“I’m—”
“Shush! You’ll speak when I say you’ll speak.”
Eloise cradled the cushion cover in her arm and made to walk off—a blustery move given the number of swords between her and the way back. But it was useless. The wombats shifted to block even the slightest opening. With their lousy eyesight, who knew what they might hit if they lunged at her with their blades.
“Who are you?” asked Eloise, defying the order to be silent.
“Wombanditos.”
“Wombanditos? Are you a club or something?” asked Eloise.
“We are the Wombanditos! The fiercest gang with bad eyesight in all the realms! Heeyahhhh!” cried the big one.
“Heeyahhhh!” yelled the rest.
“I see. Well, lovely to meet you, but I have to get back to my friend.”
“You’ll not be going anywhere, Mistress,” said the big one. “You’ll be coming with us.”
“Thank you, but no thank you. I’ve had a long day, strong lengths to go still, and my friend is waiting for these berries.” Without any further discussion, she broke into a run.
Eloise was fast, but the wombats were faster. Three of them tangled her legs and tripped her over. She didn’t have time to call out, she just stumbled and fell. Her head struck a rock, and she blacked out.
6
In a Burrow
Eloise awoke in a dark, narrow place. She could barely breathe, and when she tried to move, she realized she was surrounded by dirt.
She was in a burrow. The smells of soil and roots were everywhere.
Her habits screamed. How much grime was getting on her? Was that dirt trickling down the back of her clothes? How much was stuck to her skin?
How on earth had they gotten her in here? Did one of them have a weak magic for cartage?
If she screamed, like her every pore, tissue, and hair wanted to, would anyone hear?
Eloise forced herself to breathe long, slow breaths through her nose. As her pulse eased from dread and fear down to trepidation and agitation, she blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It wasn’t completely dark. A streak of green phosphorescence ran along the top, giving shape and shadow to the things in the burrow. No, not things, people. The place was full of wombats, bustling about in the near darkness.
A thousand questions raced through Eloise’s head. “How long was I out?” she asked, but it came out, “Hmmma n ha buh uh?” She realized there was a gag in her mouth. She sat up, managing to sit, hunched, in the cramped space. She had barely registered that she was bound with ropes like a felon, when a headache from the fall assaulted her.
A small wombat, obviously set to watch her, startled awake and called out. “Master Shovelhovel! She no be dead. Mumbling be coming out her gob.”
The big wombat sidled over to her. “Well, now, RoyLee, that be a good thing. And why?”
“Master Shovelhovel, you always says the live ones is worth more than the deadies.”
“And don’t you forget that. Now take off her gag so she can speak.”
RoyLee did as he was told, and Eloise gulped air that tasted of tilth and loam. She flexed her jaw, relieved at the small freedom. “How long?” she finally asked.
“How long what, Mistress?” asked Shovelhovel.
“How long was I mind-numb?”
“Time, Mistress? Your first question is about time?” Shovelhovel came closer until he was almost touching her. Even in the dim green glow of the burrow, she could tell he was squinting. “We wombats have a very relaxed relationship with time, seeing as we’re nocturnal and all, and live in dark burrows.”
Now was not the time for her temper. “Could you please do me the kindness of taking your best guess?”
“I can say,” chirped RoyLee, eager to be of help.
“Go ahead, young one.”
“One dark be gone. The light is just coming up in the east now.”
“How can you possibly know that, RoyLee?” asked Shovelhovel.
“My ears be good. I can hear bees. Bees be buzzing at dawn.”
Shovelhovel ruffled the tuft of hair on RoyLee’s head. “A clever one, you are. I’ll not be wasting my time learning what I know to you. Now see if Missus Shovelhovel has any food. Our guest might be hungry soon.”
Eloise’s mind raced. It was morning! Jerome must be frantic. He must think she’d fallen in a hole, which she more or less had. There was no way she could escape tied up like she this. How could she let him know she was alive?
And who knew what chaos her absence had caused at home. She was sure Odmilla would have a very bad day. Were troops being roused? A network of spies activated? Diplomats dispatched? She was Heir and Future Ruler. It’s not like she could just slip away.
