by Kaylee Rymer
Her parents weren’t royals. In fact, Ivora hardly knew anything about them. Where did they grow up? How did they meet? And when did they move to Chars-town?
Ivora had never been more confused in her life. She’d chewed her nails down to the beds. They throbbed red and sore whenever she used them, but truth be told they were number than they’d ever been.
She needed to see her parents, but she wasn’t so sure if she would be angry or thrilled once she saw them again. Right now she needed answers.
For one, was she even their daughter? Her heart ached whenever she thought about the possibility. Mother and Father were old enough to be her grandparents, and she looked like neither of them.
To make matters worse, Weegel had been acting strange ever since they arrived back from the strands. From the corner of her eye, she would catch him staring at her, sizing her up as if she’d done something wrong.
Maybe she should confide in him. There were those rare moments where she’d look into his eyes and feel as if she was gazing into his soul. But other times he would turn, and the worcog she’d met at the cottage would rise to the surface.
Weegel did have a caring nature deep down, and he seemed to have her best interests at heart. After all, he had taken her to see the ocean and bought her goods from the market. He’d even carved her the beautiful wooden horse and buried Belle at the base of the tree.
But could she truly let go and trust him? Tell him all her biggest secrets?
A part of her had considered running away and trying to find her aunt Elly again, but the thought of leaving Weegel tore her heart in two. Her aunt was a stranger. Weegel had become a friend, someone she had started to care for and rely on. Even if it was against her mother’s wishes, Ivora realised she was better off with Weegel.
So why couldn’t she tell him?
Ivora groaned and threw her head back on the pillow. She twirled the wooden horse in her hands, lost in its beauty.
She lay up in her room all the time now, too afraid to step outside. Her face was plastered across every wall and tree in the country; Ivora knew she hadn’t imagined those people staring at her in the strands. They’d thought she’d looked familiar, and they weren’t wrong. Thank goodness they hadn’t alerted the authorities. Ivora could have been locked away, or worse, killed. And they may have taken Weegel too, and...
Ivora squeezed her eyes, fighting off a lump in her throat. She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to Weegel, which was odd because she’d once hated every ounce of his being.
They were both wanted now. Two criminals on the run. Kind of romantic. Not that Weegel and romance go hand in hand, but Weegel was in the same boat as her.
And it was all the resolve she needed to make up her mind.
Ivora threw the quilts off her legs and marched down the tunnel. Weegel was nowhere in sight.
A bitter chill hung in the air, and she went about starting a fire. She struck a piece of flint against a steel knife like Father taught her, and the branches caught fire. Soon a nice little flame flickered inside the hearth.
She sat before the flames, warming her hands. A battered scroll poked out from her breast pocket, and she pulled it out. Mother’s cursive writing spread out before her, and a tear dripped from her eye.
“Oh, Mother... what... what do I do? I’m so lost.”
Only silence answered her. She sighed and wiped her eyes. The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she froze.
Someone was standing behind her.
“What are you reading?”
Ivora jumped and turned. Weegel stood at the threshold, several rabbits hanging from his belt. His yellow eyes shone in the gloom, and it was like they dissected her skin.
She scrolled up the letter, smiling brightly. “Weegel... you gave me a fright.”
He stalked closer and said again slowly for emphasis. “What are you reading?”
Ivora tucked the scroll in her breast pocket. “Nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
He stopped several feet before her. A draught swept up the tunnel, blowing the flames in the hearth. Ivora inspected him carefully. He was hostile and cold. The side of Weegel she couldn’t trust.
Gone was the caring, fun-loving worcog who’d taken her to the ocean.
“Well, what is it?” he asked.
Ivora stared into his thick yellow pools. The pupils were tapered like a predator’s. “I don’t think it’s any of your concern,” she said.
He smirked, exposing those pointy fangs. “It’s my mountain. I have a right to know if you’re hiding something from me.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she rose to her feet. “You have no right to know of my personal affairs.”
