The Kingdom of Kevin Malone

by Suzy McKee Charnas

  “Your cousin,” he said.

  “My cousin.” I echoed foolishly. A perfect wave of conviction swamped me suddenly: I should never have mentioned Cousin Shelly to Kevin, let alone allowed him to see how upset I was by her death.

  “Your cousin,” he repeated, “who died. Just because she’s dead in your world doesn’t mean she has to be dead in mine.”

  I sat there, stupefied into silence.

  “Well,” Kevin said, “what about it? Wouldn’t you like to have me bring your cousin back to life, just the same as you knew her, to live as long as you want her to live? She could be nobility. She could be an important minister in my government, in charge of family welfare or something. She could be famous and rich and respected. Think about that, Amy.”

  I swallowed hard and said nothing. What I was thinking about was not bursting into tears at the thought of Cousin Shell brought to life again, surprised and delighted, and owing it all to me.

  Fantasy. Nonsense. Kevin’s real magic was that he had been able to somehow lull me into speaking to him as if he were a friend of mine.

  “Help me win back my own Fayre Farre,” Kevin said, “and I’ll be able to give you back your cousin, alive and well.”

  Seven

  Bad to Verse

  I THINK I SLEPT. I know a time came when I found myself awake and remembering Kevin’s offer, and being sure it had been a dream, or a desperate ploy on his part, nothing real. It couldn’t have been real.

  But I was afraid to ask. I was afraid to say anything.

  About the time I noticed that I could see Kevin again, if only as a dim outline, the thorn gate rose with a rattle. We scrambled up and found ourselves facing the dawn and our Brangleman—or another one just like him.

  He stood aside for us, and we went out into the tangle-walled passage.

  After walking a long while through thorny tunnels, we stepped out into a wide open space with a brush ceiling at about head height (our heads, not the Branglefolks’, thank goodness). In this low, roughly circular room carved out of the brush, a couple of dozen skinny figures squatted around a ring of stones in the center, a few small, shadowy animals wandering among them.

  Two guys stood in the circle, throwing clubs stuck in their belts. One of them beckoned with a long, polished wooden lance.

  We moved nearer. He jabbed the lance between my feet. Down I went, and down went Kevin next to me, both of us sprawling forward into the circle of stones. The guy behind us immediately bent down to fix the pattern where we had knocked some of the stones apart.

  One of the little animals came and stretched its neck to sniff at my face, the way a cat will do to find out what you’ve been eating and not giving it any of. Others sidled up as well, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that they were checking out Kevin, too.

  They were small, but their eyes were red with vertical cat-pupils that looked bloodthirsty to me. Were we going to be fed to these little monsters? I blocked that thought fast or I might have lost it right there. I almost did anyway when one of their young—I guess, since it was no bigger than a good-sized lab rat—jumped up onto my head.

  I could feel its small feet digging into my hair for purchase. I swallowed a squawk of protest and stayed as still as I could, which was apparently the right response since nobody killed me.

  The guy with the lance said, “Sit.”

  I drew in my sprawled legs slowly and carefully. The creature clung tight. I felt less scared, but more ridiculous.

  “What are you doing here, Giant?” the Brangleman said to me. He and his partner had crouched down facing us.

  “Hiding from Famishers,” I said. I felt a little flustered by his term of address. Giant? Heck, these people weren’t so small, and I wasn’t so tall. I guess it all depends on your point of view.

  “And why are they looking for you, Giant?” the other guy asked. He had a puckered red scar on the side of his neck, and his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets.

  Kevin broke in. “They’re looking for me—”

  The one behind us smacked him with his club. Kevin yelped and hunched down, holding his head.

  “Only the Giant that bears the moorim will speak,” the scarred one said.

  I was afraid to look at Kevin. There I sat, a thirsty Giant with a moorim in my hair and not an idea in my head.

  They waited.

  My brain finally unfroze and gave me words to say. “This boy knows more than I do,” I said. “I’m a stranger here, actually. I’ve sort’ve fallen into all this, and I’m still trying to figure it out for myself.”

