The Luck Uglies

by Paul Durham

  Rye turned away so Fifer wouldn’t see her blush. They all carried packs filled with jars of stinging ants, rotten goose eggs, and other items they found useful for making mischief. The boys knew better than to attempt such shenanigans in the Shambles where, if caught, they might be sealed in a barrel and tossed in the river. The rest of the village was fair game, though.

  “Wait,” Rye said, pulling the remnants of her fingernails as she mulled over a decision. The Flood boys’ bags of mischief had planted an idea in her mind.

  “I just need to run upstairs and get a couple of things first.”

  Rye hurried inside and up the stairs, carefully retrieving the small pouch she’d hidden in Folly’s room. On her way back down, she borrowed a decoration from the wall when no one was looking.

  She rejoined Folly and her brothers in the alley. The group marshaled their nervous energy as they prepared to go.

  “Boys!” Faye Flood’s voice called from above. “No picking pockets tonight! Understand?”

  They all looked up. Abby and Faye leaned out from a third-story window.

  The Floods hooted and hollered in reply, strutting down the dirt street. Rye lingered behind and caught her mother’s eye. Uncharacteristically, Abby wore her concern on her face. Rye kissed her fingertips and opened them, letting the invisible kiss flutter up to the window above. Abby pretended to catch it. Rye and Folly quickly hurried to join the Flood boys and, aside from Rye’s occasional stumble in her father’s boots, they didn’t miss a step.

  18

  Grim Green

  Rye and Folly met Quinn at the far side of Grim Green, near the treeline of the western woods. Colorful tents had sprung up all over the Green like giant mushrooms. Smoke filled the air, carrying with it the smells of the grilled lamb and fish stew sold by festival vendors. The leaves had fallen from most of the trees and a flock of black rooks lined the spindly branches. Their dark silhouettes eyed the large crowd as the late afternoon sun dipped in the sky, ready to swoop at the first opportunity to scour the Green for scraps. Folly’s brothers had already disappeared into the masses in search of mayhem and amusement.

  With some hesitation, Rye told Quinn all the secrets she had already shared with Folly—it was only fair. He was understandably shocked by the stories of Harmless, the Spoke and the Clugburrow. Rye was still overwhelmed herself, and she’d had days for it to sink in. Most importantly, she conveyed her mother’s message.

  “You and your father should come to the Dead Fish. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Yes,” Quinn said without enthusiasm. “I’ll let him know that.”

  “Quinn, this is important. Come to the inn, just for a little while.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be keen on hiding behind the Luck Uglies,” Quinn said.

  Something was off. From his tone, Rye didn’t think Quinn was eager to join them at the inn either.

  “You’re not hiding behind anyone,” Folly interjected. “We’re your friends. We’re just trying to help.”

  Quinn had tightened up again with the talk of Luck Uglies, and Rye decided once more to change the subject. She asked him to look in on Shady.

  “Rye, why do you always ask me to do these things?” Quinn said crossly. He seemed uncomfortable, and Rye worried that the news about Harmless had truly rattled him. “I can’t sneak into your house. There are guards outside the door every hour of the day.”

  “The Earl’s soldiers are lazy dolts,” Rye said. “What do they do all day?”

  Quinn thought for a moment. “Well, they spit. Scratch themselves. Nap a lot. Throw dice.”

  “I just need you to check on him,” Rye said. “Bring him something to eat. Make sure he’s okay.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” Quinn said. “Your favors always seem to get me bitten, scratched, or pooped on.”

  “Please, Quinn. He’s part of my family.”

  Quinn sighed. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” Rye said. “Now, I need to get up front. Are you both coming with me?”

  Folly and Quinn looked at each other skeptically. Rye had explained her plan earlier. Neither of them thought it was a good idea.

  “Rye, do you really think you need to do this?” Folly said. “I mean, even if you are right, what difference does it make now?”

  “Yeah,” Quinn said. “What if the Constable recognizes you?”

  “I am doing this,” Rye said, “because it is the right thing to do. Leatherleaf stayed here for a reason, and it may be my fault.”