Weegel raised his hands and backed off. “You’re right. None of my concern.”
The matter seemed to be dropped.
Ivora gazed into the hearth. Should she tell him? It may make him less hostile and remove the rift that had formed between them.
Before her lips found the words, he snatched the scroll from her pocket and made a beeline for the exit.
“Give it back!” she yelled.
Weegel waved the scroll. “Then come and get it.”
She ground her teeth. “No. You’re a child, and I refuse to play this game!”
He faked a yawn and leaned back against the wall. “Then fine. I’ll just read this letter while you stand and watch.”
Ivora stared in horror as he started opening the letter. Something snapped inside her, and she sprang forward and jumped up onto his back. He yelped and spun around, trying to throw her off his shoulders, but she bit his ear.
Weegel howled and pushed her across the room. Ivora almost landed in the hearth, but at least she’d grabbed a hold of the letter again.
She looked up. Weegel loomed above her, blood dripping from his left ear, and she squirmed.
He eyed the scroll, releasing ragged breaths. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing!”
His pupils narrowed, and he lunged forward and wrestled it from her grip. Unfortunately, it slipped from her hands and landed in the hearth.
Ivora screamed, wriggling free from Weegel, and knelt before the fire. She tried to fish the scroll from the flames, but it was already too late. They devoured her mother’s letter, the last words she’d ever written her, and she buried her face and wept.
The worcog stood stock still, and she turned on him at once. “Are you happy? It’s gone!”
His eyes were unreadable as they lingered on the flames, torn and confused.
She stood up and clutched his shirt. “Well, say something!”
He recoiled and back away. “It... was an accident...”
Her blood rushed through her ears, and she hurled punches his way. “You’re evil, wicked, vile...”
Weegel gripped her wrists and pulled her close. “This won’t bring your letter back,” he whispered.
Something swelled inside her chest, and she screamed through clenched teeth. “I hate you! I hope you die!”
The last word echoed through the chamber.
Every muscle froze on his face, and he let go, disbelief swimming through his eyes.
Ivora buckled to the floor and howled. If only the cold cave floor could swallow her up.
After what felt like an eternity, he removed himself from the room and disappeared down the tunnel.
Ivora closed her eyes and sobbed.
Tomorrow. She would finally leave and never look back.
IVORA WOKE AT THE BREAK of dawn and gathered all her things. When she was finished, she headed out the door and took one last look around the room.
Though it would never compare to the room she lost at the cottage, it had still been hers. Despite all the lonely nights she’d spent inside its cold grey walls, there had still been good times.
The wooden horse lay on her pillow, and she rubbed her eyes.
For a while she thought she could actually grow to love him, but not a
nymore.
She tiptoed down the tunnel as the contents of her bag jostled dangerously. One peek inside the main chamber confirmed it was empty. With a heavy heart, she took several jars from the cupboards and headed down the mountain again.
The next thing on her mind — her necklace. Just like she promised herself, she would get it back. It had never belonged to the worcog, anyway.
Ivora found the fissure in the wall and slipped inside. She held her lamp out, bracing herself for the worcog, but again he was nowhere to be found.
Odd. Weegel never spent the whole night out the mountain. Especially in the cold weather.
She glanced around the cave. Where would her necklace be?
Her eyes landed on a padlocked drawer, and she rushed over and pried it open. Locked. So she searched the desk for a key, scrambling through rolls of parchment and feathered quills, but it was no use. It was either lost or with the worcog.
Ivora rummaged through Weegel’s junk, throwing aside several boxes until she found a sewing kit. She bent the ends of several needles and got to work on the lock. It popped open, and she yanked the drawer forward. The diamond seal sat on top, and she stuffed it inside her pocket.
She went to close the drawer again, but the shape of a wooden cat caught her eye. She grabbed it and rotated it in her hand. A strong, sturdy tabby, bearing all the likeness of any cat she’d ever seen.
