by Matthew Cody
As they neared the light, Max could make out the outline of a door set into a wall of rock at the bottom of the stairs.
“That the way in?” asked Max.
“One of them,” said Cornelius. “The one that happened to find us today.”
“It found us? Didn’t we find it?”
“Hardly,” said Cornelius. He paused at the entrance and looked back at Max and her friends. “Come on. Take a look at what you came all this way to find. Feast your eyes on the hidden home of the Winter Children.”
It was not at all what Max had been expecting. The doorway opened into a natural cavern so huge that the walls disappeared in darkness. But in the center of the cavern there was light, generated by a large shantytown. The buildings, such as they were, had been constructed out of old car doors, sheets of aluminum siding and other various sorts of scavenged junk. The light came from cook fires dotting the stone floor and from lanterns strung up on crisscrossing cables, leeching electricity from the world above. And people, hundreds of people, were living practically on top of one another in those squalid conditions. Some with long ears, and skin ranging from shades of green to silver, sat around the fires, looking thin and miserable. Giants too big to fit into any tent or shack huddled together out in the open. They must have been trollsons, only bigger and, well, rockier, than Harold. And there were stranger beings in the mix that Max had no name for.
“Is that…,” said Max, nearly at a loss for words as she took it all in. “Are those the Winter Children?”
Cornelius squinted at her. “It’s been well over seven hundred years since the Winter Children returned to this world, and this here is no land of eternal summer. Everything ages. Everything dies. The elves lived long lives, longer than most, but in time they grew old and died, too. Maybe they returned to where they came from, but if so, it was only in spirit.”
“Then all these people…”
“Don’t you see? We’re all that’s left. Great-great-great-grandchildren. Descendants of elves, trolls, goblins and the like. You see, girl, we’re the Winter Children now. Lost in the cold, in a world that doesn’t want us. We all dreamed of a better place; we believed in it so hard that we were willing to give up everything to get there. This is what we found instead.”
The elfling spat on the ground. “Welcome to the end of the line. Welcome to Bordertown.”
Led by Cornelius, Max, Harold and Mrs. Amsel wandered through Bordertown in stunned silence. Faces peered out at them from darkened doorways, studying the newcomers as they passed by. Some looked desperate, but even more just looked hopeless. People with glittery skin or too-long ears or some other physical quirk that prevented them from passing as “regular folk” up above. These, the true Winter Children, squatted down here in the dark and made a life for themselves. Of a sort.
Cornelius took his shopping bags back from Harold, the ones he’d filled at the bakery, and passed out bread to families. “People come here because everyone’s promised the same dream,” he explained. “A place where they can live without fear. It’s rare these days, but not every elfling can pass as human. Sometimes the elf blood in them just gets too strong. And then there’s the trollsons.” Cornelius glanced back at Harold. “Always been hard for them to pass.”
Cornelius gave two baguettes to a family with tusks like a walrus’s. They showered the little man with so many thanks that he needed Harold’s help to pull away.
“I’ll say this for Bordertown,” said Cornelius. “It teaches all different sorts to get along. Misery is a powerful thing to have in common with your neighbor.”
But Max saw that not everyone in Bordertown lived in harmony. She witnessed two fights that nearly broke out over Cornelius’s gifts of bread.
“Do you feed them all?” asked Mrs. Amsel. The old elfling woman’s eyes were full of tears as she watched the elfling children snarl at her as they passed. After so many years of hearing stories of the Winter Children, she must have felt her heart nearly breaking now that she saw the truth.
“Thank goodness, no,” said Cornelius. “There’s a few more of us that make deliveries from up top. We’ve dug wells to tap the groundwater for drinking, though baths are hard to come by. And at night, teams go up top to scavenge through the Dumpsters and such. That’s risky, though. No one wants to get found out.”