  Rye reached into a pocket and showed them something in her hand. It was the small leather pouch she had found by Leatherleaf’s campfire—the item she had taken from her room the night the O’Chanters fled their cottage.

  “These things don’t mean anything to us,” she said. “But they might mean the world to him. I had no right to take them.”

  “It’s probably just junk,” Folly muttered.

  “Well if it’s not junk to him, it doesn’t really matter what we think,” Rye said hotly. “If I’d never taken this, maybe the Bog Noblins would have stayed where they belong—disappeared.”

  Quinn sighed. “If we aren’t more careful, we’re all going to need to disappear.”

  “As far as being recognized,” Rye continued, returning the pouch to her pocket, “I need you to keep an eye out for the Constable . . . and just to be safe, I brought this.”

  She pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders, brought its hood over her head, and took a step away from Folly and Quinn.

  From her cloak, Rye removed a small purple mask of a leathery, hook-nosed imp. She’d taken it from the collection on the wall of the Dead Fish Inn. She slid it in place over her face. It was like looking through the cracks of a fence.

  Folly nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent.”

  “Rye,” Quinn said with alarm, “you’ll get yourself arrested.”

  “Look around,” Rye said, taking it off and returning it to her cloak. “Nobody’s going to worry about a girl in a mask.”

  Indeed, the number of festivalgoers far outnumbered the soldiers patrolling Grim Green. Consistent with village festival custom, almost everyone seemed to be flaunting at least one Law of Longchance or another. At first, soldiers had hauled away the most boisterous offenders, but they seemed to quickly recognize the impossibility of the task and now turned a blind eye.

  Quinn just shook his head. “I’ll do what you need me to.”

  “Let’s go,” Rye said. “If anything goes wrong or we get separated, we meet back here. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Folly and Quinn said together.

  The three friends walked down the hill into the maze of tents, performers, and villagers. They proceeded carefully and with great focus, as their goal was to reach the far side of Grim Green undetected. Their ultimate destination was the giant iron cage that sat alongside Earl Longchance’s great stage and banquet table. It was the cage that housed Leatherleaf, the Bog Noblin.

  Longchance’s banquet table stretched the length of the elevated stage that had been erected on the castle side of Grim Green. Torches and makeshift fire pits blazed at either end, keeping Longchance and his guests comfortably warm on the crisp autumn afternoon. To the south, behind the stage and table, rose a steep rocky hill lined with jagged pine trees. Atop that sat the walls and towers of Longchance Keep like an ugly black crown.

  Morningwig Longchance lounged in a gilded chair at the center of the table, his cold eyes watching the stage performers and the Green full of villagers beyond. He had taken the strands of his beard and knotted them into one skinny little braid for the occasion. He stroked it as one might pet the tail of a cat. He wore so many rings on his fingers that they clattered each time he picked up his goblet of wine or sucked another orange slice from the bowl at his side. Longchance’s table was filled with his special invitees, most of whom looked to be the youngest and fairest maidens from throughout the village. The exception was his daughter, on his lef
t. Lady Malydia had donned her most depressing black dress and customary scowl for the occasion. She pecked at the piles of fine food on her plate like a constipated hen.

  The stage saw a steady stream of dancers, jugglers, and jesters, and a wall of soldiers lined the front of the stage to keep the masses from troubling the Earl. Of greater interest, however, was the hideous creature chained and caged in the enormous iron chamber to one side of the stage. The chamber looked like a massive birdcage on wheels, large enough to house a small family, and tethered to it was a team of draft horses nibbling nervously at the grass.

  Most villagers had never seen a Bog Noblin up close before. Bog Noblin sightings in the village had historically consisted of screaming, yelling, and running away at breakneck speeds. Here, villagers could press right up to the wooden barriers just feet from the cage. Close enough to see the residue of the beast’s last meal embedded under its claws. Close enough to smell the stink of rot on its breath. For a small fee, they could purchase a stone from one of the Earl’s minions and play “Knock the Noblin.” There was no real object to the game or prize to be won, just the satisfaction of hitting the Bog Noblin with the stone as hard as you could throw it. Villagers’ animosity toward the creature ran deep and business was brisk. At one point someone was dispatched to the dry riverbed to restock the supply of stones. Nobody was willing to go into the cage to collect them.

