The Unready Queen

by William Ritter

  “Are you a nature spirit? Hey, Fable! Come over here. I found a—a thing. What is this?”

  Fable tromped back over the flattened foliage. “What did you—” She froze. “Oh crud.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Spriggan.”

  “The ones with the tempers and the grudges?” Cole whispered.

  “Whatever you do,” Fable said soberly, “do not make it mad.”

  “You mean, like, maybe don’t slap it across the forest?” Cole whispered back.

  “Why would you even think that? Are you crazy? Definitely don’t do that!”

  Cole swallowed hard.

  The spriggan chittered like a furious squirrel, not taking its beady eyes off the boy.

  “What do you mean?” Fable barked indignantly. “This mess? Absolutely not! We didn’t have anything to do with this. We just got here.”

  The spriggan chirped angrily again, and then straightened and pulled a loose stick out of its back. The stick emerged with a faint shhing, like a knife being drawn from a sheath. Its end was polished ivory and looked very, very sharp.

  “Hold on,” Fable said. “Cole didn’t do anything wrong. He’s allowed to be here. He’s my guest. Just wait a minute . . .”

  “Easy, little guy,” Cole said. He held out his hands peaceably. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

  The creature seemed to let down its guard for a moment, but then its expression faltered. It stared at the disc still cupped in Cole’s palm, and then its sinewy muscles tensed and it shrieked, redoubling its fury. It shifted its footing, leaning its weight on its one good leg as if preparing to leap, and raised the ivory blade over its head.

  Fable dove through the air, and with a muffled fwumph, she landed between Cole and the spriggan—not as a girl but as an adolescent bear, her teeth bared and her hackles up. She growled fiercely. In the moment’s hesitation that her sudden appearance gave the creature, Fable batted it hard with a swipe of her paw.

  The spriggan stumbled backward, teetering on the edge of the deep hole. Cole stared at it unblinking. The creature swayed on the brink.

  In a blur, Fable was a girl again. “Now would be a really great time for this to work,” she murmured to herself. She took a deep breath—and then she concentrated. The leaves all around them began to dance along the flattened ground as the breeze picked up. Fable felt a twinge of pride. It wasn’t exactly a gale, but it was working.

  The spriggan very nearly steadied itself as it braced against the breeze, but then its bad leg gave out with an audible snap, and it fell backward into the darkness of the hole. Its furious cry lasted for several long seconds before it was cut short by a faint thump.

  “I guess it isn’t bottomless,” whispered Cole.

  “Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud,” said Fable. She lifted her eyes slowly from the pit to Cole. “So,” she said, “we should run.”

  Twelve

  “An’ that, lad, is how Gripp Ap Mull used a crafty bargain, a turkey carcass, and an old boot ta wipe Brigalia off the map forever.” Kull tapped the incomprehensible chart behind him proudly.

  “I’ve never even heard of Brigalia,” said Tinn, rubbing his eyes. “Where is that?”

  “Otch! It isn’t! Were ya na paying attention ta a word of the story?”

  “Sorry. It was a long story. I liked the part about the monkey.”

  “Aye. Of course ya did. That’s the best bit.” Kull hummed as he rolled up the scrolls littering the cave floor.

  “Goblish history is interesting and everything,” said Tinn. “And I had fun practicing my howls last night . . .”

  “Yer makin’ fine progress there.”

  “. . . but I was wondering if maybe we could work on transformations again.”

  “Again? We were at it fer hours yesterday.”

  “I know—it’s just . . . I want to be able to control it.”

  Kull tossed up his hands. “Otch. Far too much time as a human.” He shook his head. “Goblins dinna control magic. That’s na the point o’ any of this. We give it a nudge now an’ again, an’ we let it do what it needs ta do. The universe knows what shape it wants ta be.”

  “But I need to,” said Tinn.

  “Hm.” Kull stalked over to the mouth of the cave and peered down at the choppy waters far below them. “Ya know how ta swim?”

  “I don’t need swimming lessons, Kull, I need magic lessons.”

  “I asked if ya know how ta swim.”

  Tinn rolled his eyes. “Yes. I know how to swim. I learned when I was a little kid. We go swimming in a pond out by the quarry sometimes.”

