The Unready Queen

by William Ritter

  “I’m Evie,” said Evie. “Your dress is beautiful.”

  “Fable,” Tinn managed finally, “what are you doing here? I mean. It’s great to see you. But does your mom know you’re in Endsborough? Is she . . . here?”

  “Blurg. No. She dropped me off at your house again, but there was nobody home, so I came to find you.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s a weekday. We’re in school.”

  “This is school?” Fable looked dubiously at the dusty walls. “I thought school would be bigger.”

  “Well, no. I mean—school is inside. We’re supposed to be in there right now.”

  “Oh my gosh. Yes,” said Fable. “That sounds amazing. Let’s do school!”

  And without any further discussion, she whipped open the back door and strode inside the schoolhouse.

  Tinn opened his mouth and shut it again.

  “She seems nice,” said Evie.

  Four

  “Could I please just go and check on Tinn?” Cole pleaded for the third time.

  “For goodness’ sake, Mr. Burton, sit down,” Mrs. Silva chided. “Your brother does not need your help using the facilities. He’s only in the little boys’ room—he hasn’t fallen out of the world.”

  Maybe not this time, Cole thought, but falling out of the world was an unpleasantly real possibility with Tinn.

  He had made up his mind to leave anyway the moment Mrs. Silva’s back was turned, but before his chance arrived, the door banged and the whole class craned their necks to see a new girl sauntering in.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Silva said. “Hello, young lady.”

  “Hi!” said Fable. “Is this school? I’m here to do school.”

  Mrs. Silva faltered. “Er. Yes, my dear. This is school. Are you new to Endsborough?”

  “Really new.” Fable nodded. “I already found the horse house and the hair house, though. And the pooping house,” she added with a snort.

  “Fable?” Cole stood up.

  “Cole!” Fable beamed. “You’re doing school, too?”

  “Do you know this person, Mr. Burton?” Mrs. Silva said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She’s a—a family friend. She’s just visiting my mom.”

  “I see. Will she be staying long?”

  “No,” said Cole.

  “Yes,” said Fable.

  “I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Miss—I’m sorry, what was your surname?”

  “Oh, I don’t have a sir name,” said Fable. “I’m a girl.”

  “Young lady,” Mrs. Silva said. “I’m afraid I don’t have any paperwork for your transfer. I’ll need to make a note to speak to your parents. Tell me, what was your previous institution for learning?”

  “What’s a previous instant toot-toot?” said Fable.

  “Your education,” Mrs. Silva said, “prior to Endsborough?”

  “Oh, I’ve learned lots of stuff. Let’s see, I already know the math and most of the words. What else is there . . . oh—what’s the one about which mushrooms make you get better and which ones make you dead?”

  “I mean where were you educated? Your last school?”

  “I do not understand the question,” said Fable.

  The door banged again and Tinn and Evie stumbled in. “New Fiddleham,” said Tinn, hastily. “She’s our cousin. From New Fiddleham. She’s visiting.”

  Mrs. Silva raised an eyebrow. “Your brother just informed us that she was a family friend.”

  Tinn glanced at Cole. “Oh. Yeah. She is. She’s a friend.”

  “Who is also family,” added Cole. “She’s a friend who is family. A family friend. That’s exactly what I meant.”

  Fable grinned broadly at them both. “Aww. You guys.”

  Mrs. Silva’s eye twitched in that special way it only seemed to twitch when Tinn and Cole were involved. “Well, I’m sure we can sort it all out at the end of the class. We have had enough disruption for one morning, I think. If you could all find your seats. Fable, is it? Why don’t you sit right there for now, dear. The class was just about to put away their English workbooks and move on to mathematics. Have you any experience with algebra?”

  “Not yet, but Annie Burton told me all about them. I’ll probably get to wear one when I’m older.”

  Mrs. Silva blinked. Students around her giggled.

  “Just . . . try to follow along with the other students,” Mrs. Silva said. “Everyone take out a blank sheet of paper, please. Hana, will you kindly lend Fable a piece of paper?”

