The Monster in the Hollows

by Andrew Peterson

  Nia stood and clenched her fists at her sides.

  “You may speak,” Rudric said. Janner wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw, beneath his bushy beard, a gulp.

  Nia spoke through her teeth. “I come to you not only as the Queen of Anniera, but as a daughter of the Hollows. I grew up here in Ban Rona. My grandfather, Kargan Igiby, was himself the Keeper for two seasons. I see gathered here ambassadors from Ban Hynh, Ban Rugan, Ban Yorna, and all the villages between—men and women who knew me when I was young, who have known the Igiby family for an epoch. I love this land as you do and would not put it in danger.”

  Janner noticed Rudric steal a glance at the assembly, and like a flicker of light a smile flashed in the brush of his beard. Janner couldn’t make sense of it at first, but when he saw the faces of the Hollowsfolk gathered in the hall, he understood. They were as attentive now as they had been angry the night before. Rudric had readied them to listen.

  Nia took a deep breath, turned to the assembly, who sat under the tree like children at storytime, and spoke.

  10

  The Queen’s Tale and the Warden’s Wings

  The Fangs attacked Castle Rysen more swiftly than we could have imagined.” Nia spoke quietly, but her voice carried through the leafy hall. “Esben, the children, and I were together in the dining hall one moment, and the next it seemed the whole world had grown scales and fangs. They poured into the castle. We ran. Esben never made it out of the castle. Mother was killed.”

  Podo sucked in a breath and stared at the floor. Janner heard several sniffles in the room and wondered how many of the assembly had known Wendolyn Helmer.

  “By the Maker’s hand we crossed the Dark Sea of Darkness, where we’ve hidden these many years in a little town called Glipwood, where my father grew up. The Fangs had no idea who we were until this summer. One of them recognized the Annieran crest on one of my necklaces, and they would have shipped us to Gnag himself if we hadn’t had help.”

  She looked at Artham, and all eyes in the room followed her gaze. He sat under the drape of canvas with his head bowed. Janner saw his cheek twitch, and one of the hidden wings stirred.

  “Artham P. Wingfeather, Throne Warden of Anniera, found us. He’d kept watch over the Jewels for years, so when the Fangs captured us, he came to our rescue.” Nia smiled at him, but he looked away. “The Throne Warden was true to his vow to protect the High King. Not even the Dark Sea could keep him from us.”

  Artham’s cheeks splotched with either embarrassment or nervousness. Then he made a tiny whimpering sound, quiet enough that Janner wasn’t sure the assembly heard it. It was odd to see flickers of Peet the Sock Man after so many days of Artham behaving as he must have before the Great War. Before something had happened to him. Something that had left him with a shock of white hair and hideous claws that he hid under a pair of knitted socks.

  In the Phoob Islands, something more had happened, and it was something Janner still didn’t understand. Even as Kalmar had transformed into a Grey Fang, Artham had changed from a crazy man with claws to an elegant winged warrior. His unwieldy talons had refined into rust-colored hands with slender, graceful claws. He had become not less butmore, and the gibberish was replaced by a strong voice and eloquent speech (Artham was a poet, after all). But just as there had been glimpses of the real Artham hidden in Peet the Sock Man, now Janner caught a glimpse of Peet the Sock Man in the real Artham. It was troubling.

  “We escaped,” Nia said, releasing Artham from her gaze. “On the way to the Ice Prairies, where we thought we might find refuge, Janner and Kalmar were separated from us. Then they were separated from each other. Janner braved much evil to escape Dugtown and eventually made his way to Kimera, a secret city in the snow. But Kalmar—” Nia’s voice cracked. “Kalmar lost his way.” The statement deepened the silence of the room. Even the great tree seemed to listen. “He was captured by Stranders—men and women with black hearts—sold to the Fangs, and in the dungeon . . . in the dungeon he—”

  Janner knew the story, but he could hardly bear to hear it told. He tried to imagine what it would be like to tell a room full of strangers about his darkest moments. He was glad Kalmar wasn’t there to hear it.

  “He became a Fang,” Nia said. Many in the crowd murmured to one another and shook their heads. “Gnag has learned to change people. He’s learned to take the essence of a snake and meld it with a man or woman to create something horrible. That’s why there are Fangs. Grey Fangs. Kalmar was captured by the Fang makers.”