  “Then hop in.”

  Tinn paused. “What?”

  “Ya know how ta do it in a pond, so in ya pop. Go fer a swim.”

  Tinn stepped up to the opening and peered down as the waves crashed against the rocks.

  “I’m not jumping in there. That water is crazy.”

  “Hm. Thought ya knew how,” said Kull. “Water’s water, na? Just make the water act like yer wee pond back home.”

  “I know how to swim, not how to control the waters I’m swimming in.”

  Kull smiled. He waggled his bristly eyebrows.

  “Oh,” said Tinn. “Wait. Is that a metaphor?”

  “Is it?” Kull sauntered back to hop up on his battered stool.

  Tinn’s brow furrowed. “Okay. So, learning magic is like . . . learning how to swim,” he said. “And instead of controlling the magic—I’m just sort of letting it carry me. And all this practice is just teaching myself how to let it carry me in the way I want to go. Is that about it?”

  Kull nodded. “Universe tends ta give us what we need when we need it. It’s our job ta catch the drift.”

  Tinn nodded and then turned back to watch the waves for another minute. A motion to his right caught his attention and he leaned out. A short, skinny goblin in a leather skullcap was hurrying toward their cave along the rickety gangplank that hung from the face of the cliff. Several of the lower platforms had burst into life as well, goblins of all shapes and sizes erupting into a flurry of activity.

  “Come on, then,” Kull said, sliding off his stool. “Let’s work on yer Goblish alphabet fer a bit, an’ then give transformation a try again after lunch.”

  “I think something’s happening,” said Tinn.

  Kull crossed the cave to Tinn’s side just as the skinny goblin sprang into view in front of them, panting.

  “Kid’s gotta go,” she huffed. “Nudd’s orders.”

  Kull and Tinn exchanged glances.

  Chief Nudd was shouting commands at his lieutenants when Tinn and Kull reached the diplomatic chambers. A pair of stout goblins were jabbering as they hauled a broad oak table from one end of the cave to the other, catching its corners on every piece of furniture in the crowded room as they tried to rotate it. Half a dozen other goblins were zipping around them in a sort of busy panic that suggested that they probably had no idea what they were doing, but were not going to be caught sitting idly by not doing it. A scrawny whelp with knobby legs pushed past Tinn carrying a tray of glasses and bottles, and nearly lost the lot of them as he stumbled into the cave.

  “Otch, ya drewgi!” Nudd barked at him. “Na the rum! Ya tryin’ ta cause a bloody incident wi’ that swill? Fetch the—the—oh, what’s it called? The red one—in the fancy bottle.”

  “The one we use fer strippin’ rust?”

  “Aye. That one. An bring the nice cups.”

  The chief caught sight of Tinn and Kull for the first time. “Is he still here?”

  “Of course he’s still here,” said Kull. “Got hours o’ lessons planned fer him yet.”

  “My mom’s not gonna be back to pick me up until late,” said Tinn.

  “Change o’ plans, I’m afraid. Kull here will have ta walk ya back home a bit
early.”

  “Am I in trouble?” said Tinn.

  “Na. Touch o’ politics, is all. Unexpected meeting cropped up. An envoy of spriggans is due shortly, and the spriggan stance on human relations is—erm—rather old-fashioned.”

  “Tinn is as much a goblin as the rest o’ us,” Kull bristled. “Should hear his howls. Right proud, I am.”

  Nudd patted Tinn on the shoulder. “I’m sure yer comin’ along just fine, lad. Thing is, yer still, well . . .” He gestured to Tinn’s face.

  “He made hisself green an’ spotty fer a full ten minutes yesterday,” said Kull. “We were gonna work on the ears an’ teeth after lunch.”

  “Please, sir,” said Tinn. “I’ll stay inside with Kull the whole time they’re here.”