  Twenty minutes later, Evie had successfully solved for x (which was seven), Cole had accidentally solved for three (which, it turned out, was still three), Tinn had managed to avoid changing colors even a little bit, and Fable had learned how to use a dip pen, gotten ink on both elbows and one eyebrow, and drawn a startlingly accurate cross section of an Amanita mushroom (mycology, incidentally, is the name for knowing which mushrooms make you get better and which ones make you dead, and even her mother would have had to admit that Fable had been a decent study at that).

  Mrs. Silva was beginning to hold out a tenuous hope that she just might make it to lunchtime without another catastrophic disruption. She was wrong, of course, but hope is such a precious thing, one cannot really hold it against the woman for clinging to it. In the children’s defense, the thunderous BOOM that shook Endsborough and sent the entire class hurrying to the shuddering windows to watch a cloud of smoke and dust rise over the tops of the buildings was not the slightest bit their fault.

  Five

  “Don’t look at me like that,” the queen said. “If you want the blackberry, you’re going to have to get it yourself.”

  The hedgehog made a squeaky, whiffling grunt at her feet.

  “I get enough of that tone from my daughter, thank you very much. You have a stomach now. If you don’t want to be hungry, you’d better learn how to fill it.”

  Squidge shuffled about on the forest floor before balancing unsteadily on two fluffy hind legs as she tried to pull the elusive fruit a little closer. The vine bobbed, and Squidge rolled over backward in a spiny ball. The queen was uncertain if the creature’s clumsiness was a side effect of having spent the first half of her life as a pinecone or if hedgehogs were just like that.

  Raina watched as the scruffy thing righted itself and made another attempt to reach the berry. She tried not to let herself think about how much raw magic it would take to make Squidge. The queen could communicate with a plant. She could even coax a plant to grow in the shape of an animal. But to make a plant into an animal? You could not simply make the world be what you wanted it to be. That was not how the world worked.

  Squidge mewled mournfully as she tumbled onto her back for what must have been the dozenth time.

  The queen rolled her eyes. “You will need to learn how to be yourself, sooner or later,” she said, and finally bent the branch. Squidge brightened at once and pounced on the berry with glee. “And so will Fable,” the queen sighed.

  The sun cut through the canopy and birds sang loudly as the queen paced through the Wild Wood. A swarm of brownies was nattering in the thistles nearby. She let her feet carry her for several minutes without a destination in mind. This was her forest. It had been her mother’s before her, and so it would be Fable’s in turn.

  Light danced off the tree trunks ahead in glittering waves. The queen glanced up. She swallowed. Just past a curtain of leaves, the pond awaited. She had not meant to come here—but here she was.

  The spring was crystal clear, as always, its surface rippling gently in the breeze. A wispy willow stretched its limbs over the water on the far side. There, in the opposite corner of the pool, tucked in the shadow of the tree, a pair of emerald eyes shone.

  “Hello, Kallra,” said the queen.

  The girl’s face rose, droplets of water running down blue-green cheeks. She loo
ked no older than Fable, but the queen knew better.

  “It’s good to see you, old friend,” said the queen. “I could use some reassuring right about now.”

  Kallra turned her head ever so slightly to one side. Her skin glistened.

  “I think,” the queen went on, “that I might need to look forward.”

  Kallra nodded solemnly, and began to slip back under the surface.

  “It’s about Fable—”

  But before she could finish, the girl had vanished. The queen stepped to the edge of the pond and peered in.

  For several moments there was nothing but the chirping of birds and the hum of insects. Gradually, the ripples faded and the water’s surface became like mirrored glass.

  And there she was. The queen stared at the image as it coalesced. Her daughter’s hair was its usual mess, and she was wearing the dress that Annie Burton had made for her. It was Fable, no mistake—except that everything was wrong.

  The queen’s breath caught in her throat.