It was almost too much, the level of despair and disappointment that hung in the air of this…ghetto. There was no better word for Bordertown. All these poor souls were hidden away, trapped by nothing more than their ancestry. But that wasn’t why Max was here, and she needed to stay focused on the real reason for her visit. They might not have much time; Vodnik could be right behind them.
She opened her backpack and took out Vodnik’s little chest. She had the Key of Everything, and she might be able to help all these people while still helping herself. After all, the Summer Isle was dangerous, but it had to be better than this place. At least there they could be free.
“Cornelius, can you show us the door to the Summer Isle?” said Max.
Cornelius let out a bitter laugh. “The door’s locked, girl. There’s no opening it, and there’s been plenty that tried. Bigger and tougher than you. Bigger than your trollson friend here.”
Yes, but they didn’t have the key.
“Please,” said Harold. “We have come far. Can you not show it to us?”
Cornelius gave a long sigh. “Same as always. Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”
They’d started picking their way through the tents and run-down shacks when suddenly a booming voice called out, “Harold? Harold, is that you?”
They looked around, searching for the source, and saw an enormous trollson lumbering their way. Unlike Harold, this one definitely took after the troll side of the family tree. His skin was rough and pockmarked like stone in places, and he had moss growing along his shoulders and atop his bald head, like a bad toupee.
“Cousin Geldorf!” breathed Harold. “You made it!” Then he leaned down to Max and whispered, “He’s a lot trollier than I remember.”
“Well, I’d recognize that shock of red hair anywhere!” boomed Geldorf as he scooped up Harold in a giant bear hug. Literally giant, because Geldorf was well over ten feet tall. Now that the shock of seeing him was over, Harold looked genuinely happy to have found his cousin. The two of them laughed and slapped each other on the back with good-natured blows that would have flattened an ordinary person. Of course, neither of them was the least bit ordinary, and though Max didn’t know much about Cousin Geldorf, it was obvious that being as big as he was, he was stuck down here for good. There was nowhere on earth where someone like him could blend in. Even if he wanted to run away to the mountains, as Harold claimed many trollsons did, how would he get there? Like everyone else in this cavern, he’d come to a new world looking for a shining paradise and found himself trapped in a town made of trash.
Harold introduced his friends, but Geldorf already knew Cornelius well enough. Everyone in Bordertown did.
“They want to see the door,” said Cornelius, and Geldorf’s face darkened.
“You warn them?” he asked.
“Why bother?” answered Cornelius. “No one believes it until they see for themselves. Same as always.”
By now Max was getting frustrated. “Look, I know the door’s locked, but I have the key. We stole it from Vodnik himself.”
“Stole it?” said Geldorf. “Well, that’s a first.”
“Do you even know what she holds?” said Mrs. Amsel. “This is the Key of Everything!”
Geldorf bent down and placed a hand on Max’s shoulder. He was gentle, despite the fact that Max’s whole head could have fit in the palm of his hand. “Cornelius is right,” he said. “You should see for yourself.”
Then Geldorf and Cornelius led Max and her friends to the far side of the cavern, to a door set into the rock. A full fifteen feet high and half as wide, it was made of solid stone, only smoother than the surrounding rock and
polished to a shiny finish. Etched into the center was a crude picture of a tree in full bloom.
But it was the ground in front of the door that caused Max to gasp. At once Mrs. Amsel’s arm was around her, supporting her. They’d come all this way. They’d come all this way for nothing.
The little housekeeper was whispering to her in German, trying to soothe her, but her words cracked with emotion and barely held-back tears, because there was no handle on the door and, worse, no keyhole. Nothing but plain, smooth stone.
And littered along the ground were hundreds of small brass keys. All identical to the one in Max’s hand.
Max stared dumbly down at her own key. The magician’s “magic” key.
“You see,” said Geldorf, his voice thick with bitterness. “He fooled you. Vodnik fooled us all. Most paid everything we owned for it, because we thought we were somehow special. But there is no Key of Everything. Never was. It doesn’t exist. All there is is this door that cannot be opened. And piles of useless, fake keys.”