  “I told yer mum I’d keep ya safe,” said Nudd. “Around spriggans is the opposite o’ safe, especially fer a human. An’ refusing a formal envoy from the colony is the opposite o’ safe fer the horde. Afraid my decision is final. There’ll be other days, lad. Give him yer lesson on the road this time, Kull. Oi! I said no flowers!” Nudd directed this last outburst at one of his scurrying subordinates. “Think our guests wanna see a bunch o’ dying plants stuffed in a pot?” The chief went back to preparations, and Kull led Tinn out of the cave and up the narrow ledge into the Wild Wood.

  “Which ones are spriggans?” said Tinn as they picked their way along the goblin path. “They’re a sort of fairy, right?”

  “Fairies often claim them, aye,” said Kull. “But they’re na really fair folk. The forest wouldn’t abide ’em iffin they were. They’re spirits by right. Force o’ nature. Vindictive things. They’ve na forgiven humans.”

  “Forgiven us? What have humans done?”

  Kull raised an eyebrow. “Take a lot longer than we’ve got ta put that list together, lad. Humans an’ magic folk got a long an’ nasty history. People used to kill magical creatures fer sport, ya know, or else catch ’em and force ’em ta serve humankind. Stuffed genies inta bottles, pressed pixies inside books, hunted dragons near ta extinction. Don’t need ta go inta the details. Rough stuff. Right wicked.”

  “That’s awful,” said Tinn.

  “That’s what the spriggans thought. Made themselves unofficial guardians o’ the wild long ago. They protect the oddlings and the forest from humankind, protect the boundaries, that sorta thing. Right ornery buggers. No sense o’ humor at all.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Wee, ugly things, most o’ the time,” said Kull. “They’ve got skin like slivered rocks and tree bark. Easy ta miss out here in the wood. When they get angry, though—something else comes out o’ them. There are those that say spriggans are the spirits o’ the giants that used to live in this world a long time ago, and they become giants again when the rage takes them.”

  They walked in silence while Tinn considered this.

  “Were there really giants?” he said at last. “There are lots of stories about them, but they all sound unbelievable, living up in the clouds and saying things like ‘fee-fi-fo-fum’ and ‘I’ll grind his bones to make my bread’ and stuff like that.”

  Kull made a noise that might have been a laugh. “Otch. Stories like that are half the reason spriggans still don’t like your lot. Of course there was giants. They’s long since died off now, but they used to live all over the place. The clouds bit is silly—giants never lived on clouds—and the ‘fee-fi-fo-fum’ is downright insultin’. How would you like it if I mocked yer language like that? As fer the grindin’ bones—well, that’s more what you’d call a cultural misunderstandin’.”

  “Giants didn’t threaten to grind up people’s bones?”

  “Well. They said it, sure, but it was ne’er a threat.”

  “How is that not a threat?”

  “Otch. Context. Different rites an’ traditions fer different groups. Lotta cultures value ritual cannibalism as a sorta tribute, ya see? They say consumin’ remains can fill ya with the spirit of the deceased. It was a way of honoring the dead in the past by letting them live within you. ‘I’ll grind yer bones ta make my bread’ is a pretty fair translation, aye, but fer the giants it was a friendly expression. Like ‘Hey, mate. I think yer grand. When ya die I’ll eat yer bits so ya live on forever.’ That kinda thing.”

  “That’s super gross,” said Tinn, “but I think I understand.”

  “What do humans do ta honor their dead?” asked Kull.

  “We bury them,” said Tinn.

  “In the dirt?” said Kull. “Like ya bury a poo? Hardly see how that’s a respectful way ta treat yer kin.”

  “Well, there’s a whole ceremony and a coffin.”

  “What’s a coffin?”

  “It’s a fancy box for dead people.”

  “Ah,” said Kull. “I suppose it’s probably nice.”

  “What do goblins do with your dead?”

  “We use ’em, mostly. Fuel fer the engines. Bones are great fer makin’ tools. Nice ta think I’ll be useful when I’m gone. Hate ta go ta waste in some box. Being bread sounds nice, though, too. I could enjoy bein’ a warm baguette.”

  “I guess,” said Tinn. He trod in silence for several paces.

  “How about you?” Kull asked. “What would you wanna be?”

  “Not dead?” said Tinn.

  Kull chuckled. “Grand job so far. Let’s see if we can keep it up just a wee bit longer, eh?”

