Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free

by Randy Henderson

  “Stop!”

  A faun stepped out from behind a tree. He looked like a tan little man with goat legs, and wore a camo vest, a Utilikilt that hung down to his furry goat knees, and a Budweiser baseball cap that didn’t quite cover the nubby little horns on either side of his forehead. He held a crossbow loosely in his hands, and he spit to the side of the trail.

  “Where do you two think you’re going?” he asked.

  “Uh, hi,” I said. “Do you know where they keep the nuclear wessels?”

  He frowned, and raised his crossbow. “Nuclear what?”

  I raised my hands. “Sorry. We’re just heading up the river a bit. We think my friend here might have a, ah, connection with someone there.”

  “Good connection or bad?” the faun asked, lowering the crossbow again, and looked at Sal. “You’re not on a job, are ya?”

  Sal shook his head. “Iself not on a job. Iself looking for a truefriend.”

  “Uh huh. Well all right then. I’d best lead you in so you don’t hurt yourselves. Go ahead and just continue down that path there, I’ll follow right behind ya.”

  Sal began striding down the path, and I hurried to catch up.

  The faun trailed behind us, giving occasional directions to walk around a spot in the trail, or to take a side path marked only by a cluster of mushrooms or other subtle marker.

  “Had a couple of amateur hunters get so drunk that the glamours and our will-o’-the-wisp didn’t even work on them, they just stumbled right into our steading,” the faun explained as we walked. “So we started putting traps on the paths.”

  “Is that where you got the gear?” I asked.

  “Naw. Garl, this waerbear friend of mine, he sometimes likes to scare campers and hunters for fun. They leave all kinds of stuff behind.”

  “And the DFM doesn’t mind Garl’s games, or these traps?” I asked.

  “The Department of Feyblood Mismanagement don’t care what we do long as we ain’t collecting guns or causing them any paperwork.”

  Sounded about right. “My name’s Finn, by the way, and this is Sal.”

  “Don,” the faun said. “Don Faun. And yes, my sires hated me.”

  We emerged from the thick patch of forest into a clearing at the river’s edge—a clearing filled with feybloods.

  They stood in a crowd with their backs to us, facing a young woman. Behind her stood a single cedar tree on the riverbank, its branches covered in drooping bunches of needlelike fronds doing a slow dance in the breeze.

  In the crowd of feybloods I spotted a bear, a frog-faced fellow, a jackalope, a wolf, and a fox, a moving pile of dirt and rocks that must be a dwarf, several fauns who didn’t share Don Faun’s clothing appreciation, a couple of river nymphs—and a single sasquatch female. Now, I just had to convince her to return with us to the car, and I could verify with—

  “Got some visitors!” Don Faun called out, then tipped his hat at us and disappeared back into the forest.

  All heads turned toward us.

  Great.

  I saw no feyblood likely to have a stone gaze, so I removed the sunglasses and smiled as friendly as I could.

  “Greetings, newcomers,” the young woman near the cedar tree called out. Her expression wasn’t nearly as welcoming as her words.

  “Uh, hi,” I said, and waved, showing my persona ring in the process.

  The bear growled. The dwarf shifted his face of dirt-covered-stone and spat dust in my direction. “Arcana,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Send him swimming in fastwater!”

  Sal put his hand on my shoulder. “This arcana is Iself’s guest, come here for I.”

  “Thanks,” I said in a low voice.

  Sal grunted, and said, “Do any bad-bright tricks and Iself will be first to tear off youself’s arms.”

  The young woman walked to us as Sal spoke, the crowd parting to let her through. Five-foot-nothing, she looked and moved like a Jazzercise instructor on her day off, her simple movements hinting at a greater strength and grace, her auburn hair chopped short and streaked with traces of green. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t quite human, as though Boris Vallejo had airbrushed her into reality. She wore a green dress I thought at first was sequined, then realized was made of woven grass, leaves, and pine needles that covered her from neck to knees. The tip of a pale scar could be seen where her neck met her shoulders before it disappeared under her dress.

  “I’m called Silene,” she said. “What brings you to my tree?”

  Her tree? Of course. Silene was a dryad, a tree nymph.

