Willow

by Wayland Drew

  Behind the cavalry came ranks of foot soldiers, keeping pace to the tap of drums. They, too, were lightly armed. Although more disciplined than the cavalry, and obviously weary from a long march, they were talking and laughing jovially. One of them struck up a song, the drummers picked up the rhythm, and a moment later the whole column was singing.

  Officers rode on the flanks, and as they approached the crossroads, several of them broke off and galloped forward to confer.

  “They look like good Daikinis to me, Willow. As good as you can expect.”

  “Better than him, that’s true.” Willow nodded. “The High Aldwin must have been thinking of them.”

  They crept out together. “Sir,” Meegosh said. “Excuse me . . .”

  The officers glanced at them and turned back to their maps.

  “Sir?” Willow tugged at a stirrup and a horse shied. The rider cursed and flung his foot out, brushing Willow’s head. “Get back, Peck! This is no place for Nelwyns! Off to the woods with you!”

  Willow scampered back, choking in dust.

  “Well, well! What do you have there, my little friend?”

  He whirled around. Another officer had come up beside them, unnoticed in the noise and confusion. He rode a handsome bay mare. Mauve plumage shimmered on his helmet, and his armor glinted in the new sun. Behind him on a smaller horse, a standard-bearer carried the leather pennant of the commander in chief.

  “A . . . a baby, sir: A Daikini baby. Will you take her, please? Will you look after her?”

  The big man leaned down and gently touched the child on the forehead. He smiled bitterly through his red beard and shook his head. “We’re going into battle, little ones, That’s no place for her. Find a woman to look after her. And look after yourselves as well. If I were you, I’d put some distance between myself and this place.” He reined his horse smartly, and was about to gallop back to the column.

  “Airk! Airk Thaughbaer!”

  “What? Who’s there?” The officer peered into the shadows of the scaffolding, where the shout had come from, and then trotted his mount in under the overhanging structure. Willow and Meegosh followed. “Madmartigan! So! Well, I knew that you’d end up in a squirrel’s cage, sooner or later.”

  “What are you doing this far north, Airk? Where are you leading these poor fools?”

  “To the river,” Airk Thaughbaer growled. “Nockmaar has destroyed Galladoorn.”

  “The castle?”

  Airk nodded, walking his horse around the cage. “Burned it to the ground. Bavmorda’s on a rampage. Her troops are headed south, killing everything. We’re going to try to stop them at the River Troon.”

  “Let me out of here! Give me a good sword and I’ll fight for you!”

  “Ha!” Airk smiled bitterly and shook his head. “After that stunt at Land’s End? That was the last straw, Madmartigan.”

  “But this is different! Galladoorn! Bavmorda really destroyed it?”

  “To the ground. And killed everyone.”

  “Let me out, Airk! Give me a sword!”

  The big man laughed sourly, wheeling his horse away. “You’ll get out, Madmartigan, one way or another. I know you. As for giving you a sword, I’ve done that once too often. No, I need good men now. Men like those. Men I can rely on.”

  “You can rely on me, Airk. If . . .”

  “To save your own skin, oh yes! You can always be relied upon for that, but for nothing more. Goodbye, Madmartigan. I don’t think we’ll meet again.”

  “Airk . . .” But the commander was gone, galloping with his standard-bearer back up to the head of the column.

  When the last of the baggage wagons had rumbled past, and the rearguard cavalry had trotted out of sight, when the noise had faded and the dust had begun to settle, Willow asked, “Is that true, Madmartigan? What he said about you? That you look after only yourself?”

  “What? Certainly not! For one thing, I love children. That little girl, for instance. Why, I . . .”

  “I don’t think you know the first thing about babies.”

  Madmartigan leered. He dangled a long arm through the cage, waving Willow closer. “The truth is,” he said as the Nelwyn edged toward him, careful to stay out of reach, “the truth is I never married.” He shrugged. “Warrior. No time. But I know a lot of women who know about babies. Ah yes, my friend, a lot of women.”

  “And what would you do if you were responsible for her?”

  “Why, see that she was properly looked after, of course! See that she was in capable hands. Just like my own daughter. Right, cutie?” The baby giggled at Madmartigan.

  Willow frowned.