Negotiation. The word tasted strange in Wormling’s mouth, as it would to any rat. It was simply not a part of their vocabulary, which was necessarily limited to begin with. No room for negotiation in an average rat’s brain already crammed to bursting with pillage, bite, claw, betray, murder and steal.
But Wormling had never been an average rat. He possessed qualities considered oddities by other rats, such as adaptability and curiosity. And now he possessed that most unusual word, negotiation. A word that had turned out to be an unexpected source of power. A word that had made Wormling into a king. That, and the imposing creature at Wormling’s side.
Today Wormling’s back hurt, but that’s what came with sitting atop the rat king’s throne. The last king, Marrow, had stolen the chair from the elves themselves, and though it wasn’t designed with rats in mind, it had become a symbol of leadership to sit upright like an elf or human might do. Sit upright and rule.
Still, Wormling couldn’t wait to get back to his private nest, where he could finally lie down. Perhaps he’d have one of the females brush the tangles out of his fur while he napped. That would have to wait, though. Wormling had kingly duties to attend to first. Two duties today, the second of which gave him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach just thinking about it. But the first…The first would be a real pleasure.
Wormling leaned forward and in his whiny, nasal voice shouted, “Bring him forth!”
The main hall of the rat king’s nest was crowded with onlookers, rats who’d come to see how the new king dealt with today’s problem. They were attended by slave children in iron collars who’d been plucked from the village of New Hamelin over the years. A pitiful few, considering how long the rats and the children had been at war. But thanks to Wormling, that was about to change. Thanks to that one magical word.
Two well-muscled rats shoved aside the onlookers and made way for the prisoner to be brought before the king. Spitter was his name, and he’d once attended King Marrow himself, until he’d had his tail chewed off as punishment for slandering the king behind his back. And here he was again. Some rats just never learned.
“Weeeell,” whined Wormling. He let the word draw out because he knew how his voice grated on the ears of others. He liked to watch them flinch at the sound of it. “Spitter, I hear you’ve been saying things about your king, again. Saying things that ought not be said. Something about whether I was fit to lead.”
Spitter glared at Wormling with a look of open contempt, but then his eyes flicked to the creature at Wormling’s side and he took a deep breath to calm himself. Wormling had to give the rat credit for being more cautious than he’d thought. Cautiousness combined with cleverness could be a dangerous thing. Luckily, Spitter was anything but clever.
“Well, Spitter?” said Wormling. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? I’m giving you this chance to speak in your own defense.” And just enough rope to hang yourself.
Spitter took the bait. “Do I have anything to say?” snarled the rat. “Why should I say anything? Marrow wouldn’t have wasted time with talking, but that’s all rats do these days, isn’t it?”
He turned and glared at the crowd. “Marrow would’ve had the stuff to come down off that fancy chair and fight me himself! When he took my tail, at least he did it because he could best me in a fight. He did it because he was stronger than me, because he was stronger than all of us, because he was a real king!”
Spitter glared up at Wormling. “Strongest rat rules.”
Wormling settled back into his throne and tried not to wince at the crick in his back. Too many eyes were watching. “What is strength, Spitter? If you mean strength like Marrow’s, then you are right, I am not strong. But Marrow is dead. The fiercest fighter we rats ever bred, yet under his rule we scraped out a miserable living in these tunnels while the children of New Hamelin fattened their bellies with food grown from the ground and forged weapons of iron behind their strong walls.”
“So what?” said Spitter. “You saying we should become farmers now?”
“No,” said Wormling. “But we can make the farmers farm for us. They can forge weapons for us. The only thing standing in our way is their wall.” Wormling stood up from his seat, and stayed on his hind legs as he addressed the entire hall now. Just like a king would. “Since I became king, we rats are free to cross the lands unhindered, and without fear of the Peddler or his roads. And more, we are stronger than ever before because we have made friends.”
