Rise of the Ragged Clover

by Paul Durham

  “And the other men in search of your father?” Abby asked. “Did the huntsman have more to say about them? We haven’t come across anyone in weeks.”

  “Just that they weren’t very friendly,” Rye said, recalling his words. “They don’t sound like the type of travelers we’d care to run across.”

  Abby fell silent. Mr. Nettle watched quietly from his stump next to the sawed-off bough, the only sound the crunch of Lottie’s small jaws. She chewed. And chewed some more. Supper consisted of tough meat and bland, boiled roots. Food of any sort was difficult to come by Beyond the Shale, where small game was elusive and the edible plants bitter.

  “Tomorrow we can all set out together to search for Harmless,” Rye added, grabbing her mother’s elbow enthusiastically. “With luck, we’ll find him before anyone else does.”

  She noticed a brightening in her mother’s face, but one that was offset by some unknown weight, too. Rye could see the bones of Abby’s jaw rising and falling as she plucked a root from the pot and chewed it between her teeth.

  “Your discovery is promising,” her mother said softly. “But we can’t go tomorrow.”

  “But this is the first sign of Harmless we’ve seen! If we miss him now we might never have another chance.”

  Abby seemed to weigh her words carefully before speaking, and her tone was regretful when she finally did.

  “I don’t disagree, Riley. But we are running out of time. We’ve heard no news from Drowning in months. Any explorers will be winding up their travels and returning south with the coming of the cold.”

  Rye glanced at the gaps in the wooden floorboards. She could see all the way down to the mossy earth below them. The walls of the tree house were built around the boughs of the oak, vines crawling through the seams of its timbers. A draft fluttered the cobwebs in its corners. Their latest shelter was not a place well suited to handle the chill of autumn, never mind the deep freeze that would inevitably follow. It would only take one storm to leave them snowbound for the season.

  “We too must return to Drowning before the first flakes of winter,” Abby continued, her voice drifting off for a moment. “With . . . or without . . . your father.”

  Rye clenched her fists in frustration. They couldn’t give up now! Abby raised her hand in response to Rye’s inevitable protest.

  “That’s why I’m going to leave tonight to search for him,” she said.

  Rye swallowed back her objection. It was now replaced by another, quieter one. “But the forest—at night . . .”

  Mr. Nettle shifted uncomfortably on his stump.

  “I’ll wait to leave until after our neighbors have made their evening rounds,” Abby said, casting a glance toward the looming trees outside the shutterless windows. She flashed a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Riley, it’s not the first time I’ve ventured out alone after dark.”

  “We should go together,” Rye muttered. “It would be safer.”

  “I’ll return before dusk tomorrow,” Abby said. “And I’ll stay on the Wend. If your father is heading south that’s the path he’ll take. But if he’s lingered nearby he may find his way to this Hollow. It’s better that you remain here to meet him.”

  Rye frowned, unconvinced.

  “Lottie, you’ll be in charge while I’m gone,” Abby said with a playful wink. “Keep an eye on these two until I return.”

  Lottie gave Rye and Mr. Nettle a watchful glare. “I’ll try,” she said solemnly. “Them’s a lot of work.”

  “Indeed,” Abby agreed with a smirk.

  “Rye, is that you who be stinky?” Lottie chimed, already relishing her new role. “Leave your boots outside when you step in bear plop.”

  “Mind your own beeswax,” Rye said.

  “Me no beeswacker,” Lottie objected. She leaned down and crinkled her nose toward Rye’s feet, as if smelling something foul under her heels. Rye shifted away so that Lottie’s horns wouldn’t poke her in the arm.

  Rye didn’t protest against her mother any further.

  “Now eat,” Abby said, placing a bowl on the table for her. She gestured for Rye to sit. “None of us can afford to skip any more meals.”

  But Rye’s stomach was already a twisted stew of excitement and anxiety. She looked to Lottie and Mr. Nettle, who huddled over their own well-cleaned bowls. Lottie’s dirt-streaked cheeks were less full than they once had been, and her soon-to-be four-year-old body had begun to stretch like an eager seedling.

