Dairnes have excellent hearing. But wobbyk ears are better still. Tobble’s were quivering, aiming away to our left.
I waited. And then I heard it, too. A gravelly voice uttered what might have been a song or a poem:
Great fools come, and great fools go,
But none defy great Gaziko.
He strips their flesh and bleaches bone,
And for their insults they atone.
Serve, obey him, grovel, praise,
Or suffer greatly all your days.
Thus shall it be: reap what you sow,
For none defy great Gaziko.
We exchanged troubled looks. We both wanted nothing more than to escape this horrifying place. But there was something hypnotic in the simple verse, something that made us wish to see, need to see, its source.
In spite of ourselves, we walked in the direction of the song, which had begun to repeat.
Then, with disbelieving eyes, we saw it.
The head was set upon a wide tree stump. No body. No arms. Just a head and a neck fused into the ringed wood of an ancient tree. Green shoots twined from the stump, weaving around the neck.
It was not the head of a human, or a felivet, or any species I’d ever seen. It was hairless, its flesh bloodred and welted with raised orange stripes. Two vertical slashes mid-face widened and narrowed with each breath, though how it was breathing and where that breath could go, I dared not even guess.
What seemed to be a mouth formed a wide V, sharp at the bottom, a sort of grotesque smile. Two small eyes were slitted black, like the eyes of a serpent. Three twisting horns protruded from the top of the head.
We stood there, unblinking, unable to move, as the head ground out its foul yet childish rhymes.
He’ll cut your flesh, you’ll bleed a stream,
He’ll gouge your eyes until you scream.
Near or far, where e’er you go,
You’ll not escape great Gaziko.
“What is it?” Tobble whispered.
Slowly I shook my head. “I don’t know, Tobble.”
The eyes, which had been staring blankly ahead, jerked to focus on me.
A dairne, a wobbyk come to see,
What Gaziko has done to me.
A dairne. A wobbyk.
I froze, as Tobble clung to me like a life raft in a stormy sea.
“He sees us!” Tobble cried. “Byx, he sees us!”
16
Stump
Since the tragedy that had set me on my long journey, I’d seen many strange and frightening things. None, however, had been more bizarre than the sight confronting me now.
And yet, though the head was truly terrifying, something else was stirring inside me: pity.
Who could have done such a terrible thing to another living creature?
I wanted to recoil. I wanted to grab Tobble, leap atop Havoc, and gallop away.
But I couldn’t.
I cleared my throat. “I would—” I began, before my voice turned to a mouselike squeak.
I tried again. “I would know your name, sir. Or madam. Or whatever.”
My name is Stump, and you should know,
A name bestowed by Gaziko.
In deep-forgotten memory,
They called me Lord of Castle Rhee.
Tobble squeezed my arm so tightly it hurt. “But what manner of creature are you?” I asked the head.
A creature cursed through all of time,
To mutter naught but childish rhyme.
Once we were mighty Caddalites,
Now lonely bones to haunt the nights.
I looked back and could just make out the jumble of bones we’d seen. At first glance, I’d assumed by their size that they were human, but as I searched for detail, I noticed that all the skulls had horns.
“I think those are—were—his people,” I said. “Caddalites. Isn’t that what he called them?”
Tobble, still buried in my fur, peeked out long enough to say, “Ask him where his people are. Maybe we could let them know he’s . . . like this.”
“Stump?” I felt rude using that name, but it was the name he’d given us. “Where are your people?”
Stump blinked his reptilian eyes. His next words, though doggerel, struck deep.
The Caddalites once lived in peace,
In western lands we called Florhees.
Till Gaziko took all we knew,
Left only me to rhyme for you,
To tell the tale through all of time,
In endless verse and tortured rhyme,
A species lost, a living ghost.
A threat to all, an endling boast.
At the word “endling” I emitted a startled yelp. “What kind of monster would slaughter an entire species?” I demanded.
The weak and frightened long to kill,
The blood of innocents to spill.
’Tis ever easier to hate,
Than learn or love, or to create.
I am the endling of my race,
And never will I leave this place.
I speak unwilling poems just so
That all will fear great Gaziko.
I brushed tears from my eyes. There was nothing to do. Nothing we could change.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “So sorry.”
Stump closed his eyes and said no more.
We rode away in a far worse state than we’d arrived. An endling. I’d just come face-to-face with an endling. Perhaps I was seeing a nightmare vision of my own future.
For many miles, neither of us spoke. A terrible, cold weight had settled on our hearts, a sadness for the poor soul we’d left behind.
I wondered if anyone remembered the Caddalites. Was there some learned scholar who, on hearing the name, would light up and say, “Ah, yes, the Caddalites!” Or were Stump’s people remembered only by the rare travelers who passed near enough to hear his ghastly rhymes?
How many centuries had he lived under this terrible spell? What sort of magician had powers so great that his spells and curses could last for generations?
And when at last the destroyers of this world—the Murdanos, the Kazars, all the greedy, reckless monsters—had killed the last of my kind, would there even be a Stump to mark our passing?
“How will we survive against such evil?” I said, not realizing I’d spoken aloud till Tobble answered.
