by Bill Allen
Nathan’s face appeared between Greg and the sky. His usual smile had been replaced by a disturbingly sober expression. “You’re going to be fine, son. It’s only a shallow wound. It could have been much worse.”
Greg looked at Nathan helplessly. “I thought you said bollywomps wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Normally, they wouldn’t . . . Lucky, could you give us a moment?”
“Um, sure.” Lucky meandered off toward the edge of the clearing, returned hastily for his walking stick, and left again.
“Listen, Greg,” said Nathan, once Lucky was out of earshot. “I know that boy has you convinced he has nothing but good fortune all the time—”
“He is awful lucky,” Greg interrupted.
“That depends on how you look at it.”
“You mean like with your eyes open?” Greg said. He tried once again to sit upright, but he might as well have tried to fly.
“The boy is lucky in the sense that King Peter took him in when he had no one else,” Nathan said, “but I’m afraid there is little more to it than that.”
“King Peter took him in?”
“About a year ago, when the boy’s parents died and left him alone. It only made sense. Everyone already thought he had royal blood anyway.”
Greg’s side stabbed at him until he shifted to a more comfortable position. Yes, he decided, it definitely felt more as if he’d been turned inside out. “Why did they think that?” he asked.
“His hair, obviously.”
Greg offered Nathan his best blank expression.
“Haven’t you noticed?” Nathan said. “Lucky’s the only one in the entire kingdom outside the royal family with red hair. I guess you could say that was one more thing he was lucky about.”
“What happened to his parents?”
“Killed by trolls, I’m told. You saw how his carefree attitude disappeared when we spotted those beasts yesterday.”
Greg nodded. “Wait a minute. I thought you just met Lucky when you met me.”
“I did,” said Nathan, “but I’ve known King Peter most my life.”
Perhaps it was more like the beating, Greg debated, as he tried once more to sit upright. “What does all this have to do with Lucky’s talent?”
“Don’t you see? Lucky’s the kind of boy who could get struck by lightning twice in one week and still tell you how lucky he was not to be killed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He puts a positive spin on everything,” Nathan said. “Where you and I might construe being attacked by a bollywomp as bad luck, he’d just smile and say you were lucky because you came away with only that scratch.”
Greg stared at the crimson bandages Nathan had used to cover Greg’s wound. He didn’t feel lucky. “So why are you telling me this?”
Nathan bent to inspect Greg’s bandage and nodded as if he approved of his own work. “Because every time Lucky pushes himself to the brink of death and survives, he’ll consider himself lucky to be alive, but one day he’s going to push himself too far, and . . . well, then he won’t be around to consider his fortune one way or another.”
“I still don’t understand what that has to do with me.”
Nathan frowned. “Look, Greg, there’s nothing wrong with maintaining a positive attitude—it certainly has worked for Lucky so far—but you’re about to face some pretty insurmountable odds. I think you’d be wise not to trust your fate to chance alone.”
“If you’re talking about the prophecy, I couldn’t agree more.”
“I’m talking about the rabbit’s foot. I don’t care if you do think it will bring you good luck. You have no business carrying something like that around out here in the forest. Why, it practically got you killed today. How lucky is that?”
“What rabbit’s foot?”
Nathan dug in his pocket and retrieved a furry brown object, about the size of his thumb, and held it up for Greg to see. “I found it concealed beneath your tunic,” he said, scowling.
“That’s not mine,” Greg said with a huff.
“It’s not?” Nathan said, studying the rabbit’s foot with renewed interest. “Then whose?”
Both he and Greg glanced over at Lucky. The boy must have felt their stares because he suddenly looked their way. “What?”
“Do you know anything about this?” Nathan asked.
Lucky strode forward, trying to make out the small object in Nathan’s hand. “What is it?” he said, reaching out a hand of his own.
“A rabbit’s foot,” Greg told him.
“Ugh,” Lucky said, yanking his fingers back. “That’s disgusting.”