Ivora put the cat back and walked the rest of the way down the mountain. The cold morning air took her breath away when she stepped outside. The sun peeked over the mountains, painting the valley an angry red, and she wrapped her cloak around her body.
She went off the main track and found a lesser used path. Rocks littered the slope, creating an almost vertical drop, and her heart flapped like a little bird. She must be crazy, but if it meant avoiding the worcog, it was worth it.
She trod carefully. Any sudden movement and she’d go tumbling down. Rocks clattered in her wake, and she held her hands out steady.
When the rocks stopped moving, she sighed and took off again. The ground evened out, and the rocks started to scatter. The foot of the mountain was soon in sight. Finally.
She passed several trees, which were bare and lifeless compared to their greener cousins on the other side of the mountain.
Ivora rounded one particularly miserable tree and stopped dead in her tracks.
Weegel stood hunched and lifeless, and she shivered. He didn’t look right. His lips were dry and cracked, and dark shadows ringed his eyes.
Her heart thrashed as she stumbled on several rocks. He kept his arms hidden beneath his cloak, an unnatural pose.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
Ivora gulped. “I... erm... was... I was...”
He stepped closer. “Go on.”
She licked her lips, sneaking further down the slope. “I was... I was... just going for a morning stroll.”
The worcog watched her for a few silent seconds, his eyes careful and calculating. Then he stretched his mouth into a sneer and released a raucous laugh.
Ivora gazed in horror. His eyes looked ready to pop from his skull.
He stopped, and his face fell back into a lifeless mask. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’re trying to leave.”
The comment made her skin prick. “Trying? I was succeeding.”
A smirk curved his lips, and he took another step forward. “And how far did you think you’d go before I found you?”
“You talk as if I’m your prisoner. Is that what I was all along? A prisoner?”
The shadows under his eyes darkened. “Hand it over.”
Ivora blinked. “Hand what over?”
“The necklace. Don’t play dumb with me.”
She stepped away. “No. Did you really think I was going to let you keep it? You’re pathetic.”
His eyes flashed, and he threw off his cloak and pulled out his bow. Then he nocked an arrow and pointed it straight at her.
Ivora staggered on a rock, keeping her eyes on the tip of the arrow.
His lips stretched, forming a tight smile. “The necklace, now. Let’s not make this get ugly.”
Ivora’s heart pounded through her skull. How could he do this? The pig.
Weegel’s hands shook, but his eyes remained dead set and determined.
She reached into her pocket with a shaking hand and threw the necklace at his feet.
“And the rations.”
Ivora groped inside her bag and placed the jars on the ground.
He lowered the arrow and bent to pick up the necklace. A flurry of emotions swirled through his eyes as he gazed over the sparkling pendant. Then they closed, and his mouth twisted and curled.
She watched in horror as a series of expressions flowed across his once calm visage. But when his eyes flew open again, only one emotion gazed back — sorrow.
He threw the necklace at her feet and turned up the slope.
Ivora’s heart shattered to pieces. It hurt, every time another piece chipped off, every time he took another step away from her.
She picked up her things and hurried down the slope. Who needed him? He can rot all alone for all she cared.
Stones pelted the back of her legs, and she winced. They grew bigger in size, and one rolled past as large as her head.
Her stomach dropped. The rockslide... Weegel.
Ivora turned back towards the slope, but a huge rock tumbled towards her, and she froze in place.
A shadow rushed up on her left and knocked her off her feet. Rocks cut into her arms and legs as she rolled down the slope.
When she stopped, she sat up and gasped.
Weegel lay as still as a rock beside her. His horn had shattered, spilling red-hot blood out onto the frost-covered ground.
19. Weegel
A web of branches stretched towards the sky, a stark contrast of blue and black, and Weegel gulped.
The Scary Tree. It stood on the edge of his grandfather’s farm, a silent beast waiting to pounce. But today would be the day Weegel finally climbed it. After all, he was six years old now, a big kid. And big kids don’t get scared.