  Her daughter’s cheeks and clothes were covered in ashes and caked in something darkly red. Her hazel eyes, usually so bright and full of mischief, were hollow, haunted, and streaming with heavy tears. As the queen looked on, Fable’s lips parted in a wretched scream.

  BOOM!

  The crash was distant—miles away, perhaps—but it echoed around the hills and set a handful of birds fluttering and squawking from their perches.

  The queen’s eyes flicked toward Endsborough. Dust and smoke were rising from somewhere on the edge of town. Nowhere near the Burtons’, she reassured herself, but her heart was racing.

  She looked back to the pool. The horrible vision of Fable had vanished. Her own reflection was all that stared back at her now, worry etched in her brow like deep runes. The surface stirred as Kallra slowly rose.

  The queen swallowed. “What was that?” she said. “What did you just show me? What’s going to happen?”

  Kallra pursed her lips.

  “Please.”

  For a long moment, Kallra said nothing. The spirit of the spring owed her gifts to no one, and the queen knew it. The spirit’s emerald eyes watched the queen with aching pity for several seconds—and then she drew a deep, slow breath. When she spoke, it was in a soft whisper, as silky as a stream trickling over river rocks.

  “Your daughter’s reign I have foreseen,

  a broken and unready queen.

  Crowned by blood and burning grass,

  and a single shot of lead and brass.”

  Kallra delivered each word delicately, as if they were shards of glass that cut her tongue as she spoke them. As soon as she was done, the spirit slid away again, sinking remorsefully beneath the surface of the pool.

  The queen watched numbly as a graceful blue-green bullfrog dove down under the water until it burrowed itself into the mud at the bottom of the pond.

  A dull, cold lump was growing in her chest. “That, old friend,” she managed, “was not reassuring.”

  Six

  The air was still thick with dust and smoke as the children crowded in to join the throng of townsfolk ogling the destruction. The inn at the forest’s edge was missing a wall, and the plume of dark smoke rose high into the air.

  “Whoa!” Tinn was standing on his toes to peer over the shoulders of the milling crowd. Mrs. Silva had given up trying to order the children back inside the school two blocks back, but she insisted they stay a safe distance from the accident.

  “What do you see?” asked Evie.

  “The wood along this side of the inn is all broken and twisted up,” said Tinn. “Crazy. It’s like the whole side of the building was a piece of chewing gum and it popped. Let’s try to get closer.”

  “The people village is even more exciting than I imagined,” Fable whispered as they squeezed in between the adults. “Can all the buildings do that?”

  “I sure hope not,” said Cole.

  The inn’s groundskeeper was relating his story for the fifth time as they emerged at the front of the group. “Scared me half to death,” the man said. “The whole side of the building just threw itself at me while I was pruning. Grazed my knee real bad, but I dove out of the way in the nick of time.”

  “Any casualties, Burt?” somebody asked.

  “Only my rhododendrons,” he said. “Gloria got a group of volunteers together right away to check all the rooms. Looks like everyone got out okay. Fella in number nine got the worst of it, I think, but he was walkin’ and talkin’ when they hauled him out.”

  “Evie? Boys?” The kids turned at the sound of Annie’s voice. “What on earth are you doing here—Fable?”

  “Hi, Annie Burton!” said Fable. “I did school today!”

  Annie shook her head and sighed. “Well, it’s dangerous here, so stay with me, all of you. Don’t get any closer.”

  “Dad!” Evie yelled and took off across the dusty street.

  “Wait!” called Tinn and hurried after her.

  “What did I just say?” Annie took a deep breath and marched after them.

  Oliver Warner stood on the sidewalk in front of the inn. Beside him was seated a hunched figure—the former occupant of the ill-fated room number nine.

  “Isn’t that Mr. Hill?” said Tinn as they neared.

  Jacob Hill was swaying and coughing as Mr. Warner put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He wore the same tweed waistcoat and matching trousers, but they were now coated in plaster dust and had the sort of look that linen has after it has been crumpled into a ball. He rubbed his head and took slow breaths.