  “Lottie, you and Mr. Nettle can finish mine.”

  Lottie and Mr. Nettle brightened, but they gasped in surprise as the bowl was snatched from the table.

  A furry creature the size of a raccoon scurried high up the stretch of the tree trunk growing through the wall. The thief was fawn colored, with a long, ringed tail and saucer-like eyes that blinked down at them nervously.

  “How do they keep getting past the Rill?” Abby said in frustration.

  “The brindlebacks are crafty little pests,” Mr. Nettle groused with a tug at his beard. “A branch high up in the forest canopy must have grown over the Rill and intertwined the oak’s own limbs. I’ll have a look tomorrow and cull it back.”

  “Bingle-blacks!” Lottie huffed, and clenched her fists.

  “Maybe he won’t eat it,” Rye said, looking up hopefully. “They don’t like roots, do they?”

  The brindleback held the bowl with his long black fingers, sniffed its contents with a wet, pointy snout, then cocked his head. Rye opened her hands in case the little bandit dropped it. Instead, it attacked it savagely with tiny teeth. Lottie and Mr. Nettle groaned in disappointment.

  When it was finished, the brindleback dropped the bowl down onto the floor with a clatter and disappeared into a hole in the wall.

  Abby sighed and stared at the hole. “Well, that’s it for supper, I’m afraid. Let’s get you girls to sleep while the forest still allows it.”

  The howls and cries came earlier and earlier each night—this time not long after the O’Chanter girls had huddled together in their blankets. Near and far, unseen voices of the woods seemed to call to one another as they surrounded the Hollow. Some spoke in wolfish growls, others in throaty warbles that sounded more like the clucking tongue of a hag than the beak of a raven or vulture. And yet the most unnerving sound wasn’t a voice at all, but the plod and slither of something heavy dragging itself through the dried leaves and dead pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. With its arrival the rest of the nightmarish choir went silent, and the restless creeper circled the Rill over and over without crossing, dull teeth clacking as it went.

  Abby sang softly in Lottie’s ear until, eventually, the slithering lurker abandoned its vigil, and its unnerving sound ebbed and faded into the distance. With the Hollow once again consumed by the silence of the massive trees, Lottie finally drifted off. Rye only feigned sleep, performing her best fake snore.

  She listened as her mother gathered some supplies in the darkness, and when Abby headed for the tree house steps, Rye whispered loud enough for her to hear.

  “You’ll be back tomorrow, Mama?”

  Abby paused. “Of course, my love,” she said, and Rye heard her kiss her fingertips. Abby’s hand fluttered in the air as if releasing a butterfly. Rye pretended to catch it.

  Abby’s silhouette disappeared, and Rye pulled a blanket tight under her chin in an effort to sleep. She pinched her eyes tight and tossed. Then turned. And tossed some more. But sleep proved elusive.

  Before long, the glow of Rye’s lantern wound its way down the oak tree’s spiral steps. It passed over the mossy turf of the Hollow, then tumbled to the ground with a metallic clank.

  “Pigshanks,” Rye whispered, regaining her footing after stumbling over a root. She peeked back at the tree house to see if she’d woken anyone.

  The windows remained dark. The only sound now was Mr. Nettle’s snoring wafting from the porch in the limbs above. The Feraling still insisted on sleeping outdoors.

  Rye set the lantern dow
n at the edge of the Rill.

  She crouched along the interior bank of the peculiar little stream, careful not to wet her feet. The lantern light flickered off the water against her face.

  Rye didn’t know why animals and other creatures of the forest could never cross the Rill. Mr. Nettle had told her it was one of those mysteries that was just accepted and understood, like the knowledge that trees would shed their leaves and feign death during winter, only to be reborn again come spring. The O’Chanters, Mr. Nettle, and other humans might splash through without consequence, but without the aid of bridge or branch, the narrow stream seemed as daunting as an ocean to the forest beasts. Whatever the reason, the Rill had made the Hollow a safe haven for the O’Chanters—and whoever had originally built the tree house long ago.

  Rye took a deep breath. And waited. But not for her mother—Abby was probably already on her way down the Wend.