“By not letting them win!” he snapped.
The residue of horror, like a poison in our veins, had made him speak harshly. But of course, being Tobble, he apologized profusely.
“What amazing species have already disappeared, Tobble?” I asked. “How many fantastic creatures, how many wonders, how much wisdom has been lost because of those who have the power to destroy?”
“They make the world a sadder, emptier, uglier place so that they will fit in,” Tobble said.
I had never heard him so depressed. I searched for words to cheer him up, but I was too weary with grief myself.
As we rode on through the forest, I tried to imagine it as it must have been before Gaziko’s arrival. Had the trees been full of birds? Had deer and poricats frolicked? Had my own people, or Tobble’s, once walked these woods picking berries and wildflowers?
Tobble repeated Stump’s words:
’Tis ever easier to hate,
Than learn or love, or to create.
“And easier still,” I said, “to do nothing to stop evil, to see the horror and look away. To do nothing more than mutter and shake your head.”
“We aren’t doing nothing,” Tobble asked. “Are we?”
“Tobble,” I said, managing a wan smile, “we are definitely not doing nothing.”
17
The Ragglers
By late afternoon we emerged from Gaziko’s cursed forest onto the lowest reaches of the Western Uplands. Two things happened as soon as we felt that balm of pale sunlight on our heads.
First, Havoc picked up the pace, raising his head and moving into the steady trot that had eluded him
in the shadows of that awful place.
Second, Tobble and I were instantly hungry.
“I’m starving!” Tobble said.
“So is Havoc.” I laughed and pointed to a clear patch of short, browning grass. “He sees his meal.”
I let Havoc gallop, and the wind in my fur was a tonic. My eyes streamed from the cold, but the more distance we put between ourselves and the forest, the happier I knew I would be.
When Havoc reached the tasty greens, we climbed down. Tobble’s stomach grumbled mightily, while mine whined.
“It’s like our stomachs are talking to each other,” Tobble said as he began to unpack food.
“It’ll be chilly tonight if we don’t find kindling,” I said.
“No need to worry. If we ride hard, we’ll reach the edge of Lucabena Wood. We’ll find plenty there to feed a cheery fire.”
I winced. “Another forest?” I asked.
“Oh, no, Byx. It’s nothing like that horrible place. You’ll see!”
After we’d eaten, we continued our long day’s ride across softly rolling hills. I was so saddle sore, I suggested more than once that we just bed down, kindling or no kindling, although the air was quite brisk and a fire would have been most welcome. My legs were numb and my fingers might as well have been sausages, for all the sensation I got from them.
“By now,” Tobble said, “I expect that the ragglers have probably spotted us. They have excellent eyesight, you know, almost as keen as raptidons.”
“Ragglers?”
“Certainly ragglers.” Then, realizing I had no clue what a raggler was, he explained, “They’re a wonderful species. They’ve always been good friends to wobbyks. We trade with them. Some of the fish and oysters we catch, in return for honey and clever woodworking, and of course, they weave the nets we use to catch the fish, so, you see . . .”
Tobble petered out, having lost his train of thought.
We rode on, cold but optimistic, into the setting sun. Darkness fell and thick clouds rolled in. Once again we lacked stars for guidance.
“Don’t worry about that,” Tobble said. “You’ll see.”
I didn’t have long to wait. Lucabena Wood was no more than a quarter league away. To my surprise, lights, violet and gold, began to twinkle on the horizon like colorful stand-ins for the stars.
As we rode closer still, I caught music drifting on the breeze. I heard no words, just music, a sound like the low-register bowing of a viol.
We rode into trees of great age and no small size, but with none of the overpowering gloom of Gaziko’s wretched forest. The trees were well-spaced, leaving plenty of open ground. The lights we’d seen were closer, hopping like large squirrels from branch to branch over our heads. At first I thought they were moving lanterns. But soon I realized that the lights were actually the ragglers themselves, small, spiny creatures emitting a soft glow.
“They shine!” I cried.
“Of course they do,” said Tobble. “Why do you think we call them ragglers?”
It made no sense, but I didn’t care. After the foulness of Gaziko’s forest and the long, cold ride across the uplands, arriving here was like coming home. I felt not just safe, but welcome. It almost seemed I could hear sweet voices in my head, wordless, but understandable—and, most importantly, kind.
“It feels like a welcoming place,” I said, watching a raggler move from limb to limb.
“Of course it is.” Tobble laughed. “Can’t you hear their greetings?”
“Your ears are better than mine, Tobble, but I haven’t heard any actual words of welcome.”
“Nor will you. Ragglers don’t use words. The music you hear is not . . . Here, try something. Cover your ears.”
I did. It took a few seconds for me to understand. “I can still hear the music!”
“Yes,” Tobble said, pleased. “Ragglers make no sound for ears to hear. They’re heard in your mind and in your heart.”
“Amazing! I wish I could see one of them more closely.”
“Do you?” Tobble said. “Turn around.”
There, standing easily on Havoc’s haunches, was a creature half the size of Tobble, glowing a soft yellow tinged with violet.
“Ahh!” I cried in surprise.