“Then it’s not yours?” said Nathan.
“Do I look like a rabbit?”
“Some people believe they bring good luck,” explained Greg.
“I’d more expect them to bring bollywomps. Besides, what would I need with good luck?”
Greg exchanged looks with Nathan. “He’s got a point.”
“Then where did it come from?” Nathan wondered out loud.
“Maybe . . . ” said Lucky, cutting himself off in mid thought.
“Maybe what?” said Greg.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Please, son,” said Nathan, “if you know something, now’s not the time to hold back.”
“I don’t know anything at all,” said Lucky, although Greg thought the boy was being a bit hard on himself. “I was just thinking, maybe it belongs to the same person who chopped through the bridge supports back at Black Blood Creek.”
“You think this was another deliberate attempt on Greg’s life?” Nathan said.
Greg hadn’t thought he could feel more uneasy. Then suddenly he remembered.
“The smell,” he said. Nathan and Lucky regarded him curiously. “Just before the bollywomp appeared I noticed this odor . . . I don’t know exactly . . . . it reminded me of the time I tried using my mom’s eggbeater to mix up a new color of modeling clay and caused an electrical fire.”
“You should take another look at his wound,” Lucky told Nathan. “I think he’s delirious.”
“He’s talking about electricity,” said Nathan, “like in a bolt of lightning. It burns the air and leaves the smell of ozone behind.”
“Exactly,” said Greg, “same as I smelled when you brought me here. To Myrth, I mean.”
“Sounds like magic,” said Lucky. “Hey, maybe Greg was right about Mordred trying to kill him and make it look like an accident.”
Nathan shook his head. “No, I know Mordred. I can assure you, he did not do this.”
Something about the man’s tone left Greg convinced he couldn’t possibly have a thing to worry about from the nasty magician he met back at Pendegrass Castle, no matter how much the evidence suggested otherwise. Nathan wouldn’t lie. He was here to help, as he had proved when he loaned Greg his staff back at the Shrieking Scrub.
“Well,” said Lucky, “we still haven’t seen that girl adventurer Hazel mentioned.”
Nathan looked worried. “I suppose it could be the girl, but whether it is or not, I think we’d better use caution from here on out. I can only assume whoever planted that rabbit’s foot on Greg’s person did so while he slept, and I don’t mind saying it bothers me to think someone with that much stealth and courage might be stalking us as we speak.”
Both Lucky and Greg glanced about the clearing, but the only thing to see was a large swath of red where Nathan and Lucky had obviously dragged off the bollywomp’s body.
“We should get going,” said Nathan. “We have but one day before we reach Simon’s. We’ll just have to keep our ears and eyes open until then.”
“Noses, too,” said Lucky.
Greg didn’t worry about keeping his eyes open. His were stretched wide as could be for the rest of that day’s hike and much of the night as well. Even with Rake purring next to him, he found it hard to sleep. For some reason camping in a forest full of monsters was not nearly as frightening as camping where he knew a single huma
n might be out to kill him. After all, humans had intelligence, and even if this was just a girl, she seemed to have a great deal of stealth as well.
“Maybe it’s not as bad as we think,” said Lucky as both boys lay awake in the darkness.
Greg groaned. “If you tell me how lucky I am she didn’t kill me when she snuck into our camp, I’ll—”
“No, that’s not what I was going to say at all . . . well, not exactly. But the fact is she did come into our camp before, and you’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“I’m warning you, Lucky . . . .”
“No, hear me out. If she was really trying to kill you, why didn’t she just slit your throat while you slept?”
“Oh, great. Say it a little louder, why don’t you?”
Rake’s tail suddenly brushed across his leg, and Greg nearly screamed. A few seconds later he heard a muffled gasp through the darkness and decided Rake must have found Lucky’s leg as well.
“I’m serious,” Lucky said a moment later. “I don’t think she’s really trying to kill you. I think she’s just trying to scare you a bit.”