But that’s exactly what she had tried to do.
It had been foolish. And selfish. Other people would be paying the price for a purchase she had made.
Her already low mood sank even further. The conversation she would have with her mother when she got back was not something to look forward to. Not that conversations with her mother ever were.
The best thing she could do was to try to get out of there as fast as she could, and get home as soon as possible, so she could start repairing the damage.
“So your intentions are ransom?” said Eloise.
“Indeed, Mistress,” said Shovelhovel.
“And have you made contact with anyone? Have you made any demands?”
“You’ve no been awake, have you? There’s a whole process we go through to ascertain the best methods for doing so.”
“I don’t like your chances of getting anything,” said Eloise.
“That’s not what I reckon.” Shovelhovel sniffed her again. “You be having the smell of class on you. Just listen to how you speak. Feel the quality of the material in your garments. That outfit didna come outta a ragpicker’s basket. Plus, the friend you spoke of when we first found you? I think we know who you mean. There’s some frantic looking about going on out there.”
“You’re wasting your time. He has nothing to pay a ransom with.”
“We’re the Wombanditos. We’re patient,” said Shovelhovel. “It may not be him we extract your ransom from. He might just be the conduit. Now, would you care for some root soup? My missus makes it special for guests like yourself.”
“Thank you, but no thank you,” said Eloise. “Not yet. Is there somewhere I might wash up?”
Suddenly, the burrow filled with wombat laughter. “No, Mistress, you’ll no be washing up. You’re in a wombat burrow, not an inn.” Shovelhovel turned and wandered away from her, still chuckling. As the burrow narrowed into a left-hand turn, he called back to her, “Let me know if you change your mind about the soup.”
Eloise remained trussed, bored, uncomfortable, anxious, and unable to see anything save wombat shadows for what seemed like a very long, dull time.
7
Someone Should Sit in a Corner
Eloise dreamed she heard Jerome. He sounded far away. In a small timorous voice, he politely asked the air, “El? Are you in there?”
Wombats rose at once, drawing swords. “Who goes there?” shouted Shovelhovel, squinting toward the entrance. “Who dares enter the burrow of the Wombanditos, the fiercest gang with bad eyesight in all the realms? Heeyahhhh!”
“Heeyahhhh!” the other wombats screamed in response.
It wasn’t a dream. It was Jerome! Thank Çalaht, Jerome had found her. She let out a huge breath and trailed her eyes heavenward. Then she looked toward his voice, trying to locate him. “I’m here!” she called.
“Shush, you!” said RoyLee, and before she knew it, she was wearing the gag again.
Jerome eased himself further into the burrow ignoring the drawn weapons, all polite manners and good grace. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Jerome. I believe you have kidnapped my friend, Eloise.”
“Eloise?” asked Shovelhovel. “Like our queen?” He squinted in Eloise’s direction. “In violation of th
e Can’t Name Your Child After the Queen edict? Boy, you’re lucky she doesn’t know you have her name. She’d rip off your arms and legs and swap ’em if she found out.”
Eloise shrugged, but couldn’t say anything.
“No one in their right mind defies the ban on naming yer sprogs after the queen and king.” He turned back to Jerome. “Very brave of you to come in here like that. Now turn around and go out. Any parlaying you want to do will be done outside.”
Jerome ignored him. “Did you say your name was the Wombanditos?”
“That we did,” said Shovelhovel. “We’re the Wombanditos, the fiercest gang with bad eyesight in all the realms! Heeyahhhh!”
“Heeyahhhh!” screamed the others again.
“With all due respect, and I understand how hard it is to come up with good names, that one is terrible. Horrific. Wombanditos? C’mon, really?”
“What? No! It is a fantastic name,” insisted Shovelhovel. “It be fierce, like we are. It be setting hearts trembling and knees a’knockin’. Wombanditos! Heeyahhhh!”
“Heeyahhhh!”