With this last, Wormling turned to the massive ogre standing silently next to the throne. Dressed in little more than a loincloth and a few necklaces of finger bones, Org the ogre was so big that he had to duck his head or else bang it on the ceiling. That was good, because Org’s head was the part of his considerable body that saw the least use.
Spitter nearly cried with rage. “That’s what I mean! Rats don’t need ogres to fight for them. Rats fight for themselves.”
And there it was. The baited trap snapped shut on poor Spitter’s neck. Wormling couldn’t help but smile. “Do they?” asked Wormling. “So be it. Never let it be said that King Wormling is not a fair rat. Org?”
Spitter’s eyes went wide as he realized what he’d just said. “What? No! I didn’t mean that…”
But Org was already stomping across the hall toward the panicking rat. Spitter tried to run, but the guards blocked the exit.
“Better turn and fight,” said Wormling. “Rats fight for themselves, remember?”
Wormling almost couldn’t watch. He really was squeamish at the sight of blood, but thankfully it didn’t last long. Wormling had to call the ogre off before he left too much of a stain on the chamber floor. But it had to be done. And it had to be done publicly so that others would understand. Wormling was the strongest rat, because Wormling was the cleverest. Because Wormling was the meanest.
He let his gaze drift over the gathered rats for a few moments of silence before speaking again. “Our alliance with the ogres of the Bonewood will mean that everyone will share in the spoils of war. The ogres will tear down the New Hameliners’ walls, and we will shackle the children in chains. I’ve promised Org and his people all the pigs they can eat, and when our slaves have planted new fields of crops for us, the ogres will share in the bounty. Before long, not even the elves of the Deep Forest will be able to stand against us!”
Wormling shouted, his whine carrying through the halls and tunnels. “Marrow could not offer you this! But King Wormling can!”
The rats let out a cheer. Wormling could see it in their eyes—the greed and the hunger. Rats were not an industrious race by nature, but their inherent laziness could be overcome by the promise of bloodshed and gluttony.
There would be no more challengers to Wormling’s rule. For the time being, anyway.
Wormling waited until the rats had dispersed, until he was left with just a few slave attendants and Org, before he sank back into his chair. How he wanted to lie down.
“Nice spee
ch, rat king,” said a nearby voice.
Wormling sighed as he recognized it. Now came the second meeting of his day. The one he’d been dreading. “I didn’t know you were there. Were you watching all along?”
From out of the shadows stepped a crooked figure dressed in a tattered skirt, heavy cloak and kerchief. Grannie Yaga, the witch of the Bonewood, hobbled across the hall until she was standing in front of Wormling’s throne.
“Hello, Org,” said Grannie, nodding to the ogre. “Good to see you’re still hitting things.”
The ogre grunted in response.
“He doesn’t talk much—or at all, actually,” said Wormling. “But I guess you knew that.”
“Ogres don’t say much, but they’re good listeners,” said Grannie. “Like you, Wormling. Such a good listener. That’s why your dear old Grannie made you a king, remember?”
Wormling bit back a sharp reply. No one had made Wormling into a king, except Wormling. The old witch had some sway with the ogres of the Bonewood, it was true, and she’d arranged for Wormling to present his plan before the ogres without getting squashed to paste. But Wormling had negotiated their alliance. Wormling, who convinced the rats to side with ogres in turn. Wormling, who took all the risks.
He’d love to tell Grannie so, but she was a witch and a powerful one at that. Long years serving vicious, unpredictable kings had taught Wormling when to speak truth to those in power, and when to bow his head.
“Slaves, leave us,” said Wormling.
Grannie smiled at the children as they filed out of the chamber, exposing a mouthful of splintery wooden teeth. “Such dears. It’s a shame my oven was ruined when the Peddler wrecked my poor cottage. Going to take me some time to forge a new one. Ah, but there’s no use crying over milk that’s already spilled. And I planted the Peddler’s bones six feet underground, so now I suppose we can call it even.”
Wormling waited until the last of the slaves had exited. “What can I do for you, Grannie?”