  Before Tinn could reply, the ground trembled beneath their feet. Birds in the trees around them took flight in a burst of tweets and screeches.

  “Just another quake,” said Kull. “Happenin’ a lot lately.”

  Nonetheless, they quickened their pace as they made their way out of the woods. Kull said his goodbyes at the edge of the forest, and Tinn walked the rest of the way home by himself.

  “Cole?” Tinn yelled from the back porch when he reached the house. A tingle rippled up his neck. It was strange, really, how much easier it was to be alone in a place where you expected to be alone than it was to be alone in a place where you expected people to greet you. He kicked a pebble off the back step.

  His mother was supposed to be at work, Tinn remembered—the new job. Cole was probably with her, tucked away behind the dry goods or getting into trouble for pocketing sweets. Tinn would meet them there. He latched the door and hurried off down the road toward town.

  Thirteen

  “You’re not dead!” said Fable. “That’s a good way to end an adventure, right?”

  Cole nodded, panting. He was on the edge of town now, the forest behind him. Fable hung back at the tree line, grinning widely. They had emerged from the forest at the north end of the village, out near the old mill, but Cole could find his way from here without any trouble.

  “You sure you don’t wanna come hang out with me in town for a little while?” said Cole.

  “Can’t,” said Fable. “My mama says it’s too dangerous.”

  “Sure.” Cole might have laughed if he was not still out of breath from racing through the forest with the sounds of crunching leaves and snapping branches behind him. “Yeah. Indoor plumbing and bakeries are scary stuff. Not like that peaceful forest full of homicidal monsters.”

  “Plumbing does sound exciting,” said Fable. “You should show me some if my mama ever lets me visit again.”

  Cole bid her goodbye, and Fable waved before hopping back over the fallen tree. “Hey, Fable,” Cole called after her. “I had a fun time with you. I think you’d be a great Witch of the Wood.”

  “Run away with me again sometime?”

  “Definitely.”

  Cole found himself smiling as he kicked his way down the dusty road. The sun was already high in the sky. It still felt strange, having had a whole day—and a whole adventure—without Tinn. In a few hours, they would make their way back through the forest to pick him up again, and Cole wo
uld listen as Tinn told him all the exciting things he had done, but this time Cole would have something just as exciting to share in return.

  A harried shout echoed down the road, and Cole stopped. He turned around. The road behind him led north, toward nothing but old farmlands and the abandoned mill. People almost never came out this way.

  “Help!” the voice called.

  Cole’s eyes widened. He followed the sound of the cries cautiously up the empty street until he rounded a bend and found two men shuffling toward him, their clothes covered head to toe in dust, one of them leaning heavily on the other’s shoulders.

  “You! Boy, lend a hand!” yelled the first man. It took a moment for Cole to place him under the layers of dirt.

  “Mr. Hill?” said Cole. “What happened?”

  “We were attacked!” said Jacob Hill. “Take his other arm.”

  The other man looked up and Cole realized with a start that it was Evie’s father. His eyes were wild and his hair was tousled and trickled grit and dust with every motion.

  “Mr. Warner? Oh, jeez. It’s gonna be all right. It’s me, Cole. I’m a friend of your daughter’s, remember? Here, you can lean on me.”

  “G-g-giant,” stammered Oliver Warner.

  “A giant?” said Cole. “What are you talking about?”

  Warner’s face was pale, and he was limping heavily. He grimaced and swayed for a moment as he shifted some of his weight to Cole’s shoulder. “Giant,” he breathed again.

  “You must have seen it looming over the treetops!” Hill cut in. “It was three stories tall if it was an inch!”

  “An actual giant?” said Cole. “Where?” He craned his neck to look backward, and Warner groaned.

  “Vanished,” said Hill. “Back into the forest somewhere. Barely got out with our lives. Warner here was working on the drill frame when it appeared. I glanced down at my schematics, and when I looked up it was right there, big as anything. The thing came out of nowhere. Four stories tall. Maybe five. Lambert and Stokes ran for the hills. Can’t blame them. I expect they’re halfway to Glanville by now. Warner only just jumped free from the scaffolds before the brute could crush him, and then it thundered off into the woods.”