  The one with the scar smiled slightly. “A humble Giant is a rare thing,” he said.

  His partner said, “There are lying Giants in plenty, even among their young.”

  More whispering, under which I thought I heard a baby gurgling. I glanced furtively around.

  At least one of the crowd near us was not a Brangleman but a Branglewoman. She cuddled a baby Brangle to nurse at one of what I realized were two rows of dark nipples down her chest and stomach. Now that I knew what to look for, I realized that a good two-thirds of the people were female.

  And now that I did look, I realized uneasily that maybe people was the wrong word. They had broad, low skulls and their ears—I noticed with a chill—pricked and swiveled like dog’s ears. The nails on the fingers of the one nearest me rose high off the fingertips and curved a little, like yellow claws. And there was a sort of light nap on their skins like baby down, but all over and standing in tufts from the points of their ears.

  “The moorim will see that there are no lies,” the scarred one said.

  I felt the moorim’s breath puff on my scalp. I wondered how the moorim would tell if I was lying or not, and what it would do if I did. My arm quivered with an urge to reach up and yank the creature down out of my hair.

  “Why do the White One’s helpers hunt you?” the one with the scar asked.

  I figured he meant the Famishers. “Um,” I said. The moorim shifted, parting my hair with its little forepaws as if it needed a better view of my follicles. I thought furiously about how to explain things to people who seemed to be even more ignorant than I was.

  “Well,” I said, “the White One’s enemies are waiting to be led by the Promised Champion, Prince Kavian: him”—I pointed—“We think I’m here to help him get hold of a weapon to destroy the White One.”

  “What weapon?” the scarred one asked.

  “A magic sword,” I said. It was embarrassing. I mean, a magic sword!

  The other speaker, who had a kind of dreamy look like a cat thinking about birds, said, “We know nothing of a sword, but there is a song made for this time.” He cleared his throat and tipped his head back and let out this high, soft, warbling sound that was so sweet that I had to listen to the sweetness and couldn’t hear any of the words. If there were words.

  The Branglefolk sighed and swayed, and all their voices echoed the music in a buzzy whisper that made my eyes want to close.

  “Do you know of that song?” the scarred one said when the other one was done singing.

  I shook my head, forgetting the moorim for the moment. The clutch of its paws made four tight little patches of pain on my scalp.

  “It’s a beautiful song, though,” I said. It was stunning, coming from these primitive-seeming people, if they were people.

  “I made only a song about the song,” he said. “Do you have a song to give for the song itself?”

  I blinked. Did I have a song? Not a song, not a clue. “Us giants don’t do a lot of singing,” I croaked.

  The singer clucked his tongue with exasperation.

  My moorim had edged forward and now it bent down, twisting its neck at an impossible angle to look into my face with its bright red eyes. For a minute I got cross-eyed as well as petrified—suppose it didn’t like what it saw and decided to make some changes?

  “Sing,” the scarred one said softly.

  I licked my dry lips and stared past the moo
rim’s weasely face. I sang the only thing that came into my frantic mind: “Oh, do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man? Oh do you know the muffin man, who lives in Drury Lane?”

  The moorim’s tongue licked out—and stroked my left eyebrow.

  “Not sweet, not long, but still it is a song,” the one I now thought of as Singer said, the way you say, “Hmm, interesting,” about a painting that you hate but that’s hanging on your best friend’s wall.

  Scarneck said, with approval thank goodness, “It is modest to sing a question. The White One’s creatures are not modest.”

  “Humility and modesty can be pretended,” Singer said. “But the Giant has the moorim’s kiss. I swallow my doubts.”

  I could feel the tension in the atmosphere give a little. Thank God for the moorim’s kiss!

  “Can I pet it?” I said, reaching up carefully.

  Singer snapped out the end of his lance. I put my hand down fast.

  Scarneck cleared his throat and spat rather delicately in the dust. “Perhaps you can get this weapon, Giant, but we doubt it. So if we let you go, the moorim goes with you to watch and listen. Will you carry the moorim?”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking, What am I saying? Do I have to sleep with it on? “Er, what does it eat?”