  The assembly hissed with hatred. The man called Bunge stepped out of the crowd and shouted, “I knew it! It’s a beast, and there’s no undoing it! Kill the Fang like we have all the others! If it’s not human, it’s not welcome!”

  Artham flung off his canvas and unfurled his wings. “Hollowsfolk,” he cried, “behold the Maker’s good pleasure!”

  The assembly gasped.

  “I was broken, I tell you, hardly a man at all! Unmade and foundering was I! But in the pit of the Phoobs I too sang the song of the stones! I became no Fang, but sprouted these.” He flexed his wings and swooped them forward, blowing back the hair of those nearest him. “I cannot tell you why. All I know is that in my heart was a burning love for young Kalmar. Gnag bends things for breaking, and the Maker makes a flourish! Evil digs a pit, and the Maker makes a well! That is his way.”

  “Warden Wingfeather, we hear your words,” Rudric said, stroking his beard. “We see your wings, and indeed we are as suspicious of you as of the young Fang in the dungeon. If I believed it were possible to bind you, I would.” The Hollowsfolk murmured their agreement. “You are neither animal nor man, unnaturally transformed. How does this come to be if not by some black power?”

  Janner saw on his mother’s face that even she wanted to know the answer to this question. Podo’s and Oskar’s bushy gray eyebrows were raised thoughtfully as they watched Artham for his reaction. The birdman’s wings ruffled and folded. Artham pursed his lips and nodded his head.

  “The mystery runs deeper than my understanding, but I’ll tell you what I believe.” Artham locked his fingers behind his back, looked over the faces of the assembly, and cleared his throat. “When the Fangs took Castle Rysen, my brother—Esben—” Artham swallowed. He took a deep breath and began again. “When the Fangs took the castle, my brother Esben—” Janner saw beads of sweat form on his uncle’s brow. “—Esben naid he seeded something—said he needed something. Said he needed something-thing-thing from inside. Said he would bum cack. Cack!”

  Artham closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He twitched his head. Whispers fluttered like moths among the Hollowsfolk. The blood ran from Janner’s face as he watched Artham sink below the surface while Peet the Sock Man rose. Artham opened his eyes long enough to look on Janner with a childlike panic that stabbed the boy’s heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Artham whispered. Janner couldn’t tell if he was speaking to him or to everyone. “I’m so, so, so sorry,” he repeated, and the old Peet’s shrill voice played at the edges of the words.

  He closed his eyes again, crouched, and sprang into the air. He flapped his great wings and circled the tree a few times before lighting on a high branch. Janner saw in his uncle’s wheeling eyes not just the madness of Peet the Sock Man but the frustration and grief of Artham P. Wingfeather, the Throne Warden who couldn’t stop what was happening. As beautiful and strong as Artham had become, something still haunted him, something that lurked like a sea dragon in his deep waters and had lain silent for weeks, choosing this of all moments to rise to the surface.

  Rudric seized his warhammer from beside the throne. The Hollowsfolk were a tumult of angry shouts, cries of alarm, and shaking fists. Nia and Podo shouted for them to lower their weapons. Oskar waved at the people and said, “In the words of Goverly Swimp, ‘There’s no need to panic!’”

  “We have to stop them,” Leeli said. “They’ll kill him.” She pointed across the room at a group of men stringing bows and fishing arr
ows from a barrel.

  Before he realized what he was doing, Janner ducked behind Rudric, climbed up the back of his throne, and jumped for the lowest branch of the tree. As soon as he caught the branch, all the hours he’d spent climbing glipwood oaks, swinging from mossy limb to mossy limb, scooting after Kalmar either to catch him or to keep him from hurting himself, suddenly felt like practice for this single moment. He climbed the tree as lithe as a thwap, swinging under limbs, scooting along others, closer every moment to the upper corner of the chamber where Peet trembled and twitched like a trapped bird, his talons flexing, his wings flapping madly.

  Artham was terrified, and he was terrifying.