  Finally, after many minutes, she heard a sound. Not like the restless predatory voices—but the faintest rustle of leaves and pine needles in the distance. She squinted and peered forward into the gloom. Then she saw them—two glowing yellow eyes watching her from the shadow of a twisted trunk.

  Rye didn’t move. The Hollow might provide sanctuary, but she still knew better than to cross the Rill after dark.

  Instead, she toed the edge of the embankment, extending her hand as far across the stream as she could reach. She nearly lost her balance and had to brace herself just as the black beast emerged from the darkness.

  The burly shadow padded forward and settled on the other side of the water. It opened its mouth, lantern light flickering off of its sharp white teeth. It licked its whiskers. Rye smiled.

  “Shady,” she whispered, and was just able to graze his thick mane with her fingertips. He pushed his head into her hand and shared a thankful rumble that sounded like a purr.

  Rye had assumed she would never see her beloved family pet again—not that you could really call Nightshade Fur Bottom O’Chanter a pet anymore. Rye had grown up believing Shady to be nothing more than an abnormally large house cat. However, he was, in fact, a Gloaming Beast, a mysterious breed of creatures with a predisposition to hunt Bog Noblins. True to his nature, Shady had disappeared into the forest last spring in pursuit of his favorite prey. But not long after the O’Chanters had returned south and found the Hollow, she was shocked to discover that he had found them.

  Shady kept his distance, and never crossed the Rill, but he had stopped by the edge of the Hollow each of the last few evenings. This was as close as he’d ever let Rye get, and the first time he’d let her pet him since their days together back in Drowning. His fur was velvety in her fingers, and she remembered the many nights he’d spent keeping her lap warm—and protecting her.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

  His bushy tail batted the night air.

  Rye’s other hand fingered something in her pocket. She slowly brought it out, and Shady pulled away abruptly, dropping himself onto his side several paces away. He gave her what looked to be a disappointed glare.

  “Sorry,” she said, and examined the worn leather band strung with runestones in her hand. It was the collar Shady had worn all those years he’d lived with the O’Chanters. She gave him a sheepish shrug. “Wouldn’t it hurt your feelings if I didn’t at least try?”

  There was a rustle from among the trees. Shady turned his chin to the forest with interest, but no alarm. His rough tongue licked a paw so thick it looked like it could belong to a bear cub.

  “Who else is out there, Shady?” Rye whispered. “What else is out there?”

  Shady just blinked his yellow eyes in reply.

  Rye sighed. “Oh, how I wish you could talk.”

  He stretched and casually strolled back to where another pair of eyes now waited. Rye knew it must be Gristle, the Gloaming Beast who had set out into the forest with Shady many months before. She seemed to want nothing to do with Rye or the Hollow.

  Both Shady’s and Gristle’s eyes flickered, just an instant before an animalistic, beast-baby wail pierced the still air like an unseasonal wind. Rye jumped to her feet. The eerie sound came from close by, and she knew very well what had made it. It was the cry of a Bog Noblin. Quite possibly the one she’d encountered with the huntsman. She stepped back from the edge of the Rill.

  Shady narrowed his eyes, glanced over his shoulder at Rye, and darted into the trees.

  “Be careful out there,” Rye called. “And keep an eye on Mama.”

  But Shady and Gristle had already disappeared into the darkness.

  3

  Four Horsemen

  The next day, the hours seemed to crawl. Rye sat in the moss at the edge of the Rill, her arms wrapped around her knees. She’d paced the Hollow’s perimeter much of the morning, watching and listening for any sign of Harmless. But if he was still out there, the breeze brought no whisper of him. There was no sign of Abby either.

  The only sign of life on the forest side of the Rill was Mr. Nettle. He’d set the rowan-branch bridge across the stream and stood on the opposite embankment, his hands on his hips and his round belly jutting over his belt. Mr. Nettle stared up at the limbs high above, trying to work out how the brindlebacks were getting over the Rill. He chewed his beard and scratched the curly hair that stuck up from his head. Lottie was using his horned skullcap like a makeshift net, trawling the gently flowing water, her small cage at her side.