“Yeah, well, she scared me all right. I nearly got my insides torn out by a bollywomp. How did she know I wouldn’t be killed?”
Lucky was silent a long moment. Finally his voice broke the quiet of the night.
“There can be only one answer. She must be familiar with the prophecy.”
If Greg had felt sore most of his journey, it was nothing compared to how he felt when he woke the next morning. The wound in his side burned so intensely it was all he could do to crawl from his bedroll and gulp down the breakfast cakes and fosselberry syrup Lucky pulled from his pack. Nathan removed Greg’s dressing long enough to study the wound, then gently wrapped it back into place.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“W-what?” Greg asked, frightened by Nathan’s tone. “Was it poison?”
Lucky chuckled. “Don’t be silly, Greg. You saw the claws on that bollywomp. Why would a creature like that need to poison anything?”
“No, you weren’t poisoned,” said Nathan, “but the wound has started to fester. Do you think you can make it to Simon’s?”
“Sure, just help me to my feet.”
“You’re already standing.”
“Oh, then no . . . I doubt I can make it.”
Once again the darkness crept into Greg’s vision. As before, his feet gave way, but this time he remained conscious, able to listen to the sounds around him.
“Quick, Lucky,” he heard Nathan say, “do you know what jinsen looks like?”
“Of course,” Lucky’s voice replied.
“Good, let’s split up. It likes scattered sunlight, so try that area over there, where the trees are thinner. I’ll check over this way.”
Greg heard rustling to his right and surmised Nathan must have left the clearing. More noise to his left told him Lucky, too, had joined the search. But then Greg heard still more rustling in the direction of his feet, and his heart skipped a beat.
Please be a monkeydog, he thought, but as might be expected for someone whose luck had run out, his wish was to go ungranted.
“What’s this?” he heard someone say.
Who would have thought a young girl’s voice could sound so terrifying?
Hart of the Matter
A blurry outline of a human head hovered over him. Greg tried to scream but doubted anyone heard, perhaps not even the girl adventurer who stood at his feet.
“What’s that you say?” she asked. “Help, was it? Oh, you’re bleeding!”
Greg felt a tug on his bandages and tried screaming again. This time it must have worked, because the girl jumped back and shouted at him—something about yelling in her ear. He heard Lucky far off to his left.
“Greg, are you all right? Nathan, quick, I think something’s happened to Greg.”
The rustling in the woods turned frantic, and Greg knew Nathan and Lucky were both racing back to help. For a moment he lost the ability to breathe.
“Who’s out there?” the girl shouted, and Greg took satisfaction in hearing a tremor in her voice. The rustling bore right down on the two of them, and then it stopped.
“Prissy!” Greg heard Lucky cry. “What are you doing here?”
“Princess Priscilla?” said Nathan’s voice nearby. “I must say, I was not expecting to see you.”
Greg exhaled with a whoosh. Could this really be King Peter’s second daughter and not the girl adventurer who was out to kill him? But then the full realization struck. The princess had escaped the dragon! He wanted to scream for joy but couldn’t locate his voice.
“Do I know you?” the princess asked Nathan.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t remember, but we’ll have to save the introductions for later. Our friend here is very ill. We must find some jinsen root before he goes into shock.”
“Are you kidding? He’ll be dead before you find jinsen this close to a fosselberry grove. Don’t you have any healing spells?”
There was a long pause, and while Greg’s vision may have been cloudy, he was almost certain he witnessed a lot of embarrassed head shaking.
“I can’t believe you two,” the girl scolded. She certainly didn’t sound like a princess, but then neither had her sister Penelope. “Here, you can use one of mine.”
Greg heard the clink of glass and felt an icy cold stab in his side. He couldn’t decide if it hurt more or less than the wound, but soon the pain subsided and Greg’s vision began to clear. The girl hovering over him had red curls that hung down, blocking most of her face, but Greg could see she was about his own age and quite pretty. She very well could be a princess.
