The Unready Queen

by William Ritter

  A bird screeched from somewhere nearby, and the branches beside them shook and then fell still. The forest grew quiet.

  “Is there . . . is there something in that tree?” Evie whispered.

  “No,” said something in the tree.

  Evie froze. Tinn froze. Cole froze.

  The tree, being a tree, remained more or less frozen.

  “Gotcha! It’s me!” Fable stuck her head out from behind the trunk and laughed. She swung gracefully to a lower branch and then to the forest floor with a soft thump.

  “Fable!” said Evie.

  “Hi, friends! What are you all doing in the forest? Were you hiding? I totally found you.”

  “Something’s happened,” said Tinn. “There was an attack.”

  “Oh,” Fable said. The smile fell from her face and she scowled. “The forest has been acting kinda hinky and rustly today. I wonder if it’s been trying to tell me. Trees are super bad at saying stuff.”

  “My dad got attacked by a giant from the forest,” said Evie. “The town is pretty worked up about it.”

  “A giant?” said Fable. “I wish. We don’t have anything like that in the Wild Wood. Mama says there used to be all kinds of giant creatures in here—people giants, bird giants, funny-colored ox giants—but that was way before she was the queen. They’re all gone now. There’s moose, I guess. Moose are pretty big. Was it a moose?”

  “No, not a moose,” said Cole. “Mr. Hill said it was three stories tall—or maybe six. It got a little confusing. He described it like a huge, angry person.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that before. How tall is a story? That seems like a funny way to measure something. I’ve heard some really long ones, but some stories are pretty short, too.”

  “Not like that,” said Cole. “A story, like buildings have stories.”

  “I bet buildings don’t have as many stories as the forest has,” said Fable.

  “Fable, no,” Cole said.

  “I have stories,” Evie cut in, “about giants in the forest. Hang on, maybe this could help.” They turned toward her. She tugged one of the journals out of her book strap and riffled through the entries until she found what she was looking for. “How about this one?” She held out the page so that they could see. “They’re called kee-wakw. They’re supposed to be man-eating giants with icy hearts who roam the woods from here all the way up to Quebec.”

  “Where’s Quebec?” said Tinn.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not a real place,” said Cole.

  “Whoa!” Fable marveled, taking the book from Evie and flipping through the pages. “There’s giants made out of rocks and ones made out of ice. And there’s other stuff, too—here’s a page about hinkypunks. Neat! I wonder how Candlebeard is doing. Ooh, there’s pictures on some of these pages! This book is amazing!”

  “Huh,” said Tinn, peeking over Fable’s shoulder. “This is pretty impressive.”

  “We don’t know if any of that stuff is true, though,” Cole said. “That’s all just stories Old Jim told her.”

  “But it’s written down,” said Fable, “in books.”

  “They’re just my journals,” said Evie.

  “What’s journals?” said Fable.

  “They’re books that Evie wrote,” explained Tinn.

  “Oh my gosh—you can WRITE BOOKS?” Fable stared at Evie, eyes wide.

  Evie nodded. “Well, sure. Anybody can.”

  “And you drew the pictures, too?” Fable said.

  Evie nodded. “They’re not perfect, but they’re the best I could do without seeing it all for myself.”

  “Ooh! I’ve seen things for myself! Loads of things. Can I help you write books?”

  “You . . . want to help me add to my journals?”

  “Sure! I can show you the very best forest stuff.” Fable nodded. “And then you can make it all book-shaped!”

  “Are you kidding me? Yes! Yes—that sounds amazing!”

  “We really should be going,” Cole said.

  “Do you have a page for wind blossoms?” Fable snatched a sprig of half a dozen peach-colored flowers from the base of a tree. Two bulbous pink petals curled away from the center of each bloom. “Their proper name is Antipugeum. Mama made me learn lots of plants.”

  “Pretty. They look like snapdragons,” said Evie.

  “Nope!” Fable giggled. “Watch this!” She gave the base of the flower a squeeze and the petals spread open with a whispered prrppth.