  “Psst! Willow!” Meegosh beckoned him back to the edge of the shade. “What are you waiting for? Do what you have to do and let’s get out of here!”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Meegosh. I just don’t trust him.”

  Meegosh looked to the east, where the army of Airk Thaughbaer had vanished. He looked west, down the empty road. He looked at Willow. He spread his arms. “Who else is there?”

  Willow sighed heavily. He took out the braid of hair Kiaya had given him and twined it through his fingers. It didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse—made him feel more homesick for Kiaya and the children.

  He tucked it back into his pocket with the three magic acorns. He looked at the child, who was laughing softly. “All right, Meegosh. You win. Madmartigan gets her.”

  In an instant Meegosh had hacked the lock off the cage and Madmartigan had scrambled free, hopping in a wild dance out into the sun.

  “I thought so!” Willow said. “He’s running away. See?”

  The man pranced in a big circle, whooping, kicking and stretching, slapping his rear end. The remnants of his clothes flapped like a scarecrow’s tatters. In a minute he was back. He patted both Nelwyns on the back so hard they staggered. “Ah, my little Pecks, you won’t regret this. No sir! Madmartigan remembers who his friends are. And as for this little lady, you’ll have no more worries about her. I guarantee.”

  The child shrieked in laughter as he lifted her.

  “See? She loves me, don’t you, little darling?”

  “Here’s her milk bladder.”

  “Any milk in there?”

  “It’s for her!”

  “Of course it’s for her. And I’ll feed her well, never fear.”

  “And keep her warm and dry.”

  “Of course.”

  “And clean.”

  “Certainly.”

  Madmartigan knelt down so that Meegosh could fasten the papoose-basket on his back, and Willow tucked the child into it and kissed her. A tear rolled down his cheek. “Bye.”

  “So long, boys.” Madmartigan stood up and waved. “You’ve done the right thing. Go on home, now.” He gestured south, toward Nelwyn Valley. “If you hurry you can catch your friends. No worries. Just forget about this little lady. Bye now. Bye.” He was already marching north, whistling a soldier’s tune.

  “Take good care of her!”

  “Word of honor!” Madmartigan shouted back.

  “Come on, Willow.” Meegosh tugged at Willow’s sleeve. “Let’s get away from this place. Let’s go home.”

  Willow nodded, brushing tears away. Hastily they gathered their packs and turned south, crossing the road along which the Daikini army had just passed. “I hope we did the right thing, Meegosh.”

  “We did. We did. You’ll see. When we get home, the High Aldwin will be waiting for you. Maybe he’ll come out of a stone, or out of the river, or even out of one of your fields, Willow! And he’ll ask, ‘Boys, did you follow my instructions? Did you go all the way to the crossroads?’ We’ll say, ‘Yes, High Aldwin.’ ‘And did you give the child to the first Daikini you met?’ We’ll say, ‘High Aldwin, the first Daikini we met was very ragged and dirty. He was a scoundrel. He was imprisoned for having done something terrible.’ The High Aldwin will say, ‘Never mind all that. That was just a test. Did you give him the child?’ And when we
tell him that we did, why, we’ll be heroes, Willow!”

  “I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to go home.”

  “You’ll be the High Aldwin’s Apprentice, at the very least.”

  “You think so?”

  “No question! Just think, no more tricks with feathers! No more hiding pigs inside your coat! You’ll learn real magic, Willow! Real sorcery! And as for me, why, I’ll be a foreman at the mine!”

  Real sorcery! Willow touched the acorns nestled in his pocket beside Kiaya’s braid, the acorns that he had had no chance to use. Real sorcery! And, if he had that power, what would he use it for? Why, for good, of course. But what was good? What a hard question! On one hand, it would be good to charm his fields so that they would produce splendid crops every year, effortlessly; but, on the other hand, that would be merely selfish. On one hand it would be good to change Burglekutt so that he would not bully people anymore and steal the profits of their hard work; but, on the other hand, to do so might be to meddle in affairs of the soul which were better left to other powers. What dilemmas! But, surely, if one were a sorcerer with real power, it would not be wrong to destroy the Death Dogs! It would not be wrong to destroy the evil power of Nockmaar, which spread like a pestilence from the north over the whole land. Surely that could not be wrong. But how could one small Nelwyn be certain, even of that? Willow touched the acorns in his pocket, and as he did so he heard the High Aldwin’s voice speaking to him again, echoing as if out of labyrinthine caverns deep in the earth. Trust your own heart. Trust what you feel most deeply . . .