  Leatherleaf sat in a bed of straw at the back of the cage, his dirty, hairy arms wrapped around his knees. His ankles and wrists were bound together with thick chain. In captivity, he had become more withdrawn than fearsome. He stayed motionless as the villagers’ stones bounced off his knotted head and shoulders. His bulging eyes darted around, though, at the shadows playing on the horizon of the darkening sky. His long, upturned nose twitched, as if he had caught a familiar scent in the wind.

  Rye, Folly, and Quinn huddled by the line to purchase throwing stones. Rye pursed her lips as her ears began to burn. The village had never captured a live Bog Noblin before and all they could think to do was abuse him with rocks? Rye studied her surroundings carefully, wanting to make sure she’d absorbed every detail. Finally, she nodded to herself and said, “I think it’s now or never.”

  “Are you sure you still want to do this?” Quinn said.

  Rye nodded. “Are you?”

  “No,” Quinn said, “but don’t worry. I’m still the fastest runner on Mud Puddle Lane.”

  “I see the Constable,” Folly said, pointing to the far end of Longchance’s banquet table.

  Boil was on the other side of the stage from where they stood. He was hobbling on his bad foot, grudgingly trying to carry some wood to the fire. Good. Now they knew where he was.

  “Then we’re ready,” Rye said. “Folly, you stay here where you have a good view. Quinn, if you need to run, don’t stop until you’re back in the village.”

  “Okay,” Quinn said. He turned to her and said quietly, “Be careful, Rye. You’re not a Luck Ugly.” He hesitated. “If you ask me, I hope you stay that way.”

  He quickly joined the line before she could respond.

  A troupe of step dancers ran out onto the stage in a carefully organized line. The musicians broke into a high-spirited folk song that involved flutes and pipes. The dancers’ shoes clattered and clacked.

  Rye and Folly stayed put while Quinn inched forward, waiting his turn. When he got to the front of the line, Rye whispered, “Here we go.”

  She buried her head in her shoulder and carefully slipped her mask in place.

  “I’ll take six, please,” Quinn said, handing the stone broker his bronze bits.

  “Six!” the stone broker boomed. “We have a boy who intends to do some damage. Have at it, lad. Make us proud.”

  The stone broker handed Quinn half a dozen nicely weighted gray stones. Quinn closed one eye and measured the distance to the cage. He cocked his arm and threw with all his might, missing wildly to the left. The stone landed on Longchance’s banquet table and skipped across several plates, spilling wine into one of the maidens’ laps.

  “My apologies,” the stone broker called to the table nervously. “Lad, you must be more careful.”

  “Sorry,” Quinn said. “Let me try again.”

  This time Quinn’s stone bounced off the leg of a dancer.

  “Enough, boy!” the stone broker shouted. “Stop!”

  Quinn threw two more, breaking three goblets and knocking a spoon right out of a diner’s hand.

  Now the nearby soldiers had taken notice and moved toward the source of the disturbance. Quinn ran along the grass in front of the stage, the stone broker in hot pursuit, and hurled the last two stones haphazardly. The first knocked a flute out of a performer’s hands. The second just missed the hat of Longchance himself. After he let the last stone go, Quinn nimbly darted into the crowd, the stone broker and a handful of soldiers pushing through behind him.

  The brief diversion was all Rye needed. Still in her hood and mask, she darted under one of the wooden barricades and scrambled directly for the iron cage. When she reached it, she ducked down and rolled underneath, disappearing between its wheels and the bottom of the cage itself.

  Rye caught her breath and crawled on her hands and knees through the grass. In the darkness, she noticed a faint glow from where the collar of her cloak dangled away from her neck. She peeked down. Her choker was glowing blue. Rye looked up. Leatherleaf must be right above her. Only rotting straw and the iron grates separated them. Rye took a deep breath when she got to the rear of the cage, where she had last seen Leatherleaf sitting. Mustering her courage, she dragged herself out from underneath it.