Jerome ignored that too. “I mean, I can see what you were going for. You’re wombats. You’re bandits. So you’re looking for a wordplay that captures both. Hence, the portmanteau. I get it.”
“That’s right!” said Shovelhovel. “We are the Wombanditos, the fiercest gang with bad eyesight in all the realms! Heeyahhhh!”
“Heeyahhhh!” cried everyone yet again.
“I get it, I get it,” said Jerome, intentionally looking bored. “But you don’t. Whoever let that one get through the approval process needs to go and sit in the corner for a while.”
Shovelhovel puffed out his chest, belligerent. “Why say you that?”
“A hundred reasons. No, a thousand reasons. But let’s start with one. Look at it when it’s written.” Jerome scratched out the name with a stick, forming huge letters so they’d legible in the burrow’s dim green light, even to squinty-eyed wombats. The wombats lowered their swords and crowded around for a look. “What is at the beginning?”
“W-o-m-b-a,” ventured a small voice. It was RoyLee. “That be the start of ‘wombats’.”
“But what else is there?” No one said anything. The silence stretched. “Nothing?” asked Jerome. Slowly he covered over the “a” with his foot
“W-o-m-b. ‘Wom-b’,” said RoyLee, pronouncing the word with a hard “b”. “That still be the start of ‘wombats’. That no change anything.”
“Or it could be…” led Jerome. “Rhymes with ‘room’?”
“Womb?” said RoyLee, uncertain.
With that, the room erupted. They had clearly never seen the “womb” lurking in “wombat”. But now they had, and they could never un-see it.
“Oh, no!” cried Shovelhovel, his anguish louder than the others. “Womb-banditos! It’s like we’re stealin’ bits from ladies.” He clunked his head a few times on the burrow wall. “Not only is that disgustin’, but we be bleedin’ marsupials! We got no use for wombs. Our women folk has got pouches. What would we be stealin’ bits from ladies for?”
There was general agreement in the room.
“I agree. It’s a disaster,” said Jerome. “The name is a complete carriage wreck. But…”
“But what?” Shovelhovel looked like someone had spat in his soy milk. “We’ve spent years building up a reputation with that name. Now it be ruined. Ruined! We must be the laughingstock of all the other gangs.”
“Yeah, look, sorry about that,” said Jerome. “But if there’s any way I can get my friend back, we have a naming business we have to get back to. Would it be possible—”
“What?” Shovelhovel grabbed the front of Jerome’s tunic and hauled him off the ground. “What did ye say?”
“I said that I was hoping to try to get my friend back from you good people,” said Jerome. “She and I run a naming business, and she’s the creative genius. I need her if we’re going to keep the smart and snappy names coming.”
“You have a naming business?” asked RoyLee. “What have you named? Anything famous?”
Jerome looked as embarrassed as he could while dangling by his tunic front. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly say. That’s all commercial-in-confidence. I mean, I couldn’t very well go around saying, ‘You know brunchberries? They used to be called slugfruit.’ A breach of confidentiality like that would be terrible for business. Not that there’s anything wrong with slugs, of course.”
Shovelhovel shook Jerome a little. “You be telling me that you named brunchberries? They always be named that.”
Jerome shook his head slowly and pointed an index claw at Eloise. “She named them. Absolute genius, she is.” Shovelhovel looked around at Eloise again, and she gave a self-deprecating nod, indicating that Jerome was right.
Shovelhovel put Jerome down with a small shove. “What else has yer business named?”
Jerome feigned chagrin, like he was divulging naughty secrets. “Have you heard of Lurid Eddie?”
“The carriage maker? Of course,” said Shovelhovel.
“He used to be called Bland Bob. Couldn’t sell a carriage in a month. But then he had a name change, and boom! Now he can’t make them fast enough.”
“That be amazing,” said RoyLee. “What else?”
“Ever had potato soup?” asked Jerome.
“It be me favorite,” said RoyLee.
“Until she got ahold of it, they called it ‘bulbous dirt vegetable gruel.’”
“Oh, yuck,” said RoyLee, genuinely disgusted. “I’d never eat bulbous dirt vegetable gruel.”
