Crimson

by Warren Fahy

  Neuvia guided him as he drooled and drew over her skin, marking her torso with an elaborate design she improvised to stall for time. “Now, before you draw the shoulder cuts, I must ask,” she said. “What are your intentions as to herbs?”

  Pigg frowned. “What?”

  “Surely you have the herbs for the meal—what could you have been thinking?”

  Pigg blinked his tiny eyes. “Herbs?”

  The forest clamored and its chimes climbed a scale of notes as someone passed down the main path.

  Trevin must be awake, she thought. She thought of crying out to him as loud as she could, but Pigg covered her mouth with his filthy fingers. “We mustn’t bother the King,” Pigg whispered, holding his dirty knife to her throat.

  Chimes rippled as the king passed to the north.

  Pigg took his hand from her mouth.

  “You fancy yourself a food lover? Pshaw!” Neuvia looked sidelong out the window. “Am I to be eaten by a crass fool who would not savor each succulent morsel on his tongue?”

  “Um… Herbs?” Pigg wondered.

  “Of course!” she said, crossly.

  “I’m sorry, my lady-wady! I didn’t think about herbs…”

  “Why am I being eaten by a fool?” she cried, appealing to the Gairanor above. “He has no love of food!”

  Pigg saw the brilliant tear spill from her eye and he dabbed it with a knuckle, tasting it. “Oh, tell me the herbs. I’ll find them triple-quick! I’ll have all the herbs here in a few heartbeats to please my very sweet lady!”

  “You have Tincair and Rosemary, of course. And without Lock of Gargoyle, what is a meal? Ginger would be nice. And Thyme. And hurry it up then—you say you’ve been planning this for years? Hmmph!”

  Pigg kicked his heels. “Yes, my juicy Queen! Goodbye to you and I will be right backety-wack!” He leaped onto the ladder and rode it to the ground.

  Neuvia heard him scrambling off through the forest below. Lock of Gargoyle would not be easy to procure at this time of year, she knew.

  A hard summer squall pattered the roof.

  She heard a distant clapping and realized that the beaver was smacking his tail against a tree upstream near his dam.

  Trevin did not stop running until he had passed through the forest and emerged on the swirling fields.

  Fury drove him forward until he finally found the edge of the north cliff, a mile short of the original coastline. He fell to his knees and glared over the sea. Then he rose and marched a hundred paces from its edge.

  There he turned, and raised the Scepter half at the sky and half toward Ameulis as he conjured the spell that unlocked the gate between the worlds.

  The Scepter had never spewed so vivid a fountain of crimson as when Trevin now used it to cleave through both worlds now.

  As though a giant hammer smote the Dimrok, a great piece cracked from its northern coast and a wall of steam rose as it slid into the sea.

  Larger than any of Trevin’s previous creations, the melting fragment slid away from the shivering Dimrok, its mighty fundament rising molten from the sea. And as it moved, lava continued to rise over it like a burning mountain. The mighty carbuncle thundered as it headed west to fill the gap in his defenses.

  Trevin fell then into a deathly sleep near the smoldering grass at the island’s new coastline.

  The chimes in the forest jangled and the heavy branches of the enrid tree swayed, knocking purple enrids to the ground. Neuvia saw a crimson orb of light in the arched window over the forest to the north, and thunder shook the island instead of the sky, tolling the bronze storm bell madly. The forest swayed and wailed at once in a mournful chorus that died as the tremors subsided.

  Was this what it came to? Her precious Toy dead. Her other guardians gone—and this wretched beast in their place? And, meanwhile, Trevin returning to Wyndor without her? Selwyn’s prophecy was coming true, and doom was falling after all. And this was its unimaginable face.

  The rope ladder jerked and reeled something in. Pigg appeared in the doorway as his head slammed into the roof again. Soaked with rain and grasping uprooted weeds in his fingers, he hopped into the room and danced as dirt clods splattered the rug. “I gots it all, milady! All the herbs for the feasty-weast!”

  “Splendid! Now I do trust you’ve got the proper spices,” she said with a hopeful smile.

  “Spices? I’ve got all these,” he threw down the thrashed specimens.

  “Good! But those are herbs,” Neuvia said. “What about spices?”

  “Herbs? Yes!” Pigg danced a few quick steps and sang. “Herbs and spices, herbs and spices!”