  “Salt,” Scarneck said. Some of the Branglefolk chuckled and whispered to each other; dumb Giants, don’t they know anything? “Oils. It forages for itself. And it thinks for itself. If you betray us, the moorim will come and tell us.”

  “How can I betray you?” I said. “I don’t even know where I am.”

  “Everyone can find a way to betray,” he said.

  “Yeah, well whose side are you on?” I asked, amazed at myself.

  “Our own,” said Scarneck, apparently not offended.

  “Do you fight against the White One?”

  “When we must,” he said, looking around bleakly. “Many good fighters have been killed by now in this war.”

  Kevin spoke up, still holding his bruised head. “You said a song in exchange. You all heard her sing ‘The Muffin Man.’ Where’s the song we get back?”

  Nobody moved for a minute. Then I saw a moorim slip out of the pouch Singer carried and scramble up the leather thong that held the pouch and rub its snout on the guy’s jawline. Singer frowned. He shut his eyes and said, in a sort of up-and-down chant, something that I recognized as a verse.

  “A princess in mourning, a princess in gold,

  A princess with talents as yet to unfold,

  Shall join with the strength of the hero foretold,

  And win, if their hearts be both tender and bold.

  One princess must press on through terrors and fears

  And solve the great riddle of using the years.

  One princess must choose for a guide and a friend

  A being she fears but will love in the end.

  One princess must bring from her distant home’s heart

  A magic more mighty than any smith’s art.

  These three, imprisoned in walls made of stone,

  Pressed to the uttermost, bounded by bone,

  Using a weapon they already own,

  Can bring the prince worthily home to his throne.”

  A prophecy if ever I heard one, bad poetry and all. I thought it would never end and got frantic trying to remember all the words. It was already blanking out of my head. In the fantasy books I’ve read, prophetic verses have more weight than Royal Proclamations, but you have to get the words exactly right.

  A “princess in mourning” sounded like me; but who were all these other “princesses,” and where was anything about the Farsword? We had the prophecy, and it didn’t make sense!

  Singer regarded me calmly. “We are even now?” he said.

  “Uh, sure,” I said, doing my best to hide my dismay. “Thank you.”

  Kevin looked as baffled as I felt. “But—what is this?” he said. “What ‘princesses’? It’s me that’s got to fix things with help from you, Amy. Who are all these other people? Why isn’t there anything about the Farsword?”

  “Kevin, shut up,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I didn’t like the way Scarneck was looking at him, head cocked a little to one side, noting—surely—that little lines of sweat were shining on Kevin’s forehead; signs of very un-princely upset.

  Kevin stared from him to me and back again. “It can’t be right,” he said defiantly. “There’s nothing about me, even.”

  “There is, Kevin,” I said. “Prince Kavian, I mean. You didn’t listen. What about the last part, about bringing ‘the prince worthily’ and everything. Oh my gosh, I wonder if—” I saw Rachel’s long blonde hair in my mind’s eye. “I have a friend who might be a ‘princess in gold.’ ” Then came a more startling thought. “And maybe the one who doesn’t know her own talents yet could be—Claudia?”

  Kevin said, his words stumbling over each other in furious haste, “Sebbian’s dead, a whole bunch of great and loyal warriors have died to help my quest—and you want to bring in a pair of your stupid girl friends? Are you crazy? You’ll wreck everything! It all has to be done right for the Fayre Farre, my Fayre Farre, that’s our only chance!”

  “Thank you for the song,” I said loudly to the two Branglemen who faced us. “I’m sure it’s perfect, as Prince Kavian will figure out for himself when he has time to calm down and begin to think straight.”

  Kevin jumped up cursing, freaking out right there in front of everybody.

  All of a sudden they all had throwing clubs or lances in hand and had moved back from us—for room to use their weapons, I guess. I would have moved back with them gladly and left Kevin to have his tantrum all by himself, but he grabbed my arms. There was no question of getting out of that furious grip.

