The Monster in the Hollows

by Andrew Peterson

  Every time Janner heard the name Esben, his stomach fluttered. It was still hard to believe his father had been a king. But all this talk about power and secrets and stones was frightening.

  It was true that the three children could do things Janner couldn’t explain. When Leeli sang or played, Janner had heard the sea dragons in his mind. Their words buzzed in his head like bees in a hive. Sometimes Leeli’s song connected the siblings even when they were miles apart, and Kalmar seemed to be able to see—to reallysee—what no one else could, especially when Leeli sang.

  Several times now something had awoken within them, something they couldn’t explain. Nia had told them it was a gift of the Maker, something they couldn’t—and shouldn’t—control. But if they couldn’t control it, how could Gnag? And why did he want to? How could he know about something that was mysterious even to their mother?

  “I wish he’d leave us alone,” Leeli said, resting her chin on the rail and looking down at the water.

  “I just want things to be normal again,” Kalmar said. “We’ll be normal in the Green Hollows, won’t we?”

  Nia put her hand on Kalmar’s furry face. “I hope so.”

  “How do we know the Green Hollows is still safe?” Janner asked.

  “The Hollowsfolk are strong, and they’ve never liked outsiders. If anyone has kept Gnag and his armies out of their country,” Nia said with a smile, “it’s my kinsmen.”

  “And once Gnag figures out we’re there?” Janner asked. “What then?”

  “I don’t know. But the more Gnag seeks you, the more convinced I become that he’s afraid of you.Afraid, children. So take heart. After the battle in Kimera I have a feeling Gnag might have finally learned to leave the Jewels of Anniera alone.”

  “And if he isn’t finished with you,” said Oskar, “he’ll look everywhere but right under his nose. If I were Gnag I’d imagine you three ran west, past the edges of the maps, or south past the Sunken Mountains—as far away from Dang as possible. But here we are, slipping right into his own backyard.”

  “The Green Hollows is Gnag the Nameless’s backyard?” Kalmar asked.

  “The southern border of the Hollows is the Killridge Mountains, where they say Gnag sits among the peaks in the Castle Throg and broods on the world’s destruction,” Oskar said.

  “But the mountain range is huge,” Nia said. “And treacherous. There’s no way through. The only people crazy enough to live there are the ridgerunners.”

  “Ridgerunners! Pah!” said Oskar, trying to sound like a sailor. He spat, but instead of a nice, dense, seaworthy glob plopping into the sea, it was a spray of white spittle, some of which landed on Podo’s arm.

  “Keep practicin’, old friend,” Podo said, wiping it off. “Make sure ye get the bubbles out before ye spit. And remember, it helps if ye snort. Improves the consistency. Watch.”

  Podo reared back and snorted so long and loud that the whole crew took notice. They watched with admiration as Podo launched a dollop of spit that sailed an astonishing distance before splooshing into the waves. The Kimerans nodded and murmured their approval.

  Podo wiped his mouth. “Sorry, lass. Ye have to seize the teachable moments, you know. Carry on.”

  “As I was saying,” Nia said with a withering look at Podo, “the ridgerunners are the only ones who live in the mountains.”

  “But the ridgerunners serve Gnag the Nameless, don’t they?” asked Leeli. “Zouzab does.”

  “The ridgerunners serve themselves,” Nia said. “The only reason Zouzab was in Skree at all was because Gnag captured him. Or maybe bribed him with fruit.”

  “They do have a thing for fruit,” Oskar said.

  Janner thought about Mobrik, the ridgerunner in the Fork Factory. If it hadn’t been for three apples, Janner would never have been able to bribe the little man, and he’d probably still be covered in soot at the shearing station with Sara Cobbler and the others.

  The thought of Sara Cobbler made his heart skip a beat. Every day since he had escaped the factory, he had thought of her bright, courageous eyes. He was haunted by the memory of her trapped behind the portcullis, in the clutches of the Overseer and Mobrik, while he clattered into the night on the carriage. But what could he do? He was on the other side of the world now. Even if he were still in Dugtown, he wasn’t sure he could help her.