  Willow stopped suddenly. “Meegosh, I’m going back!”

  “What?”

  But Willow had no time to tell Meegosh that he now knew with absolute clarity that he should not have given the child to Madmartigan.

  He did not have time even to turn around.

  They had been crossing a meadow to the west of the road, hurrying because it was an exposed place. As Willow spoke, a huge shadow fell across them, and at the same moment a sound like wind rushing before a thunderstorm enveloped them. Out of it swirled high-pitched laughter, tiny shrieks of perverse glee.

  They froze. They looked up.

  A stately eagle drifted over them. Mounted on it, his toes clenched in the feathers between its wings, was a person even smaller than the Nelwyns. He was dark brown except for spikey white hair and brilliant jade-green eyes. The slit of his mouth was twisted into a malicious grin, and as he passed them he pointed down, laughing wildly.

  “A brownie!” Meegosh moaned. “Oh no! And look what he’s got!”

  Willow had already seen, and the vision struck him cold. Gripped in the eagle’s claws was a familiar basket, and inside, wrapped in Kiaya’s little blanket, was the child.

  “Behold Franjean!” the brownie piped. “Behold Franjean’s prize!”

  “No!” Willow shouted. “Come back! Put her down!” He threw down his pack and tore wildly back across the meadow, smashing into rocks and bushes. He wanted only to be under the bird if the baby fell. But the eagle stayed just ahead of him. Fluttering the tips of its wings it glided on, toward a deep woods at the meadow’s edge. The brownie twisted on its back and thrust a bony finger at Willow, cackling. “Fool! Hurry, Peck fool, else you will miss the brownie feast!”

  “Meegosh! Help me! We’ve got to get her!”

  The eagle drifted low over the trees, disappearing.

  “Come on, Meegosh!”

  It was dark in the woods, so dark that Willow could see nothing as he raced out of the bright sunlight. He banged into a tree and reeled back, blinking. He heard nothing but the frantic rush of his own blood and the insane cackling of the brownie, up ahead.

  “This way, Meegosh!”

  A path led off to the right, toward the sound. They plunged along. Suddenly Meegosh cried out in pain, and in the same instant Willow felt sharp stings in his shoulder and neck. They burned like biting flies, but when he swatted and brushed at them he discovered they were actually tiny arrows, no bigger than his finger. Running, he pulled some out, but dozens more rained down on him, from the limbs of the great trees, from the scanty undergrowth, and with them came a maniacal chorus of shrieks, chortles, shouts, and cackles, as if Franjean had been magically and horribly transformed into hundreds of other brownies, all equally malicious. All around, Willow saw mean, sharp little faces in the shadows of the foliage. He saw bright and baleful green stares fixed on him. He saw tiny busy arms reaching into quivers, stringing bows, launching arrows.

  “Hey! Ouch! Ow!” Meegosh shouted, and each cry brought delighted screams from the brownies. Some were jumping up and down on the larger branches, hooting.

  “This way!” Willow shouted. They came to a fork in the path and he swung right, certain he heard Franjean’s laughter just ahead. But a black net of ropes and vines hung there, ready to drop. “Back! Back! The other way!”

  Stinging darts struck home. Brownies whooped and jeered. Back and around the corner the Nelwyns raced. An open path stretched ahead. “Come on, Meegosh! We’ll soon be out of this. We can . . .”

  Go up here and cut back, Willow meant to say, but he never had a chance. The broad path was a trap. Dug across it, cunningly concealed with moss and supple branches, lay a deep pit. The next thing Willow Ufgood knew, he had crashed through and was falling down, down into a cold, dark place. All the panic and confusion of the past few minutes became a spinning oval of light, and all the chattering of the brownies became Meegosh’s wild cry of alarm as he too tumbled into the pit.

  And then Willow Ufgood knew nothing more.

  V I

  CHERLINDREA

  “I’m Franjean, King of the World!”

  Someone was standing on Willow’s chest.