  Janner edged along a branch of the tree as thick as his waist, calling Artham’s name again and again, but if Artham heard he showed no sign. The men with bows had nocked arrows and trained them on Artham, waiting for either a signal from Rudric or a movement from the birdman. Janner was sure Artham could defeat every warrior in the room if he wanted, but these were old allies, kinsmen, people acting not out of evil but out of fear; there must have been enough of Artham’s sanity left to restrain his fury—but why didn’t he flee? The main doors to the hall were flung wide open, and it would be an easy thing for him to fly through and away to safety.

  Janner had started climbing the tree with an idea in his head, but now that the floor was so far below he wondered what he’d been thinking. “Uncle Artham!” he cried again, but Artham only shook his head and goggled his eyes everywhere except at Janner, whimpering to himself in nonsensical words.

  If Janner was going to act, he had to do it now. The archers were hungry for a reason to shoot, Rudric was shouting, Oskar was waving his hands, and Nia’s head was buried in Podo’s shoulder. Only Leeli saw Janner in the tree.

  Their eyes met, she smiled at him, and Janner said, “Uncle Artham, HELP!”

  Then he jumped.

  11

  Two Wardens and a Sock Man

  Amidst a chorus of gasps, flapping wings, and shouts, Janner heard his uncle’s screech and felt his strong arms snatch him from the air. He felt a rush of wind, was blinded for a moment by sunlight, and before he knew it he was set lightly on the roof of the great hall.

  The leafy branches of the great tree rose out of the roof like trees themselves, and though Janner could still faintly hear shouting in the hall below, birdsong filled the air. To the east as far as he could see lay green hills and valleys, dotted with trees and patches of farmland. Here and there a cottage sat under a shade tree like a sleepy dog. To the south and west were the shingled roofs of Ban Rona, then the harbor, the cliff walls of the Watercraw, and beyond it, the Dark Sea of Darkness. The sun was sailing up into mid-morning, and Janner had to squint to see Artham, a winged silhouette crowned by a muss of white hair.

  “Thank you, Janner.” His voice quavered, but it was Artham who spoke, not Peet.

  “You just have to remember,” Janner said, taking his uncle’s hand. “You’re the Throne Warden.”

  “It’s remembering that’s the problem, lad.” Artham smiled, but his tone was bitter. “There are things I want to forget, but I can’t. Things I’ve yet to atone for.”

  Janner’s smile faded. “What things?”

  Artham shook his head. “I’d prefer that you remembered me as a good man. Not a coward.”

  Janner didn’t understand. His uncle had saved them time and again, fought the Fangs at every turn without a care for himself. How could anyone ever think of him as a coward?

  The commotion in the great hall below their feet increased, and Janner could hear people climbing the steps toward the roof. “Uncle Artham, listen! Whatever you’re talking about doesn’t matter. I love you. We all do.”

  “You wouldn’t if you knew,” Artham said as he moved to the edge of the roof and spread his wings. “I have to go. I’ll only cause you trouble.”

  “Please. Don’t go. We need you.”

  “This land, these hills might be the last safe place in all of Aerwiar. You’ll go to school, you’ll have friends, you’ll read books—Janner, the library in Ban Rona is magnificent. I traveled here many times in my youth to study the poets. You finally have a home. Don’t you see? You’ll have trouble enough convincing them to free Kalmar without these ridiculous wings stirring up trouble.” Footsteps thudded up the stairs, and voices rose. “Besides, I never know when I’ll bart stabbling.”

  “Start babbling,” Janner said quietly.

  “You see?” Artham hung his head, and his left eye twitched. “I fear I shall never be healed.”

  Tears stung Janner’s eyes. He didn’t want to live in a world without Artham watching over him, always appearing when they needed him most. But he could see a sadness in Artham’s eyes, a resolve that couldn’t be shaken. “Where will you go?”

  Artham drew a hand over his face and whispered, “As far from the Blackwood as possible.”

  “Why? What’s in the Blackwood?” Janner asked.

  “I’ll go to Skree.” Artham put a hand on Janner’s shoulder and forced a smile. “Gammon and his men could use a flying birdman on their side. I’ll see what trouble I can stir up on the other side of the sea, where trouble might do some good. Now that you’re safe, I should go where I’m needed.”

  “But youare needed.” Janner wiped his nose. “I need you.”