Yet aside from her hair she was nothing like her sister. Sure, Penelope was beautiful, but her skin was so white it looked unnatural, almost the pale white of a grub you might find under a rock. Come to think of it, Greg had an idea a grub probably logged more hours in the sun. Both times Greg saw her, Penelope had been garbed in the finest of dresses, and her manner was so proper she looked out of place outdoors, even on the perfectly groomed grass of the castle lawn. He couldn’t imagine her stepping foot into any forest, let alone one named Wiccan Wood.
Priscilla’s skin, however, was tan and freckled. Instead of a dress she wore dungarees and a button down shirt, much like the outfit Nathan wore, and in spite of her petite frame she looked perfectly at home here in the wilds of Wiccan Wood. It was hard to believe the two were sisters.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Better is a relative term,” Greg said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you really Princess Priscilla?”
“Who wants to know?”
She and Penelope quite possibly were sisters after all. “My name’s Greg. Greg Hart.”
“You’re Greghart?” she said, astounded. “You’ve got to be kidding?”
Yep, that clinched it.
“He’s not kidding, Prissy,” said Lucky. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the forest, anyway?”
Priscilla jumped to her feet. “Don’t you speak to me in that tone, Lucky Day. And stop calling me Prissy. You know I hate that name.”
“Fine, Priscilla, then.”
“No, I don’t like that either. Call me Sasha.”
Lucky laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The princess stomped her feet in the dirt and wailed, “Do I sound like I’m kidding?” Greg had to admit, she sounded more like a Sasha than a Priscilla. He tried asking what Priscilla was doing here, but no one heard.
“Fine, Princess,” interrupted Nathan, “we would be happy to call you Sasha. But you still haven’t said what you are doing out here in the forest alone.”
“And you are?” Priscilla asked in a tone that sounded far too commanding for such a small body.
“Sorry. Nathaniel Caine is my name. Please, call me Nathan.”
“Very well, Mr. Caine. If you must know, I’m on my way to the Infinite Spire to rescue my si
ster from the dragon Ruuan.”
“You’re what?” Greg shouted, or so it felt to him. If the others heard, they gave no indication.
“You’re going to fight Ruuan?” Lucky scoffed. “Why on Myrth would you want to do that?”
“Somebody’s got to do something,” Priscilla said. “I’m sure you’ve heard how that idiot Simon botched up the prophecy. Now Marvin Greatheart’s gone off to who knows where, and no one’s left to save Penelope.”
“Your sister’s back at the castle,” Greg called out from below. Maybe he’d actually died from his wound. That would explain why everyone was ignoring him. But it didn’t explain why Lucky and Priscilla were still talking about slaying the dragon and rescuing Penelope.
“Simon didn’t botch up the prophecy,” Lucky insisted. “Greghart, here, is going to save her.”
Now it was the princess who laughed. It was a shrill, mocking sound, and given the circumstances Greg couldn’t say he liked it. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Look at him. He’s just a boy.”
Greg didn’t know whether to take offense or not. Sure, he knew he couldn’t possibly fight a dragon, but so many people had told him otherwise lately, he’d begun to believe it was true—or at least wish it were true. Now Priscilla, or Sasha, or whatever she wanted to be called, was suggesting he wasn’t a hero at all. In fact, from her tone it sounded as if she was suggesting he wasn’t much of a boy.
Lucky looked furious. “Greg may not be very old—” he started to say.
“Who’s Greg?” Priscilla interrupted.
“I am,” insisted Greg, but still the others ignored him.
“Greghart. He wants us to call him Greg,” Lucky explained.
The princess frowned. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Okay, Sasha. Greg may be just a boy, but he’s going to be a hero soon enough. That is, if you don’t get in his way. Hey, you haven’t been trying to stop him, have you?”
“Somebody tell me what’s going on,” Greg demanded. He used all the strength he could muster to crawl to his feet.