  “But couldn’t Gnag just go around the mountains?” Kalmar asked Nia.

  “You don’t have to worry about that either. The rest of the Hollows is surrounded by a deep, twisted forest. They call it the Blackwood. As far as we know, no one’s ever survived it. It’s thick with ancient trees, and terrible things live there. The sheepherders who wandered close enough to see the forest’s edge always returned with the most awful stories. Stories about monsters.”

  Leeli shuddered.

  “What kind of stories?” Janner asked.

  “What kind of monsters?” Kalmar asked.

  “The Hollowsfolk call them thecloven. Split and twisted things. The scarytales said that Ouster Will was a cloven.” Nia shivered. “The point is, Gnag won’t come through the Blackwood either. Not even Fangs would be so foolish. The Green Hollows is as safe a place as we’ll ever find.”

  “If there’s anything left of it, lass,” Podo said. “Maker knows you’re right—the Hollowsfolk are a wiry bunch and more than capable of keeping the Fangs at bay. But it’s been nine years. The world has changed. No one ever thought Anniera would fall, either.”

  Podo looked south with a surly eye. Janner wondered if the old man was troubled by memories of Anniera, where Wendolyn—Janner’s grandmother—had been killed by the Fangs of Dang.

  One of the Kimeran crewmen shouted, “Captain! Something’s coming!”

  All eyes turned to the sailor at the foredeck, who pointed at the smoky southern sky.

  “Somebody get me the ‘scope!” Podo snarled, and in an instant a sailor handed him a long cylinder. Podo propped his elbow on the rail and squinted into the telescope.

  A moment later, Janner saw a shape speeding toward them like an arrow out of the smoke.

  “No fear, lads,” Podo said. “It’s the birdman.”

  3

  At the Helm of the Enramere

  Artham circled the mast of the ship once before landing lightly on the deck. His transformation from Peet the Sockman to a powerful, winged being gave Janner hope that the world wasn’t just full of terrible surprises but wonderful ones too.

  Artham’s wings stretched as wide as he was tall, with dark feathers and bright red and white eyelets. His torso and chest were lean and muscular, like any other chest and torso except for the reddish, almost scaly skin—like a rooster’s comb, Janner thought—and the dark little feathers that swept up his sides and swirled over his shoulders. Artham’s face was hawkish as ever, and his hair shot out in several directions in a way that complemented his lanky frame. When his boots touched the deck, there was hardly a sound but the windy flap of his wings and a leafy rustle when he folded them.

  Janner beamed with pride when Artham’s bright eyes fell on him first of all. He forgot his wounds and found himself standing straighter.

  “Janner. I’m glad to see you alive again.” Artham’s voice was rich and refined, the voice of a Throne Warden—nothing like the high-pitched gibbering of only a few weeks ago. He gave Janner a smile and a quick nod, then he turned to Podo with a serious look. “We’ve been spotted. Three ships are sailing straight for us from the south. I planned to fly over and get a look at—at the Isle, but I saw the ships coming and turned back. We don’t have much time.”

  “What kind of ships?” Podo asked.

  “Not sure.”

  “Fangs?”

  “Probably. There was plenty of movement on the decks, but I couldn’t get close enough to tell whether it was the slithery sort.”

  Podo scowled. “There’s little chance we can survive a fight against three ships.”

  “What can we do?” Janner asked, feeling at
once that he’d spoken out of turn.

  “The only thing anyone can do. Press on and pray the Maker brings us safe to port.” Podo winked at Janner, then turned his full attention to the crew. “You men trim the sails and get us to the Hollows! If there’s not wind enough, we row!”

  The crew snapped into action, and the ship came to life.

  “Janner, you’re bleeding!” Leeli said.

  Janner looked down and saw a trickle of blood slipping along his left shin. As Nia and Leeli bustled him downstairs into the hold, he cast a glance over his shoulder at Kalmar and Artham, the little wolf and the birdman, wishing he could stay with them on deck.