I heard music then, or rather, a feeling of music, and even without words, I knew what it meant.
Be at peace, friend.
I studied the little creature. Its compact body was covered not in fur or feathers, but in spikes half as long as a human’s finger. It was the tips of those spikes that glowed with light. The raggler’s legs were squat, its arms long and thin. It had two enormous eyes, not unlike a wobbyk. An additional stalk grew out of the top of its head, and on the end of that was a third eye.
“Greetings, friend raggler,” said Tobble. “I am Tobble of the Bossyp wobbyks. This is my friend, Byx of the dairnes.”
Not knowing how to greet the tiny creature, I extended my hand.
“No!” Tobble said sharply. “Sorry, Byx, I didn’t mean to startle you. But there’s a reason why ragglers are so unafraid and welcoming. You see, their skin, and especially their spikes, are poisonous to every species but one: wobbyks. Only the soles of their feet are safe to touch. The ragglers fear no one, and with good reason.”
We rode deeper into the woods, drawn by the secret, wordless music that somehow we both understood to mean Come this way.
With every minute’s ride, the trees grew more festooned with luminous ragglers. Many were sitting in upper branches on fantastic platforms built of a woven material that reminded me of stiff fishermen’s nets.
Ragglers were on the ground, too, following us as well as they could on their short legs. Some grabbed hanging vines and were promptly hauled up into the branches. Others slid down trunks to take a closer look at us and offer their welcome.
Half an hour’s easy ride brought us to a dense stand of trees so full of the sweet creatures it shone like a tiny, wayward sun.
“I think these are what they call the heart trees,” said Tobble. “The center for all ragglers.”
“Do they have a king or queen?” I asked.
“Ragglers?” Tobble asked, taken aback by my question. “No, of course not. They rule themselves.”
“But how can that be? Who decides what they should do?”
Tobble shrugged. “They do. All ragglers are equal. If it’s a matter for the whole species to decide, they commune among themselves, singing their different songs, until a tune emerges and they begin to harmonize. All of it is silent, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, as if it were obvious.
“I think they want us to stop here,” said Tobble.
I craned my neck to gaze at the glowing tree above me. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared down at us. Hundreds of stalk eyes spiraled in every direction.
“Hello,” I said.
Hello, the ragglers sang.
“Would it be all right if we camped here for the night?” Tobble asked.
Of course! they answered. Please do!
A simple sentiment, but one so welcome, after all we’d been through, that tears came to my eyes.
18
The Surprise of Kindness
In a land increasingly ruled by the thuggish Murdano, the ragglers’ joyful hospitality made me self-conscious about the sword at my side. I removed it and propped my scabbard and shield against a tree.
“May we build a small fire?” I asked.
This took some consideration, apparently. In my head, but not in my ears, I heard a dozen different snatches of tunes. Within seconds, just as Tobble had described, only a few melodies persisted, and then, as if on cue, a single strand of music was left. You may build a fire, it went, but you must be cautious.
Taking their own advice, a dozen ragglers carrying tiny shovels slid down vines. Working with remarkable speed and efficiency, they dug a shallow pit. Out of the darkness came more ragglers carrying stones, which they set in a ring around the pit.
A
stream of dead twigs, sent from the treetops, landed in the hole. “They’ve provided kindling,” Tobble said. “But they have no fire of their own.”
We unpacked Havoc and tied him off. Seeing this, more ragglers arrived, carrying fresh-cut hay and a bucket of water.
I knew Havoc was merely a horse. Nevertheless, I could swear he turned a startled gaze toward me upon witnessing this generosity. Had we all, Havoc included, come to expect nothing from the world but threats and danger? How had that become normal, while kindness seemed strange?
Tobble dug out the tinderbox. I took the flint and steel and struck sparks. Once I had a tiny flame going, Tobble arranged the pieces of kindling into a pyramid. The fire took hold and I said, “Well, that’s good, Tobble, but we’re going to need larger branches to really—”
I fell silent. Emerging from the woods came three teams of four ragglers each, hauling what to them must have seemed massive—but to me were perfectly sized—logs to add to the fire.
With a hearty blaze going, Tobble and I fell to preparing a simple meal. Just as I was thinking about retrieving our waterskins, I glanced down and realized a row of six tiny cups had appeared on the ground beside me.
“They are the perfect hosts!” I said.
“So long as you come in peace,” Tobble said, stirring his pot. “If you’d come to cut down trees? Why then, you’d find yourself under a hailstorm of ragglers. You’d be pierced by poison spikes and die in agony.”
I gulped. “Ah. Then we’d better behave ourselves.”
After we’d eaten and warmed our toes by the fire, we were joined by a raggler glowing like a splendid sunset. His song asked whether we cared to tell why we were traveling through the Lucabena Wood.
“We are sent by the Lady,” I answered, “to ask for help from the wobbyks in stopping a terrible war.”
Who is this Lady you speak of?
“She has an army of thousands with her. She means to stop the destruction of homes and farms. And trees,” I added hastily. “We wish no more trees to die.”
The trees are our mothers.
“I suppose that’s true,” I agreed. I felt like a madman, carrying on a conversation in which only I spoke.
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