  “I think I see it,” Mr. Nettle muttered, squinting. “That’s quite a branch that’s worked its way into the oak. No wonder those furry nuisances are making it across.”

  He walked over the bridge, lifting it up after he’d crossed. He peered down and frowned as Lottie drained water through the hollow eye sockets of his skullcap.

  There was little that the youngest O’Chanter could offer in her family’s search for Harmless, so instead she usually busied herself by searching the underbrush and streams for something that might replace her long-lost pet lizard, Newtie. Mr. Nettle had helped twist branches and slender twigs into a remarkable replica of Newtie’s former wire birdcage. One day she had cheerfully filled it with some fireflies, two orange-bellied salamanders, and a knotty-looking toad of poor temperament collected from the forest. But by the time she’d made it back to the Hollow, the salamanders had devoured the fireflies before disappearing themselves, and all she was left with was a rather bloated, immobile toad that had apparently eaten itself into an early demise. She’d had even less success since then, and now the cage remained empty.

  Mr. Nettle dropped himself down onto the ground next to Rye.

  “I’ve dwelled in these woods my whole life,” he said, following her gaze to the forest. “And I can tell you that staring at the trees won’t hurry along whomever you are waiting for.” He cocked his head back toward her. “It’ll just blur your vision.”

  Rye looked over and smiled sadly.

  Mr. Nettle crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Rye giggled.

  “Oh,” he said, pressing his fingers to his eyelids. “I think I’ve made myself dizzy.”

  “I’ll be glad when Mama’s back, and I can do more searching and less waiting,” she said impatiently.

  “The forest moves at its own pace,” Mr. Nettle said. “Live here long enough and you learn to take what it offers and ask nothing more. Those who try otherwise don’t live here long at all.”

  Rye, Abby, and Lottie had met Mr. Nettle during their earliest days Beyond the Shale. They’d discovered a glade similar to the Hollow situated farther north along the Wend. The tiny shelter there was run-down and looked to be abandoned, but they’d found Mr. Nettle living in its remains. He didn’t say much at first but was eager to join them when they were leaving. They were lucky to have found him when they did. If not for Mr. Nettle’s intimate knowledge of the forest, Rye doubted they would have lasted this long Beyond the Shale.

  “What is Harmless like?” he asked, when Rye once again turned her impatient eyes to the shado
ws of the pines.

  Rye pursed her lips in thought. Truth be told, she’d only really known Harmless for less than a year herself. It seemed like every time she began to get a clear picture of him, she uncovered some additional detail that blurred her vision like a half-remembered dream. That, or he up and disappeared altogether.

  “He’s difficult to describe,” Rye began. “He listens more than he speaks, but he’s always answered every question I’ve asked of him. He can be funny and playful.” She raised an eyebrow at Mr. Nettle. “Too much so if you ask my mother. But he’s been called an outlaw—and worse.”

  Rye recalled some of the names Harmless had been tagged with: Gray the Grim, Gray the Ghastly, and, by the Bog Noblins, Nightmare and Painsmith. From what she had heard, those names had been well earned.

  “And yet,” Rye continued, “whenever he’s near I feel safe. And the only reason he is out there”—she nodded toward the trees with her chin—“the only reason he exiled himself once again, to be hunted by Bog Noblins and men even more dangerous . . . was to protect me.”

  Mr. Nettle crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. “It sounds like what you have there . . . is a father.” He gave her a tight smile. “Their ways are riddles to all of us, whether we’re twelve or fifty-two.” He pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his crimped wool trousers with his palms.

  Rye buried her chin in her hands and narrowed her eyes at the forest once again.

  That evening, after finishing the remains of a sparse supper Abby had left behind for them, Rye and Lottie climbed into their blankets.

  “Mama should have returned by now,” Rye whispered to Mr. Nettle.

  “I’ll keep an ear out,” he replied quietly. “Nothing to be alarmed over. You and your sister try to get some rest.”

  Mr. Nettle bid them good night and retired to his nest of loose bedding on the tree house porch. But Rye was alarmed. Her mother wouldn’t leave them waiting without good reason.