  “I think Evie’s right,” said Tinn. “I’m pretty sure those are snap—oh Lord!” He slapped a hand over his nose. “What is that smell?”

  Fable erupted into giggles as the other children staggered back from the putrid plant. “Farts! It’s farts! They smell like farts. Their name means counterfeit buttocks. Aren’t they great?” She squeezed the fetid flower so that its twin pink petals wiggled again. “Each one’s only got one really good poot in it. Here, you can do the next ones!” Fable handed the remaining handful of blooms to Evie.

  “Oh, um. Thanks,” said Evie. “I think I’ll . . . save mine, though.” She tucked the blossoms very gingerly into the pocket of her dress.

  “Hey,” Cole cut in. “Maybe we can talk about books and farts and stuff when we’re not trying to get somewhere in a hurry? The grown-ups will be there any minute now. Fable, do you know where the Roberson Hills are?” Cole asked.

  “Nope,” she answered. She returned the journal to Evie, who tightened it back into its strap. “Are they near Quebec?”

  “No. They’re near the edge of the forest,” said Tinn. “It’s a really lumpy area next to some farmland with an old swayback barn.”

  “I know that place!” Fable brightened. “It’s not far—right up that next ridge and past a little thicket.” Fable leapt into action, hopping over a rotten log and between a pair of mossy boulders. Cole was right behind her. Tinn followed closely at first, but he paused when he noticed Evie lagging. He waited at the top of the rise for her to catch up.

  “I can do it,” she huffed. “Thanks, though.” Tinn hadn’t thought about it before, but for every step the boys took, Evie had to take two. The forest must feel twice as vast to her.

  “It’s fine. Catch your breath for a second,” said Tinn. Evie nodded and leaned against a sloping rock.

  “Are you guys coming?” Cole called from up ahead. Tinn could hear the anxious energy in his brother’s voice.

  Evie pushed herself up, hiding a cringe of discomfort as she stood. “I can go faster,” she said.

  “We know which way to go now,” said Tinn. He turned back to Cole. “We can meet you there,” he called.

  Cole hesitated. He looked at the forest ahead of them, then back at Tinn. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. We’re right behind you. We’ll be fine.”

  They would not be fine. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, Cole suspected they would not be fine, but he gave Tinn a wary thumbs-up, anyway, and scrambled onward through the forest with Fable.

  Fifteen

  The Queen of the Deep Dark paced across the empty glen. Fable was late.

  It had not been a smooth morning. The entire forest seemed to be unraveling. The gnomes had brought her no less than three formal complaints about the brownies in as many hours, there were several reports of misconduct from wandering bogles, and a handful of nymphs had accused the hinkypunks of moving boundary markers overnight. The accused were all avoiding her and the accusers would not leave her alone. It was all the queen could do to remove herself from the throng of agitated forest folk in time for her daughter’s lessons. And Fable was late.

  A note of unquiet urgency echoed in the whipping wind. The queen turned her eyes to the canopy above her. The forest was tense. Something wasn’t right.

  Raina pursed her lips. Fable had been late to countless les
sons, but she had never forgotten about one entirely. The more she considered it, the more she had to admit to herself that if there was trouble in the forest, Fable was probably already in the thick of it.

  She pulled the cloak snug around her shoulders and turned her attention to the north. There, just on the edge of her senses, the forest was itching.

  “Yer Majesty,” came a voice from behind her before she could take the first step. Chief Nudd was stepping across the open grass to meet her. “A moment.”

  The queen narrowed her eyes to look at the goblin properly. Nudd had come with sentries, although they remained behind him, in the shadows of her forest. He stood just a little straighter than usual, and his hat had been recently buffed.

  “This is an official visit, then?” she said.

  “Afraid so,” he said. “I’ve just had a meeting.” He cleared his throat. “With the spriggans.”

  The queen kept her expression expertly blank. “I imagine you have many diplomatic encounters with factions of the Wild Wood. Business between forest folk and goblins is no concern of mine.”