  “Herbs aren’t spices!” she scolded.

  “What about these?” Pigg snatched the limp weeds.

  “Those are herbs!” Neuvia sighed and looked sadly out the window, noting that the cloudburst had passed. A low thunder still rumbled in the Dimrok, however, and the room swayed gently on its mighty branch. “After ripening for 24 years, am I to be eaten without spices?” She let herself weep then, which was easy. “What are herbs without spices?” she cried. “I shall be wasted! Ruined!”

  Pigg cocked his shriveled head at her in grief. “No! I’ll cook you so beautiful you shan’t ever need to worry, dear Queeny-weeny! What spices? I’ll grab them—and dance around and around! Milady is so sad… tell me the spices and I will get them quickity-wicky!”

  She looked at him. “You don’t seem to care,” she turned her head haughtily, “how I taste!”

  Pigg jumped up and down. “Pigg cares, so VERY much! What spices now?”

  “First of all, what about salt and pepper? At the very least. There’s some in the first floor of the King’s Tower. And what about curry? Turmeric and coriander are in season. Obviously, honey is essential.”

  “Oh! Honey…” Pigg jumped, scratching his head. Never mind it wasn’t a spice, he thought. He had never imagined such a meal! It was a royal feast in his honor, and the Queen herself was the hostess, the cook, and the meal! Coriander… “Yes, and what else?”

  “Cinnamon.”

  “Right! I know just where all of them be! Soon I will be back so don’t get any sadder, my Queen, I will cook you up with so many spices that you will be the happiest meal there ever was!”

  “Remember paprika and sage,” she added. “You can’t do without them.”

  Pigg turned slowly, his eyes slitted. “Why… so many spices?”

  “It’s a large meal. At least seven sittings to finish. Each cut is seasoned differently to bring out every nuance with special gravies and sauces.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “For instance, my tongue in paprika, cinnamon and honey, fried in butter, O Pigg? Can you imagine? Or my crispy ear in wine with diced onion?”

  Pigg’s eyes glazed over. “Tally ho!” He hopped onto the rope ladder and rode it hard to the ground.

  The forest groaned like a wounded animal. Neuvia heard the beaver, again, rapping its tail against a closer tree upstream and she wondered for a moment if she should call it, though she despaired to be at its mercy now.

  After an eternity, the rope ladder drew Pigg up again and slammed his head into the roof. He hopped off the ladder, biting his lip and dumping handfuls of spices, barks and dried leaves, and even part of a beehive from which he had eaten all the tasty bees—which had only made his stomach feel worse. “Done,” he moaned, spreading his arms. “Done-done-yummy-yum lady-wady! Owww!”

  Pigg shrieked and kneeled by the window overlooking the brook as he retched. A glistening cord as black as tar emerged from his mouth, spiraling into one of her tall boots. He coughed once and it was out. Then he grinned at her. “Now we can take our time. The nasty toy is broken.”

  Neuvia stared at her boot, an incredulous tear on her cheek. Where were her friends? Where was Trevin? Had he returned to Wynder already? “So, what about the butchering part, then, Master Pigg?”

  “Yes, yes! The Queen picked the words right off my tongue! I must eat your tasty treats!”
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br />   “You’ll lose all the juices.”

  Pigg winced and gripped his fists. “No, the blackberry wine!”

  “You must get pots and pans!”

  “Yes!”

  “I can tell you how to make a marvelous pudding. But you must get a stick of butter. Don’t look a coward at me. You’ve been lolling about for years and it’s not my fault! The King is away from the tower. Below the kitchen there is butter in the larder, which is full of glacier ice from Poldur Gwylor. Run in and get a stick. Get two. You’ll find all the pots and pans you need there, too. The King will not be back for some time.”

  “How do you know?” Pigg asked with a crooked smile.

  “The Queen knows. Now stop lollidolloping and get hopping!”

  Pigg shrugged and jumped. “Righteo! Down I go!” He tripped and bounced off his bottom, rolling backwards out the door and grabbing hold of the ladder. The spool whirled and stopped as Neuvia heard a crash below.

  While he was gone she listened for Trevin. Had he fallen asleep on the cliff side? She saw the sea eagle circling the treehouse. The large bird could not fly through the window, nor could it fight Pigg in such close quarters. She only hoped that it would attack him as he crossed the greensward to the tower.