  “Dad! What happened?” said Evie.

  Her father’s eyes widened. “Evie! Why aren’t you in school right now?”

  Hill glanced up. “Oh, I don’t expect anybody is too worried about truancy right now,” he wheezed. “Hi, kid. Come to see your dad be a hero?”

  Evie looked skeptical. “My dad?”

  “I didn’t do anything special,” Oliver said.

  Hill nodded. “Pulled me out of the burning wreckage himself.”

  “Are you okay?” said Cole.

  “I’ll be fine.” Hill looked for a moment like he was considering standing up, but then seemed to think better of it and remained on solid ground. “They’ll have to try harder than that to see the last of Jacob Hill.”

  “You think someone did this on purpose?” said Tinn.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time somebody tried to sabotage me,” Hill said. “It’s okay. Really, it’s good. Surest sign you’re on your way to something great is somebody trying to get in your way.” He chuckled weakly and set himself to coughing again.

  “It’s true,” Mr. Warner said. “Tools have gone missing during the night and equipment has gotten moved around. Can’t imagine why someone would want to mess with the operation, but there it is. A couple of days ago Lambert and Stokes said they were dead sure somebody was watching them from the forest, too. Gave Lambert the willies.”

  Hill nodded. “Spies.”

  “Hold on,” Annie said. “You’re surveying in the Wild Wood?”

  Fable’s eyes narrowed a fraction. She might not know what surveying meant, but she didn’t like the idea of anybody doing it to her forest.

  “No, no, of course not. I haven’t got the permits to drill on government land,” Hill said. “I bought seven acres of overgrown farmland right along the northwest edge of the forest, though.”

  “The old Roberson place,” said Oliver.

  “That’s right,” said Hill. “I hired a geologist who likes the odds that there could be a big oil reservoir hiding right under the Roberson Hills. We’ve been clearing land all week for a halfway decent drill site. It’s been slow going even without saboteurs. Who knows what criminal element is lurking beyond the tree line, hiding in the forest like some rotten Robin Hood.”

 
; “You do know Robin Hood is the good guy in that story, right?” said Cole.

  Fable scowled. “Nobody is supposed to be in the forest. Outsiders aren’t allowed.”

  Hill shrugged. “Nobody is supposed to set off dynamite in an occupied building, either. Those scofflaws don’t seem to care what they’re allowed.”

  Tinn took a few tentative steps closer to the ruined building, stepping over bits of plaster and brick. The wood was splintered outward as if a freight train had erupted directly from room nine. He squinted up at the wreckage. “Huh,” he said. “Are you sure there was an explosion here?”

  “Of course there was an explosion,” Mr. Warner said. “You’re standing in the aftermath, kid.”

  Tinn scrunched up his face, unsatisfied. “It doesn’t look like an explosion.”

  “Don’t get so close,” his mother chided him.

  “What exactly happened in there?” Cole asked.

  Hill shook his head. “I don’t really know. Last thing I remember I was sorting through some soil samples we took yesterday, and then—it’s all sort of a blur. Everything was loud and I was dizzy and . . . and then Oliver here was pulling a table off of me.

  “What makes you think it wasn’t an explosion, young man?” asked Hill.

  Tinn pointed to the gaping hole in the wall. “It’s just that the wood and bricks are all smashed outward, but there’s no blast marks on the walls. I’ve seen the rocks after the miners do a big blast, and it always leaves a lot of marks, plus a certain smell. This just smells like a fireplace.”

  “Young man.” Hill sat up, peering back into the wreckage. “If not an explosion, what do you think is capable of causing destruction like this?”

  Tinn shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “I can think of a few things,” said a gruff voice from the crowd. Old Jim Warner stumped forward. “Kid’s right. I’ve lived beside the Wild Wood long enough to recognize when something ain’t normal. An’ this?” He gestured to what was left of the inn. “This ain’t normal.”