He took a deep breath and dug his claws into the bark. He recoiled, expecting the tree to roar, but no sound came. With a sweaty palm, he reached up and gripped a hold of a branch. Smooth wood welcomed his skin.
He grabbed the next branch and the next, and soon he reached the top.
A sea of gold spread out before him. His grandfather’s barley field was loved by all in town. Weegel had spent many summers running barefoot through its stalks but he’d never seen it from above.
He shut his eyes, savouring a warm gentle breeze as it swept across the field.
Summers at the farm were always the best.
Through a blurry haze, he spotted the farmhouse, the only home he’d ever known. There he helped Grandpa Jack out on the farm. Grandpa had taught Weegel many things, like how to milk a cow, or shear a sheep. One day he would assist in the birthing of the lambs, and he couldn’t wait. However, he dreaded the dehorning process. Every time the farmhands pinned a ram down to burn off its horns, a sharp pain emitted through his skull.
The process looked extremely uncomfortable. It was as if they were stripping the young ram of his identity. How could he hope to defend himself if he had no horns?
Weegel rubbed his scalp and winced. Two bumps protruded above his hairline. Maybe he’d hit his head really hard? He did receive enough beatings from the local boys.
He glanced at the distant chimneys, and his stomach boiled.
The town of Tillyfold. They always stared and pointed at Weegel when he came to visit. Babies cried whenever he passed, and old ladies would spit at his shoe, telling him to go to hell.
They only tolerated him because of his grandfather; Goldfield Farm was the staple of the town after all.
His mother, Mila, always told him to never stoop to their level and prove them wrong. Weegel was not a monster, but a boy with a big heart.
He’d happily
stay up in the tree forever, though, if it meant never seeing the townspeople again.
Shouts echoed from down below, and Weegel started sweating. The shouts belonged to the butcher’s three sons — Duke, Earl and Marque.
The Pigsworths were always giving him a hard time. Their father’s abattoir was just next door to the farm.
Duke, the eldest, was a brawny eight-year-old. He constantly beat on Weegel and threw stones his way, yet he received no punishment from his mother, Rosemary.
In Rosemary’s eyes, Duke was a perfect prince. All three of her boys were. That’s why she gave them such grand titles for names.
Duke was just jealous of Weegel because he could read and write. The only thing Duke could write was his name, and the word poo. Despite his lack of an obvious brain, he still had a girlfriend, seven-year-old Milly Shoehorn, the Cobbler’s daughter. She had straw-coloured hair, blue eyes, and perfect apple cheeks.
Weegel’s insides squirmed whenever he laid eyes on her. He’d never get a girl like Milly, even if he lived a hundred years. Only the Dukes of the world did.
Weegel held his breath. They were right below the tree now.
“What’s that?” Duke said.
“Ugh, it’s a worm!” shouted Marque.
Weegel’s heart dropped. They’d found Henry, his pet caterpillar.
“Kill it! Kill it!” the boys started chanting.
Weegel wiped his forehead and drew a long breath. He had to be brave. Henry needed him.
Digging his claws into the bark, he slid down and landed before the boys. Duke looked as ugly as ever with his scabby face, greasy hair, and bulbous nose. His brothers weren’t much to look at either. Earl was brawny too, but nowhere as large as Duke. His face resembled a boar with a prominent underbite. Marque had a scrunched-up face like an inbred mutt.
Weegel puffed up his chest. “Give him back.”
Duke smirked, revealing a row of broken teeth. He held the jar out to Weegel. “This yours, lizard skin?”
Earl and Marque laughed and did tongue impressions of lizards. Weegel’s face pricked at the insult, but he held his chin up. “Yes. Hand him over.”
Duke tipped the jar upside down, and Henry fell out onto the grass. Next, the boy looked at Weegel and gave an evil sneer.