  Interesting fact: for the longest time, it was a rite of passage for male arcana to be taken to a nymph by their father or grandfather on their fifteenth birthday, and it was not unheard of for bachelor parties (or parties in general) to end up in nymph groves. In fact, if you look, you’ll see that the stage area of Woodstock abutted a grove of trees—this was not accidental. But then the ARC declared that it was exploitive (and quite possibly a risk to public health) to have sex with feybloods. Interestingly, this change occurred shortly after the first unicorn ranches were opened, tailored toward female customers, though the ARC maintains the timing was pure coincidence. Of course, while the unicorn ranches were closed down, nobody was cruel enough to suggest cutting down the nymph groves. And the number of unicorns working as personal trainers and riding instructors increased considerably.

  Seeing Silene’s beauty, I understood the allure of nymphs. And looking past her to the tree, I saw that a pale scar split the reddish-brown bark of the cedar for several feet, lined with char. A lightning strike, which explained the scar on Silene’s neck. A dryad was connected to her tree, caring for it and the life of the surrounding forest while gaining strength and life from it in return. Except their caring usually took the form of celebrating the beauty of nature and encouraging the whole rebirth part of the cycle of life. I’d never heard of a dryad leading a crowd of feybloods to do anything except dance and feel good.

  But these feybloods did not look like they were in the mood to dance or … dance. At all.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Finn, necromancer under the local ARC. I just came here to help Sal find someone.” I looked at the female sasquatch. “Miss, may we have a word with you?”

  “I told you!” the fox said, rising up onto its rear legs. The fox transformed, her rust-colored fur flowing into a dress, the white into gloves and shoes, the black into long flowing hair. Her face settled into the features of a young woman of indeterminate race as she turned to the dwarf and pitched her words to address the crowd. “I told you they would come for us, blame us. And they even hired a squatch merc!”

  The dwarf spat dust again, this time in the direction of Sal. “Clan before mana!”

  “Uh, what?” I said.

  “Iself not on job!” Sal declared.

  Silene’s eyes narrowed, and she said over her shoulder, “The ARC would send a group of enforcers, not a necromancer. And they wouldn’t trust a fellow brightblood, not for this.”

  I raised my hands. “I honestly didn’t come here to do anything but help the big guy here. I don’t want any trouble.”

  Silene glanced from Sal to the female sasquatch, then said, “Many of us have not been treated well at the hands of arcana. Some even have reason to fear our sasquatch cousins. What is your purpose here?”

  I looked up at Sal. I didn’t want to embarrass him. “Well, Sal here recently lost his sister, and is seeking someone to … spend time with. I was able to use a bit of magic that indicated he might find such a friend here.”

  “I see.” Silene crossed her arms, and looked at Sal. “You are welcome, of course, if you can earn the trust of those here. We are all pledged to the Silver, as I sense are you. And … I’m sure Challa would speak to you, in time.” She looked at me. “I think it best, however, if you leave. There is much anger here, and I would not want it to ignite.”

  “I don’t want to put myself at risk, obviously, but if we could—”

 
“You mistake me,” Silene replied. “My concern is not for you. I worry that if one of my brethren were to harm or kill you, then your ARC would punish all of us. Now please, go, and—”

  “DFM!” A voice projected from the tree line as if from a loudspeaker. “Everyone stay where you are, and nobody will be harmed.”

  Three men and one woman stepped into the clearing and spread out to form a half circle between the feybloods and the forest. Enforcers from the Department of Feyblood Management. They wore padded tactical gear and heavy boots that shifted color to camouflage them, and protective helmets with shaded visors no doubt enchanted to protect against psychic attacks, stone gazes, and more. One man wore a Fu Manchu–style moustache with silver beads woven into the dangling ends. The woman and, I was surprised to see, two of the men had instead two small braids with the same style beads dangling from behind their ears, visible beneath the edge of their helmets. And they all held telescoping batons that glowed blue like lightsabers.

  The dwarf’s obsidian eyes flashed at me. “You lie. You come for us.”