  Crouching behind the cage now, she could smell the nervous horses that had been forced to drag Leatherleaf in his prisoner’s chariot. Peeking up, she saw the gray flesh of Leatherleaf’s broad back just feet from her face. The ridge of his spine jutted up through his skin like craggy stones from the bog itself. His back was etched with unhealed claw marks that looked infected, oozing pus. Rye wondered if they were the work of the Gloaming Beast Harmless had told her about. Leatherleaf was close enough for her to touch him. More troubling, Leatherleaf was close enough for him to touch her.

  Rye reached inside her cloak and felt for the small leather pouch. Without warning, Leatherleaf sprung around in his cage so that he was facing her. For a fleeting moment, the Bog Noblin and the hook-nosed imp stared into each other’s eyes. Rye leaped back when he pressed his hideous face against the bars, his nose snorting at the air. She could see sticky mucus dripping from it. His bulbous eyes twitched and squinted through the shadows, but they were bloodshot and swollen. It occurred to Rye that Leatherleaf could probably smell her, but he was having a difficult time spotting her. They’d temporarily blinded him with a paste of onions and pepper.

  Rye looked toward the stage. The dancers clattered furiously as the musicians picked up their tempo. Villagers clapped along to the festive beat. She glanced through the cage and could just make out Folly’s head of white-blond hair in the crowd on the other side. Folly’s job was to watch for the Constable and to send Rye a signal if he was near.

  Rye still had her hand in her cloak and her fingers around the bag. If nothing else, maybe the return of his pouch might bring Leatherleaf some comfort. She could probably just drop it into his cage and get out of there. It’s not like she was expecting a thank-you. She took a step forward.

  There was a blood-curdling scream from the stage.

  “Bog Nooobliiiin!” a dancer yelled, as if her life depended on it.

  The music stopped and an unsettling silence fell over the crowd. No one moved. Then a wave of hysterical cries and flailing limbs spread across Grim Green like a summer fire.

  Leatherleaf jolted around to face the villagers. Rye first assumed the screams were in response to Leatherleaf himself, but that wouldn’t make any sense. He was still secured inside his mobile prison. She pressed the pouch back into her pocket and ran to the side of the cage where she could
get a better view. Villagers were fleeing in all directions, clearing a path for the creature rapidly approaching the stage and the banquet table. The creature bore a resemblance to Leatherleaf, but it was immediately and terribly clear to Rye what Harmless had meant when he said Leatherleaf was small and weak.

  This Bog Noblin was two feet taller than Leatherleaf. Where Leatherleaf’s arms and legs were long and sinewy, this creature’s limbs looked as powerful and dense as tree trunks. Its lower teeth had grown so long that they extended past its mouth and over its upper lips like the tusks of a boar. Its nose had been smashed flat and its face was pierced full of metal nails and bolts, like iron warts. Its filthy orange hair was matted into long, flattened coils and strung with bones. Instead of Leatherleaf’s bulging, twitching eyes, this monster’s eyes were focused black coals of pure malice.

  At the Earl’s table, maidens hitched up their dresses and screamed off in a variety of directions. Soldiers who had patrolled the Green rushed back to reinforce the perimeter in front of the stage.

  The Bog Noblin that Rye would later come to know as Iron Wart purposefully made its way to the front of Grim Green, dragging its huge, clawed hands behind as it walked. It only stopped when the small army of soldiers raised their swords and shields, barricading the front of the stage. Archers assumed positions around the Green and took aim at the creature’s head. It examined the soldiers with little concern, then glanced toward the shadows of the western woods more warily. Satisfied for the moment, it looked up at the banquet table, where Longchance sat with the few members of his dinner party who had not already disappeared. The dancers had frozen in mid-step. Rye glanced around the Green and beyond. Harmless must be out there somewhere. She wondered if the creature sensed it too.

  Iron Wart opened its terrible mouth and gurgled something that sounded like an old man choking on a chicken bone.