push off and he begins to row steadily. I gaze again at Mr. Fletcher’s map, studying it. He has drawn several landmarks — an oddly shaped outcropping of rock, a dead white tree with a distinctive branch, a bend in the waterway that wiggles like a snake.
I watch for the landmarks Mr. Fletcher has drawn while Sir Lewin rows us along through the swamp. He appears nervous — an unusual bearing for him.
“Cats don’t care for water much,” he says, when he catches me watching him with a puzzled expression.
“Of course.”
My skin is sticky; I am sweating. The weather is radically different than that I experienced in Raven’s and Lion’s kingdoms — as a matter of fact, the air is almost tropical; quite hot and humid — and yet, a strange, low-lying fog rolls in, hovering over the swamp, making it more difficult to spot the landmarks we need for navigation. I see something floating in the water. It could be a fallen tree log, but it could just as easily be an alligator. Shortly after we settled in New Orleans, my stepfather took me to the swamps to see them once — alligators, that is. Covered in putrid green pond scum, they floated in the water like dead logs, or else laid about like statues on the shores of the swampy shoals, resting absolutely still, and looking slightly dead… until they snapped at something they wanted, springing into action with unimaginable speed and strength, their deadly jaws closing on some unsuspecting water bird or idle frog.
Sir Lewin rows on, and one by one we find the rock, the tree, and the bend in the waterway. I am worried the fog will cause us to miss these things, but luck is on our side. At least an hour or so has passed on the water; I glance again at the map. The Snake King’s palace should be very near, but all I can see is the blank white face presented by the thick steamy fog. The sunlight, too, is waning here. It
appeared overcast and gloomy during most of my journey along the southern road, yet it was daytime and there was some light, however weak. Now dusk has descended, and everything has grown exceedingly dark. The fog settles so low to the surface of the water I can see a starry sky hangs overhead. The sound of crickets’ song envelops us.
Sir Lewin rows the boat around a final bend in the waterway, and suddenly a million fireflies come out to greet us. Despite myself, I am dazzled. And then I see it: the Snake King’s floating palace looms into view.
At first, I am uncertain how to make heads or tails of it. It is, perhaps, the most unusual structure I have ever seen in my life. It begins with a ramble of boats, all tied together — from small rafts on the outermost edges, to large shipwrecks that have been welded together closer to the center. Collectively, they make up a kind of enormous floating barge. Individually, the boats and ships vary in size and shape. The paint on their hulls is peeling but at the same time, all are brightly colored and edged with orange rust. This peculiar, bohemian junk-heap rambles on for the better part of a half-mile, and appears to be more or less round in shape, like a bizarre sort of circular floating island. It groans softly as the swamp waters ebb and flow. Some of the windows in the boats and ships are glowing with warm yellow light, a few have smoking chimney stacks, and music floats out from one or two of them here and there — I can only guess that members of the Snake King’s court must live on them. It is a bizarre sort of cobbled-together floating village, fused together from junk parts. In the very center of all this sits an enormous, white, crumbling plantation house, complete with giant white columns and an enormous antebellum verandah. This, I assume, must be the Snake King’s castle.
Sir Lewin paddles the rowboat to the edge of one of the rafts that are lashed to the edge of the floating junk-heap, and finds a rope attached to a mooring, which he uses to tie up. From there, it is a short hike to the palace, but over very uneven terrain: We must pick our way over all the shipwrecks tethered together, jumping from deck to deck — all of them uneven in height. Neither of us wants to disturb any of the occupants within these makeshift dwellings, so we trod as quietly as possible. As we pass over one ship, the windows burn with a cozy glow and I hear an old Victrola playing inside. The tinny notes float out onto the balmy night air. I pause and listen to the song. The record is a song I know, an old-fashioned, campy, popular love song I have heard at least a thousand times — a song by the Inkspots, titled “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.”