  Then the wind began to blow. The crew shouted as one, and Janner heard Podo above them all, whacking his old bone club on the mainmast and bellowing praises to the Maker and curses on the Fangs with the same breath. Wind filled the great sails and tensed the mast, and like a waking giant, the boat groaned as it heaved ahead.

  Their ship, Janner had learned, was called theEnramere. She was a relatively new vessel, built not ten years before the Great War according to Podo’s reckoning, which made her under twenty—not long enough to have many of her own stories, but long enough to prove herself seaworthy. She’d been used first as a fishing boat, but in the years after the Great War, she’d been re-commissioned by the Fangs for use in transporting troops and supplies to and from Dang. Gammon, the leader of the Kimeran rebellion in the Ice Prairies, along with a company of his warriors, had seized the ship during a raid of the Phoob Islands years ago and had kept her ready ever since.

  Janner felt like he knew theEnramereintimately, having lain so long in her hold like a baby in a crib, listening to her hum, feeling her nod, watching the colors of the wood change with the angle of the light coming through the porthole. Now, with the crew’s footsteps thumping overhead and the wind pushing her east, he imagined the ship’s pleasure as she cut through the waves at a fast clip. He had read about ship captains in books likeScourge of the SeaandBefore the Western Wide, how they named their ships and treated them like true loves. He thought about his father’s affection for sailing and wondered if his own keen impression of theEnramere’s mood and manner was due to Esben’s blood in his veins. He hoped so.

  When Nia was satisfied that Janner’s injuries were properly tended, she allowed him on deck to help however he could. Janner didn’t want to be in the way, so he stood with his back against the door of the captain’s cabin and waited for the right moment to ask someone what he could do. Moments after he climbed into the late-afternoon sunlight, he was caught up in the business of sailing and forgot all about his wounds.

  The crew shimmied up the mast and hauled fat ropes and skittered to and fro for no apparent reason, while Podo bellowed orders from the helm with one hand on the wheel and the other waving the bone club around his head.

  “Look at him.” Kalmar’s furry head appeared at Janner’s shoulder. “Sad to think this is his last ride.”

  The wind whipped Podo’s white hair into a fury, and at the edges of his mouth curled a terrible, grizzly grin, but his eyes were bright and calm, pools of still water that wouldn’t ripple for all the winds of Aerwiar. Podo Helmer was made for the sea, and for danger, and the clash of wills, and so the fierce love in his heart for his family bolstered his strength even as their peril rose. It was a thing to see. But whatever the day’s outcome, whether they were sunk by the ships or they slipped safely into the port in the Green Hollows, this would be Podo Helmer’s final dash across the waves. The dragons had allowed their old enemy this final passage across their waters.

  “Looks like he means to make it a good one,” Janner said.

  Artham swooped down and lighted on the prow. He pointed south and shouted, “They’re gaining!”

  Kalmar helped Janner limp between the burly Kimerans to the port rail. Janner spotted three ships in the smoky distance. They were a long way off, but they were pointed further east on a course to intercept theEnramere before it reached the Green Hollows. Janner didn’t know much about sailing, but he could tell the other ships had the advantage of the wind.

  Podo strode to the rail and squinted at the horizon, making a sound between a snarl and a laugh. He shook his fist in the air, threw a fiery curse across the waves, whirled around, and stomped back to the helm.

  “Come here, lads!” he barked.

  Janner and Kalmar exchanged a glance and dashed to the wheel.

  Podo grabbed Janner’s hands and placed them on the handles. “Hold here, and here.” Podo knelt, put his scratchy face beside Janner’s, and pointed. “See that little hump in the distance?”

  Janner did. A thin, dark shape on the eastern horizon. “Yes sir.”

  “That’s where we’re headed. That’s the Green Hollows. It’s farther away than it looks. Now keep her nose pointed just to the left of that spot and she’ll sail straight for it. Kalmar, yer job is to keep Janner company and to fetch me if the wind changes. Clear?”