  “I didn’t, I swear.” I raised my empty hands to show both the dwarf and the enforcers I wasn’t a threat. Beside me, Sal fluffed up, and I saw Challa do the same. The water nymphs slipped quietly into the river and were gone.

  The dwarf shouted, “Dunngo do nothing wrong!”

  Silene raised her own hands. “Everyone, just stay rooted. We have our rights. They cannot take us away without good cause.”

  The woman enforcer said, “Actually, we have good cause, and I think you know it.” To the crowd, she shouted, “I’m Knight-Captain Reyes, here to bring in four suspects for questioning. If those involved in the attack on the alchemist will just step forward, we can make this quick and easy.” She looked at me. “Gramaraye, please step away from the feybloods.”

  “Gramaraye?” Challa demanded, and a ripple of unhappy sounds passed through the crowd.

  The waerfox looked to her fellow feybloods and said, “He wants to make us his slave!”

  “Romey, don’t—” Silene began.

  “Dunngo not be slave!” the dwarf said, and surged toward me on a wave of dirt, stony fists raised.

  Oh crap. It was clobberin’ time! And I was the one about to be clobberin’ed.

  “Stop!” Silene shouted.

  I turned and ran. I had nothing that could stop a charging dwarf.

  I corrected my direction for the space between two of the enforcers so they didn’t think I charged at them.

  I could hear the rumble and grinding of earth and rocks growing close behind me. Sweat sprang up cool and sudden on my arms and forehead.

  The nearest enforcer closed the distance to me, dropped to his knee and slammed the butt end of his glowing baton against the ground as if spiking a football. The grass and moss rippled out from his strike like water from a dropped stone.

  I was thrown forward to the wet earth, and as I tumbled I saw Dunngo’s waist crumble out from beneath him, sending his upper body rolling across the grass.

  “Enough!” Knight-Captain Reyes shouted.

  The dwarf righted himself, and earth mounded up beneath him to form a new waist.

  “Dunngo, stop!” Silene said. “Think of our clan, our cause.”

  Dunngo raised his fists again, and leaned in my direction.

  “Please,” Silene pleaded. “You won’t avenge your son by dying.”

  The dwarf turned his obsidian eyes from me to Silene and back, and lowered his fists. “Dunngo say all arcana badbright mud-hearts.”

  “Duly noted,” Reyes said drily. She raised her voice again. “For those four feybloods involved in the attack on the alchemist, this is your last chance to submit yourself for voluntary questioning as subjects of the Silver Court. Otherwise, we will identify and arrest you as enemy combatants.”

  Romey, the waerfox, shouted, “Did you arrest the alchemist for questioning, too?”

  “That isn’t your concern,” Reyes responded.

  “Of course not,” Romey said.

  A wave of grumbling and restless stirring swept over the feybloods, like news spreading through a prison cafeteria that the meatloaf really is horse meat. The four enforcers shifted their booted feet and raised their glowing batons, prepared to swing or cast their magics.

  Silene stepped forward, facing Knight-Captain Reyes. “There was no attack except against us. We only went there to protest, as is within our right. The alchemist, and arcana like him, they exploit brightbloods for—”

  “I’m not here to discuss the reasons,” Reyes said. “I’m here to take custody of those involved. And I’m losing patience. You’ve got until the count of ten to comply. One. Two—”

  “Stop!” Silene said. “We’ll comply, of course. But I will be reporting this to our Archon.”

  “Report away, as long as it’s not on my time.”

  Silene turned back to the crowd. “Step forward and go with the enforcers. We have nothing to hide and no reason to fear them. Each injustice just makes our cause stronger, and the Silver Court will not abandon us.”

  *She assumes much,* Alynon said, and I detected a tone of bitterness.

  After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, three feybloods moved forward. Frog face. A faun. And surprise surprise, Dunngo.

  And lastly, Challa pushed through the crowd with her long sasquatch strides.

  Bat’s breath.

  Each enforcer approached a feyblood and placed a silver collar around their feyblood’s neck.

  Reyes secured Challa, and said so all could hear, “You will be taken to the Sequim DFM facility, and given all considerations accorded you under the Pax. The regional Silver Archon will be notified, and a changeling ambassador will be present for all questioning.” Then she looked at me. “Gramaraye, your presence here has been noted. Don’t leave the domain of the North American ARCs. We might want to question you as well.”