  She heard the beaver again, cracking his tail even nearer now. This time, she decided she would call to him. She made a fist and found she could knock it against the wall. She rapped the wood as loudly as she could, bruising her knuckles. But still it was not very loud, and almost as soon as she started, the birds and beasts of the forest cried a warning that Trevin was approaching, this time heading south, no doubt back to the tower so he could return to Wyndor.

  Neuvia wondered if she should use the Spell of Protection then, but suddenly she could not recall the words of the spell. As many times as she had read it, committing it to memory, it eluded her now! Pigg would soon return. “Toy—what is the Spell of Protection?” she whispered, for she could not believe that he was gone, the royal servant who had come to seem like her conscience. And when there came no answer, it seemed that all hope was then truly lost.

  Trevin passed near the treehouse now on the main path and the forest trembled, the bells and rattles shivering as the animals near him fled. O, Trevin, she cried inside. Why can’t I call you? Wouldn’t the red stain be washed away if you saw me now? She drew in a breath to call him when she heard the shrill whoop of Pigg spurring his elk through the forest.

  She sighed. How long can I wait, she wondered. Selwyn’s book was blank. Then she remembered the words of the Spell of Protection! “Yes,” she cried, and her hip barely nudged the scepter—and it tumbled over the edge of the bed to the floor. “No!”

  Hooves thudded and splashed below. The whole forest began to howl and clang. The eagle pealed as all the birds took flight, swarming over the creaking woods.

  The ladder coiled, and for a moment she thought Trevin might appear at the top this time. A tear fell from her eye as, grinning wide, Pigg’s head appeared.

  He tumbled forward onto the floor, clutching dripping sticks of butter from the King’s larder in one hand. “Ack, ack, ack!” Pigg coughed and spat, dumping pots and pans with a crash and squeezing the mangled butter from his fingers into a kettle. “The King’s in a fury! Coming down the broad way, he was. I had to duck into the woods. He looks like a burning rose, and the ground is all ashakey-wake!”

  “You brought pots and pans, I see.”

  “And buttery-wutty-wut. Yes yes?”

  “You have no suitable knife,” said Neuvia.

  “Only the sharpest,” said Pigg as he produced his dark iron knife that he had stolen long ago and kept sharpened on a river stone.

  Neuvia looked out the window overlooking the stream. The Spell of Protection was clear in her mind now, but the scepter was out of her reach. She heard the beaver’s tail cracking a tree, farther away now. “Who is your father, Pigg, may I ask?” she said.

  “Him.” Pigg nodded, gesturing to nothing in particular. “He is.”

  She saw the windmill turn outside the window, but the motion wasn’t smooth. The rope of the windmill seemed to lunge in lengths as though someone were drawing it hand over hand.

  Neuvia turned her head from the window, her heart jumping. “Come then, Pigg,” she said, as casually as she could. “Let us turn to the butchering part.” She smiled and looked him in the eyes.

  Pigg bowed and groveled at her bedside in reverence.

  She saw the rope surge behind him in the window and noticed that a bucket was missing from a hook. Her heart pounded wildly now. “I must tell you how to prepare these dishes, my dear Pigg, since I will be dead after the butchering part is done,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Pigg giggled and jumped on top of her with his knife. “Tell me!” he drooled, his eyes crossing. “Pleasey-weasy Queeny-weeny!”

  The windmill made the tiniest squeak in the window behind him, and Pigg’s head swiveled.

  “You’ll want to slice the flanks off separately, of course,” she said.

  “What’s that you say?” Pigg turned his head back to her. “The flanks?”

  “Yes.” She winked.

  “Oh!” Pigg chortled as the pulley squeaked, again, behind him. “How do I make the saucy-sauces?” he asked, waving his knife in anticipation.

  “Shhh!” Neuvia hissed.

  “Hmm?”

  She gambled: “Something’s coming!”

  Pigg looked around and saw the rope of the windmill moving in the window. “Aha! Another friend of the Queen’s! Thanks for telling me!”

  Pigg leaped across the room and crouched beneath the window with his knife.

  “Your blade won’t help you against the Dimrok Lion!” Neuvia whispered.

  “Eh?”

  “The earthquakes woke it up!”

  “What?” Pigg’s hackles bristled on his neck.