  “Yes sir,” Kalmar said.

  “But where are you going?” Janner asked, hating how frightened he sounded.

  “I forgot me pipe. If this is my last voyage, I aim to enjoy it.”

  Podo marched away, humming a happy tune as he disappeared into the captain’s quarters, leaving Janner feeling very small at the helm of a very big ship. The wheel tugged back and forth with a will of its own. It was harder to hold steady than he expected. He felt the slow rise and fall of the sea beneath him, and the thrilling tension of wind and water, and the way sail and keel and rudder harnessed that power to drive theEnramere through the waves.

  Janner took a deep breath, squinted one eye, and aimed the ship as Podo had instructed. He was conscious of the crew watching him, but he tried to focus all his attention on the hump of land and did his terrified best not to look anywhere else.

  After a while, he realized he was smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. For the first time in his life, he was sailing.

  4

  Fresh Wounds

  Several minutes later, Podo emerged from his cabin with a pipe between his teeth, and though Janner was thrilled to be steering the ship, he was relieved that Podo was back. But the old sailor only nodded at Janner and moved to the bow to speak with Artham. Janner’s arms were getting tired, but he already knew he would miss the feeling of the wheel in his hands.

  He glanced to his right and his smile vanished. The ships in the distance were gaining. They were close enough now that Janner could make out movement on their decks. More than once Kalmar had to remind him to keep his eyes on the land at the horizon because the nose of theEnramere drifted to port or starboard.

  “Can you see them?” Janner asked.

  “Yeah,” Kalmar said.

  “How many?”

  “It’s still hard to tell. The weird thing is . . . ” Kalmar’s voice trailed off. His ears twitched, and his face looked troubled.

  “What is it?” Janner asked.

  “I cansmell them.” Kalmar wrinkled his nose. “Lots of them. And it’s not just that I can smell them. I can smell their numbers. If I wanted to, I think I could probably count how many there are, just by sniffing.”

  “You should tell Grandpa,” Janner said. “I’m sure he and Uncle Artham would want to know how many we’re up against. And Kal? I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Your new sense of smell,” Janner said gravely. “It must be awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you mean?” Kalmar asked.

  “Grandpa’s toots must be unbearable.”

  They exploded with laughter.

  “I know!” Kalmar said. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I can hardly breathe! And it’s not just Grandpa—it’s everybody.” Kalmar lowered his voice. “Especially Leeli!”

  Even as he laughed Janner was fascinated by the way the old Kalmar seemed to peer out through the Grey Fang, as if he were only wearing a costume.

  “Look out, you’re off course,” Kalmar said, wiping
his eyes with his furry forearm.

  The nose of the ship had drifted south again, and Janner tugged at the wheel until the ship straightened. Podo glared at him from the forecastle and pointed just left of the land in the distance, then jabbed his pipe back between his teeth and resumed his pacing.

  Kalmar clapped Janner on the back, right on one of his bandages. Janner hissed and jerked away. The cold, painful memory of Kalmar’s claws raking his skin returned, and Janner felt a flash of irritation. At first it was just irritation that Kalmar had smacked him, but beneath it lay a seed of anger, a deeper wound that worried Janner. He didn’t want to be angry. He was glad Kalmar was back, and he knew that the Fang who had thrashed in the water was only a shadow of his little brother. But still. It had been those same claws. Those same teeth.

  “Sorry,” Kalmar said. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Janner tightened his grip on the wheel and shrugged. “Just keep those claws to yourself.” He meant it as a joke, but it came out bitter.

  Before he could apologize, Kalmar shrank away and padded across the deck. Janner wanted to follow, but he couldn’t leave the wheel. Artham, deep in conversation with Podo on the other side of the ship, saw Kalmar leave. He gave Janner a questioning look, and Janner replied with a shrug and a heavy sigh.

  “Captain Helmer!” cried a sailor from the rigging. “Captain!”

  Janner craned his neck to see a Kimeran sailor clutching a line and leaning precariously from the mainmast, a scope up to his eye.