  “There’s the beast!” a man shouted from the doorway. He held a battleaxe in both hands and edged forward while more Hollowsfolk with weapons—men and women alike—crowded in behind him. “We’ll have no cloven in the Hollows, do you hear? None!”

  Artham dropped to a knee and wrapped his strong arms around Janner.

  “Maker bless you, lad. Take care of your brother. Be a better Warden than I. You have Podo, and Nia, and though it may not seem so, the people of the Green Hollows are good-hearted and noble in their way. This will make a fine home. Goodbye.”

  Janner looked into Artham’s deep eyes. He thought about the day on the rope bridge, high in the trees of Glipwood Forest, when Peet the Sock Man had invited them to his castle in the boughs. Even then he had seen a great sorrow in those eyes. Why did the madness creep into his mind even now, even after his mighty transformation? And what lurked in the Blackwood that frightened even Artham P. Wingfeather? It made Janner think of his old fear of Glipwood Forest, and that made him think of their journey to Dugtown, and that made him think of the Fork Factory, and that made him think of a girl with beautiful eyes set like jewels in her soot-covered face.

  “Uncle Artham, listen. There’s a place in Dugtown called the Fork Factory,” Janner said. “It’s full of slaves. Children.”

  “Not for long,” Artham said with a wink.

  “There’s a girl there. Her name’s Sara Cobbler.” Janner’s cheeks flushed. “Will you find her? She helped me escape. Tell her—tell her thank you. From me.”

  Artham smiled. “You have my word. You’re a precious jewel, my boy. Your father would be proud.”

  The Hollowsfolk rushed forward, swinging their weapons. Without taking his eyes off of Janner, Artham flapped his wings and rose. He flew back and away from the great hall, swatting away arrows as if they were sticks thrown by children. Janner watched through tears until his uncle disappeared behind a cloud.

  12

  Turalay

  Janner was astonished by how quickly the Hollowsfolk calmed down. Minutes after it was clear that Artham was gone, the mob of burly men and fierce women filed back downstairs, sheathed their weapons or smoothed their dresses, and sat in the great hall to resume the council. When Janner reached his family at the root of the tree, they huddled around him and peppered him with whispers.

  “Are you all right?” Nia asked.

  “Sakes alive, that was a reckless move, boy! Well done!” said Oskar.

  Podo squeezed Janner’s shoulder. “Yer lucky the mad bird didn’t drop ye.”

  “Where is he?” asked Leeli.

  The others quieted and looked at Janner.

&n
bsp; “He’s gone.”

  “Fer good?” Podo asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a moment of silence while they took in this news, and Janner realized the assembly had grown quiet too.

  Nia turned her attention back to the council. “Rudric, I ask your forgiveness. Artham carries a great weight in his heart, and sometimes it is too much for him.”

  Rudric was seated on his throne again, and Janner sensed a quiet kindness in him that he wanted to trust. “We all carry burdens, Queen. But not all of us sprout wings or grow fur. The Green Hollows has remained safe from Gnag’s blackness only because of our strength, our vigilance, and our determination to empty the Hollows of anything that might threaten our peace. You must understand, Highness, that we mean no disrespect to you, your station, or Anniera itself when I tell you we can’t allow a Grey Fang to walk our streets.”

  Janner’s heart sank as the Hollowsfolk muttered in agreement. Nia’s speech might have swayed the ruling, but Artham’s madness had ruined Kalmar’s chance.

  “Is there nothing I can say to convince you that my son is as safe and sane as he ever was?” Nia asked. “Are you telling me I have to choose between my homeland and my child?”

  “And what assurance have we that he is, as you say, ‘safe and sane’?” Rudric countered.

  Janner was troubled by the shameful thought that he wasn’t sure. He knew his brother’s heart was healing, if not whole—but if Kalmar carried the same shadow of guilt or fear or madness that Uncle Artham did, and something triggered it, would the little Grey Fang become as wild as Artham had only moments ago? Would he hurt someone? Janner’s wounds were painful reminders of what Kalmar was capable of.

  “I will vouch for him,” Nia said. “I declareturalay.”

  The assembly erupted in gasps. Janner didn’t know whatturalay was, but it caused the blood to drain from Rudric’s face. Podo took Nia’s hand and tried to pull her back to her seat, but she yanked away from him and approached the throne.