  “It was about you,” said Nudd. “Among other things.”

  “I see,” she said. “Well. If spriggans wanted me to be privy to their dealings, I assume they would deal directly with me.”

  “Aye.” Nudd took a deep breath. “I wager they will, soon enough.”

  “High Chief.” The queen let the title rest in the air for a moment. “You cannot think that the spriggans, who spoke to you in confidence, won’t know that you’ve come to me directly after your private meeting.”

  “I believe they are expectin’ no less,” said Nudd. “I imagine that’s why my horde was the last faction they spoke to. They’ve already been ta all the dominant clans an’ colonies o’ the wood.”

  “Is that so?” The queen raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye. The wild ones an’ the spirits an’ the oddlings. They’re a thorough lot, spriggans are.”

  “And what did they want?”

  “They want ta know if they can count on us ta be allies—or at least ta stay out of their way when the time comes.”

  “The time for what?”

  “They were . . . unspecific as to the details. But they’re carryin’ their war satchels again. That’s na good.”

  The queen remained silent for several seconds as she considered this. “So, the spriggans are preparing for a fight,” she said.

  “Looks that way,” Nudd said. “They’re right angry, Raina.”

  “The Grandmother Tree.” The queen’s voice was tight. The spriggans had always shown her respect. They had acknowledged her sovereignty over the Wild Wood for years. The only parts of the forest they did not recognize as her domain were the caves and tunnels that ran beneath the Deep Dark—which Raina had been more than happy to concede as sacred spriggan territory. Their purposes had always been aligned: the protection of the forest and the barriers between the human world and the wild. Why, now, would they defy her position?

  The queen could feel an ingot of heat rising in her chest.

  “They’ve always know that the queen began her life as a human. Raised by fair folk, but still human. They’ve never held that against ya. I think they understood ya ta be neutral—slighted by both sides, beholden to neither, loyal ta the forest alone. They are beginning to grow concerned, however”—Nudd took a deep breath—“that yer humanity is gettin’ the better of ya, and with it yer born allegiance.”

  “That is ludicrous.”

  “Aye. That’s what I told ’em.” Nudd shrugged. “Said if they really thought the queen was goin’ soft, they’d na be so afraid ta tell her ta her face. That got under the wee buggers’ skin.”

  “How dare they question my loyalties? Do they not remember when I unleashed fury against the men who razed the forest in the west? I single-handedly revived the stories of the Witch of the Wood. Grown men whispered my titles. They refused to work, shut down their mill, and planted saplings to appease me, like an offering to the gods of old. The Queen of the Deep Dark is legend!” She took a slow, deep breath. “I have made myself no ally to humankind. My only allegiance is to my mother’s legacy and the duties she entrusted to me as a steward of this forest. My diligence has kept the Wild Wood safe as long as I have walked this earth.”

  “Aye,” Nudd said gently. “You were a force ta be reckoned with, Raina, and yer mother before ya. That’s likely why they allowed ya free rein. But the saplings those men planted are twenty feet tall today. That was another age, lass, and they haven’t seen the fury of the queen in some time. What they have seen are the marks of human hands on sacred lands, and the Witch of the Wood cavorting with townsfolk.”

  “I have never cavorted a day in my life,” the queen said. “I will not apologize for protecting the lives of children.”

  Nudd held up his hands. “Ya dinna have ta tell me. I also reminded them that the forest has Tinn ta thank fer its renewed magic. But the spriggans still seem to have their doubts.”

  “Fine. They can question my neutrality all they like. But if they seek to contradict my authority or sow unrest in my forest, they may very well see the fury of the queen firsthand.”

  Nudd nodded approvingly. “Yer Majesty,” he said, and turned to go.

  “I wonder,” the queen added. “What was your answer, Thief King?”

  Nudd glanced back. “About what?”

  “Will the goblins stand with the spriggans, when the time comes?” said the queen.

  Nudd smirked. “That’s one o’ those funny things about goblins. We never seem ta know ourselves,” he said, “until the time comes.”