  “Smite him in the mouth as soon as he gets to the top! That will stun him and down he’ll fall. But mind his teeth. They’re like a hundred poisoned daggers!”

  “Well…” Pigg said, confused. “What do I do?”

  “The smallest nip of his tooth is fatal!” she cried. “Put your hand in that boot so you can smite him with it!”

  “Yes, yes, my sweet Queen! What a good idea!” Pigg reached his hand into the boot and then stopped. He turned and leered at her. “A-ha,” he smiled, and then he drew out a shriveled black snake. “Not much left of your toy, tee-hee!” Pigg tossed it aside and reached into the boot again. “A-ha!” he said, again, and he pulled out another shriveled snake, this one ash-gray. Pigg’s face screwed in puzzlement.

  Four long hands tufted with orange fur grabbed the frame of the window. Pigg squealed as the Orange Man’s face peered over the windowsill. He reached his hand into the boot again and made to swing it at the surprised ape when he froze and then jerked his hand out of the boot. Pigg fell on his back and waved his grimy knife at her. “You tricked me!” he sobbed.

  The Orange Man climbed into the room and grabbed both of Pigg’s wrists while squeezing his knife into a long third hand at the end of his leg. He pinned Pigg to the ground with a calloused knee and glanced at Neuvia with blue-green eyes. Reaching a long arm out with Pigg’s knife, the Orange Man cut one of Neuvia’s hands free and gave her the knife. Then he grunted a call out the window.

  Through all four windows marmosets of all stripes poured. They stuck a bucket from the windmill over Pigg’s head and wound its rope around his wiggling body and the Orange Man picked Pigg up then and threw him through the window.

  Pigg cruised headfirst down the whirring line of the spinning windmill and the bucket smashed into the anchor stone in the middle of the brook, but the bucket held together as Pigg kicked his feet.

  Neuvia freed herself and ran to the Orange Man’s side, and she smelled his musky fur as she looked beside him through the window.

  Pigg wriggled out of the rope though his head was still stuck in the bucket. He tried to pull
it off as he plopped over into the water. The marmosets jumped down the windmill’s ropes to attack him, but the Orange Man emitted a howl.

  Neuvia heard the beaver’s tail clap against a distant tree as a noise like rushing wind came through the trees.

  The marmosets retreated up the ropes as a wave surged down the Chuckling Wee, washing over its banks. Pigg squealed as the surge swept him downstream, unable to pry the bucket from his head until he was sliding over the brink of the great falls over the Dimrok’s western cliff.

  Pigg cried feebly and shook his fists, but he noticed a dark root protruding from the cliff and grabbed it in the nick of time, kicking his cloven feet with glee.

  The current was strong over him, and Pigg couldn’t pull himself up. He sucked air through his snout as he held on, wondering what to do. A white fish jumped and bit him on the nose, locking on and flipping. Pigg cursed, but finally, unable to stand the taste of Pigg, the fish let go and Pigg bit into its belly. With a fierce cry, the sea eagle dipped from the sky and swooped down with talons forward.

  Pigg shouted as the eagle seized his wrists and wrenched his hands from the tree root just as the whole cliff cracked and a giant wall of slate leaned away from the island, crumbling into the sea.

  As the sheaf of rock fell, it revealed a new cliff-face where a school of giant nautilus swam, red ghosts frozen eons ago. All along the cliff giant slabs were shearing off, revealing pages of the Dimrok’s ancient past.

  As the rubble crumbled, Pigg grabbed onto the eagle’s legs, and the bird’s wide wings supported them both. They sank beside the waterfall, the eagle’s cry echoing across the cracking palisade.

  Fish scales spluttered from Pigg’s chortling mouth even as he saw the eagle’s beak flash and stab his eye. He gasped and watched in horror with his right eye as the eagle stabbed it, too, erasing the world.

  Pigg howled then as he let go of the eagle and fell. And he lay mangled and blind on the jagged rocks, thinking of Neuvia’s ear fried in wine as he heard a sound like sharpening knives and knew that Selwyn’s silver crabs had found him.

  After the flood had passed, the Orange Man turned to Neuvia. He smiled, and his turquoise eyes were full of thoughts as he felt her hair in his long fingers. Gracefully, he bowed his head, and then climbed through the window, lowering himself with one last solemn gaze.