  He tried to move and couldn’t. He ached in every joint and muscle. He burned all over from arrow wounds. His head throbbed as if he’d been hammered with hardwood mallets. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.

  The brownie that had been riding the eagle now crouched on his chest, prodding his nose with a tiny spear.

  “Ow! Stop that!”

  Cheering and chattering, the swarm of brownies no more than nine inches tall appeared out of nowhere and jabbed him in the toes and fingers. Crisscrossing ropes bound Willow securely to the ground, and he could turn his head only enough to see Meegosh lying beside him, moaning that his arm was broken.

  “Oh, Willow,” Meegosh groaned. “We’re doomed! You know what brownies do! They pluck out your eyes! They cut off strips of you and cook them!”

  “Right!” exclaimed Franjean, prancing on Willow’s chest. “And that’s just the beginning. After that we’ll . . .”

  “Where’s the baby?”

  “Quiet!” Franjean slapped Willow’s nose. “I’m speaking! I! King of the World!”

  The other brownies jeered. “Hear that? King of the World! Gets one eagle ride, and it goes to his head!”

  “Silence! Respect!” Leaping up and down in a sudden frenzy, Franjean poked Willow’s nose until finally Willow sneezed violently and blew him backward, head over heels. He ended up sitting dazed on Willow’s belly. “Wretched Peck! I’ll . . .”

  Suddenly the glade lit up with eerie luminescence, sparkling and darting. It flowed off the undersides of the trees and showered back on Willow where he lay. It felt like healing rain.

  “Behave yourself, Franjean!” The voice that spoke was wind-soft yet clear. Like silver. Like ice.

  “Yes, Your Majesty!”

  “What a miserable brownie you are! I ask you to bring the two Nelwyns to me, our guests, and what do you do? Hurl them into a pit! Strike them and abuse them! Tie them up!”

  The other brownies shrank back, bumping into one another. “King of the World, huh, Franjean?” they whispered. “Kings aren’t supposed to be frightened, Franjean. They’re not supposed to tremble and shake!”

  One of them shuffled over beside Willow’s ear, a slack-jawed and big-eared simpleton of a brownie. “Know who that is? That’s Cherlin
drea! Franjean’s in trouble, now. We’re all in trouble. Your fault!”

  “Who . . . who’s Cherlindrea?”

  But the brownie had no chance to answer before the radiant cloud surrounded him. Willow saw to his astonishment that it was composed of fairies, hundreds of fairies, each smaller than the smallest butterfly. Their laughter rang like tiny chimes. When they circled his head their touch soothed like spring water and his headache vanished. When they surrounded his body, the brownie ropes fell away. The arrow wounds ceased stinging, and the throbbing in his joints and muscles vanished.

  Willow sat up. He stood.

  Meegosh rose too, more slowly.

  “You all right?”

  Meegosh nodded, frowning at his arm, which had been miraculously trussed up in splints and a sling.

  “Bring the Nelwyns to me,” Cherlindrea said, her voice like crystal wind. Willow and Meegosh felt the gentle pressure of hundreds of tiny fairy hands. The brownie circle opened before them and they were led to the edge of the glade, where the radiance was so bright they had to cover their eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Cherlindrea said. The light dimmed. “Is that better?” It dimmed more, still more, until they could open their eyes again.

  Cherlindrea, queen of the fairies, hovered above them. Willow gasped, she was so beautiful. The fairies of his imagination had all been old—wizened and sharp-nosed crones. In the tales his mother told, they were pests and busybodies, forever making life harder for Nelwyns, forever stealing and casting irksome charms on crops and livestock. But Cherlindrea was young. Her tiny body was graceful and perfectly proportioned, and her radiance emanated not from it alone—and from her wings, and from her flaxen hair—but also from a gentle smile.

  Near her laughing on a bed of moss, lay the child.

  “Thank goodness!” Willow said. He started forward to take her up, but Cherlindrea’s brilliance suddenly intensified and he fell back. “The child is well, Willow Ufgood, and you may hold her. But first, hear what I say.”

  “H-how did you know my name?”

  “Elora told me. Elora has told me all about you.” The light subsided, and Willow saw that Cherlindrea was gazing at the child adoringly. “Elora Danan. She is a very special child, Willow. She is the daughter of the sun and the moon, and the rightful empress of all kingdoms.”