  Great. “I won’t. But—”

  “Let’s go,” Reyes said, and the enforcers guided their feyblood prisoners back into the forest, in the direction of the roads.

  “Friendly bunch,” I muttered.

  You’d think, after being falsely sent into exile and then helping to stop a major conspiracy by an ARC magus, I’d get a bit more respect from the enforcers. But they still treated me more like Rodney Dangerfield than Aretha Franklin.

  *Welcome to my world,* Alynon said.

  Right, speaking of which—

  I turned around to find the feybloods all glaring at me. Silene stood watching me with her arms crossed and eyes cold.

  I raised my hands again. “Really, I had nothing to do with this. In fact, I’d, uh, like to help if I can.”

  “We don’t want arcana help!” the bear grumbled.

  “Don’t be foolish,” a faun said. “We can use all the allies we can get.”

  Romey crossed her arms over her fox-colored dress. “We don’t need an arcana coming in and playing hero. Especially not a Gramaraye. We brightbloods can do for ourselves.”

  Especially not a Gramaraye? Great.

  “Look—” I began, when the sound of snapping branches and someone or something crashing through the underbrush came from the forest behind me, from the opposite direction of the enforcers.

  A centaur burst out from the trees, carrying an unconscious girl in a gauzy dress slung across his back.

  “Strange things are afoot at the Circle K,” I muttered.

  5

  Sign O the Times

  “I found another,” the centaur bellowed as he landed in the clearing and skidded to a stop, his hooves plowing furrows in the mossy soil.

  “Quick,” Silene said to the centaur, “lay her down beneath my tree.” She looked to me. “If you truly wish to help us, then help her.”

  “I don’t understand,” I replied. “Help how? What’s wrong?”

  Silene scowled. “She suffers Grayson’s Curse.”

  “Grayson’s what-now?”

  “You should know, G
ramaraye,” Romey said.

  *Ooo,* Alynon projected. *That doesn’t sound good.*

  I blinked, and looked to the centaur as he laid the girl out beneath Silene’s cedar tree.

  Silene strode swift and graceful toward the moaning girl, her delicate feet leaving no trace in the blue-gray mud and emerald moss. “It is what we call the drug your fellow arcana give our brightblood cousins to make us their slaves,” she said.

  “Oh.” Of course. The mana drug my grandfather had created with the help of Heather, once high-school crush of yours truly. Not many knew Grayson had been possessed by my grandfather’s spirit during his brief reign of evil evilness, but since grandfather had practically adopted Grayson in life, it made little difference. It still came back to tarnish the Gramaraye name regardless, as Minerva had demonstrated at the house, and as evidenced all too clearly now by the hateful glares I received from all directions.

  I glanced up at Sal to gauge his reaction. Thankfully, he seemed more concerned at the unconscious girl’s state than caught up in the crowd’s anger toward me.

  My feet squelched and slipped in the damp earth as I followed after Silene.

  I saw that the girl actually appeared to be nineteen or twenty, but waifish, a faint glow around her visible now in the tree’s shade, pulsing to her heartbeat. A will-o’-the-wisp. A hint of her normally compelling beauty could still be seen, but shadowed by the effects of withdrawal from the mana drug, her delicate features now too thin, her shimmering hair clumped by sweaty knots, her lips no longer whispering half-heard promises but instead dry and cracked and twitching around moans. And she had nasty scratches around her throat and chest that I guessed were self-inflicted, which explained why her wrists were bound.

  I didn’t remember any will-o’-the-wisps in my grandfather’s little army. Not that wisps were fighters anyway. Sammy said a lot of them had found success creating websites of easily shared web content, full of videos and articles with titles like “Most Embarassing Celebrity Stripteases Involving Sauces—With Recipes!” or “9 Mistakes Every Man Makes on Dates—Number 6 is Illegal in Kansas!” meant to lure people and lead them down a never-ending trail of hyperlinks through forests of advertising and off the cliff of distraction. But I doubted my grandfather had been hip enough to organize any kind of online campaign, either.