  Sixteen

  “The Queen of the Deep Dark,” Tinn read aloud as he and Evie picked their way forward through the bracken. Evie had allowed him to flip through one of her journals as they traveled. “Also known as the Witch of the Wild Wood. The story of the horrifying hag who haunts the forest begins with a love scorned.” Tinn glanced up. “What’s scorned mean?”

  “They were going to get married, I think, but then he left her for someone else and broke her heart.”

  “Huh. What a jerk.” Tinn felt like he should say more. “I wouldn’t—” he began. “I mean. If I was in love . . . I would never . . . I mean—” He immediately wished he had said less. Reading was much easier than talking to Evie Warner.

  “Huh?” said Evie.

  Tinn turned his eyes hastily back to the page and continued. “Soon to become a mother out of wedlock, the woman was shunned by her neighbors. Man, everybody in this story is a jerk. Destitute and alone, she learned to fend for herself, tending a humble garden and hunting or foraging in the forest on the edge of town. The woman had no one for company, save her daughter, whom she bore into the world alone in a drafty house on a stormy night. The child knew no suffering, though. It grew fat and healthy, with a laugh like tinkling bells. One day, the fairies heard the girl’s sweet laughter and coveted the child. So they came and stole her away.” He turned the page. “This is a little different than the version I know,” he said.

  “It’s the way Uncle Jim always tells it,” said Evie. “Mostly. I left out the bad words.”

  Tinn read on. “The woman pleaded with the villagers to help her, but they called her mad and accused her of killing her own baby. She swore at them and stormed into the forest to demand that the fairies return her child to her. She came back to the woods day after day, shouting, wailing, calling for anyone to help her. The forest heard her cries. The fairies heard her, too, and for her insolence, they cursed her. She would be doomed to wander the forest forever, snatching up any child she could find, although she would never find her own.”

  “That’s why the queen kidnaps kids who go into the forest,” said Evie. “At least, that’s what people say. Oscar Santos from school said she eats them when she realizes they’re not hers, but Uncle Jim always says sh
e turns them into wild animals.”

  “I don’t think the real queen does either of those things,” said Tinn. “I mean, she’s scary. But I don’t think she’s murder-children scary. Well . . . probably not.”

  “It’s so cool that you’ve actually met her. Do you think that the queen from all the stories is actually Fable’s mom?”

  “It can’t be,” said Tinn. “Old Jim has stories about the queen from when he was a kid, and he’s old as dirt. Although . . .” His brow crinkled as he considered. “I guess she could be Fable’s grandma.”

  “Keep reading,” said Evie. “You’re at the best part.”

  “For having the audacity to make demands of them, the fairies cruelly dubbed the woman a queen—a queen of nothing but dirt and shadows, Queen of the Deep Dark. The forest heard this, too, and it accepted the wretched woman as its own. When the hungry beasts of the forest eventually descended on the poor woman and tried to make a meal of her, the forest would not let them have her. The Witch of the Wood had been born. A creature of fury and heartache, she let the curse seep deep inside her until it pulsed through her veins. To this day, her wails can be heard on the wind that carries through the trees, and death itself cannot tear her from the Deep Dark Forest. In lieu of her own daughter, the mad monarch became a mother to all the monsters of the forest, watching over the wild beasts as her own while swearing revenge on both humankind and fairies.” Tinn turned the page, but the next entry was all about something called a quinotaur. Evie had sketched a picture of a bull with five horns.

  “If you’re right, then Fable’s grandma sounds intense,” said Evie. “I’ve never heard Uncle Jim say anything about a new queen, though. What do you think happened to the old one?”

  Tinn shrugged. “I guess she probably died,” he said.

  They were quiet for a few paces.

  “It’s weird,” said Evie, after a pause.

  “What is?”

  “I’ve always just thought of the queen as a monster, I guess. Not as somebody’s grandma. Or somebody’s mom. Or somebody.”

  “Everybody’s somebody,” said Tinn.