  “Sing them another song!” he hissed. “Make them give you the real prophecy!”

  He gave me a shake that almost caused whiplash.

  I reacted automatically: I yanked one arm free and I punched him in the chest, rocking him a little and nearly breaking my hand. But he let go of me.

  “Leave me alone, Kevin!” I yelled, moving back fast. “I’m not a little girl now, that you can shove around and terrorize the way you used to!”

  Looking murderous, Kevin Malone took a quick step toward me.

  The Branglefolk watched, commenting quietly among themselves. I heard someone laugh softly. Ho ho, just an afternoon’s entertainment. What could I expect from people with ears they could cock like a dog’s?

  I made myself stand up straight, I made myself plant my feet firmly, and I raised my voice into a sort of sensible, public mode.

  “Like it or not, Kevin, it sounds to me as if you certainly do need me and at least one friend of mine, probably two, to make things work out right here. And if you want anybody’s help, you’d better start practicing some self-control.”

  Scarneck must have agreed, because he stepped between us. The sharpened end of his lance touched Kevin’s chest. Kevin glared like a movie villain. It would have been funny, if—well, if it had been funny.

  “You Giants can settle your arguments another time,” Scarneck said. “Now fire is coming, and we must run away.” He turned toward me. “The princess in mourning will use the archway. Kavian Giant stays with us until you bring the weapon.”

  A little jab of panic shot through me. “What if I can’t find it?” I said. “What if I don’t come back?”

  Singer laughed lightly. His yellow eyes did not look amused. “Then we will trade this hero to the fire makers for some peace, if they will take him.”

  I looked at Kevin, at a loss for parting words. His life was in my hands, and we both knew it. Two Branglemen took hold of his arms and began tying him up with leather cords.

  My heart beating fast, I walked away behind Scarneck, who padded ahead of me so quickly that I almost lost him. He was just a shadow flickering in shadowy space. What chance did Kevin have to give these people the slip here in their own maze? N
ot much.

  Too bad. I didn’t feel much like coming back to save his bacon. Kevin Malone wasn’t just a tough little kid anymore. He was a selfish, bad-tempered, probably dangerous boy. I had my sore hand to remind me.

  Meanwhile, here I was running after a furry little guy with pointy ears through a whispering, crackling tangle of dwarf thorn trees with a rat on my head.

  I passed a patch of green on my right, then another: a whole string of gardens had been chopped into the Brangle, like a necklace of emeralds on an invisible string. A Branglewoman looked up from digging with the pointy end of a wooden lance. She whistled and called out something. Scarneck called back and kept going.

  I saw water ahead: a wide green lake half choked with tall reeds. There was a curved footbridge over a narrow neck of water, with an ornamental cast-iron rail. Scarneck stopped short in front of me, pointed at the bridge, and disappeared back into the Brangle.

  I was left alone—except for the moorim—to stare out at the placid green shore opposite with its fringe of reeds. I could cross over, but I would be just as lost on that side as I was on this. My way out was not over the bridge but under it, from one side of its walkway to the other, and so, with luck, out of the Fayre Farre.

  Not pausing to see if anything was lurking—I needed momentum to get me out of the cover of the Brangle, not lots of terrified thoughts—I dashed down the bank and into the water, sliding on the slippery bottom-mud as I turned sharply to cross beneath the shadowy underside of the bridge.

  Cold water slapped my jeans around my legs and weighted my sodden shoes. The width of the bridge’s walkway from rail to rail was only a few yards, but the water seemed to drag me back. The dank shade under the bridge coated my skin with ice.

  I threw myself full-length over the last few feet of distance, and came splashing out into late afternoon sunshine, drenched with the brown water of the Central Park rowboat lake.

  That’s when I remembered Kevin’s trolls. Now I knew one bridge they were not living under. Or else they were not at home today.

  And what day was it, anyway?—how long had I been gone? A man on a nearby park bench was folding up the newspaper he had been reading. By the size of the paper—as thick as a small blanket folded square—it had to be the New York Times Sunday edition.