“I know, right?” agreed Jerome. “But look, I digress. I really need my creative savant back. So, if you lovely womb-banditos can just—”
“Stop!” yelled Shovelhovel. “Don’t be saying our name that way.”
“Sorry. I’m not the one who came up with it.”
The burrow buzzed with dissatisfaction.
RoyLee raised his paw to speak. “Master Jerome. Do you think you could be doing a new name for us?”
“Well, it is what we do. But you’ve kidnapped my friend, and I’m really only here to try to talk ransom. How much do you reckon you’ll get for her?”
“For the likes of her?” said Shovelhovel. “I reckon 27 coins. Maybe 28.”
“Come now, really?” said Jerome in disbelief. “You really think you’ll get more than 15 coins for a thin, not-particularly-attractive nobody like her?”
“You just said she was a creative sav—, sav—, a creative genius,” said Shovelhovel.
“Well, there is that, I guess,” agreed Jerome reluctantly. “But you didn’t know that, and the people you’re trying to get ransom coin from may not either. A bit iffy, the valuing people thing. Maybe you might get 20 or 21?”
RoyLee tugged Jerome’s sleeve again. “How much do a new name cost, Master Jerome?”
“Oh, that depends. We got 95 coins from the Brunchberry Guild, back when they were still the Slugfruit Guild. And if memory serves, we got 123 coins from Bland Bob. So, you know, somewhere in that range. But with overheads and expenses, plus the economic ups and downs…”
“No way!” said RoyLee, impressed. “That be a massive pile of coin.”
Jerome gave another nod, and pointed at Eloise again, who also nodded like she was admitting a closely held truth. “Go somewhere like Brague, especially anywhere within a peach pit’s throw of the queen and castle, and you’ll pay 250 coins for a half-way decent name, and as much as 500 for a really, really good one.”
“Amazin’,” said RoyLee. “I had no idea names be that expensive.”
“We’ll swap,” said Shovelhovel to Jerome. “Her for a new name.”
“Are you out of your womb-bat mind?” Jerome looked offended right down to his stockings. “Our names are worth much, much more than your ransom. That’s not a fair deal at all.” He turned and started walking toward the burrow entrance. “I won’t be insulted like that. Keep her, if that’s what you want.”
/> “Stop!” said Shovelhovel.
Jerome did, slowly turning back around. “What? Are you going to insult me again? And in front of my friend. You really should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Sorry, matey, sorry,” said Shovelhovel. “I meant no offense. But we be needin’ a name and you be needin’ yer friend, so it seemed, yer know, logical, is all.”
Jerome walked back to him. “I guess there might be some logic to it. But you’re asking me to lower our price by 60 to 95 coins. That’s almost four times the value of your ransom. Four!” He held up four claws for emphasis. “You expect me to accept a deal like that? That is an insult to my mother, Çalaht bless her.” He sat on a stone bench, folded his arms, and waited.
“Ten,” Shovelhovel finally said.
“Ten what?” Jerome plucked a thread from his pantaloons.
“Ten coins plus the girl,” said Shovelhovel. “In exchange for a name. But it gotta be a good one, not just a decent one. If we’re going to go through the effort of changing our name, I only wants to do it once.”
Jerome sighed like the terms were distasteful. “El?”
Eloise nodded agreement.
Jerome stood and offered his paw to shake. “Deal. Ten coins and my friend’s freedom in return for a new name for your fearsome gang.”
Shovelhovel shook his paw. “Deal.”
8
The Naming of Wombats
Jerome turned to RoyLee. “Young sir, could you please untie and ungag the creative wonder that is my friend?”
“Leave her bound,” commanded Shovelhovel.
Jerome furrowed his brow at the big wombat. “You really don’t understand the creative process, do you? For the ideas to flow, she has to have freedom of movement. Free movement fosters free thought. Otherwise, you’re going to end up with a name like ‘lichen snaggers’—or worse. Untie her. I promise that she will deliver a name you’ll be happy with.”
The Wombanditos Page 3