by J. Gertori
“Are there critters in these bushes?”
“Critters?”
“Like snakes and spiders. Or rats—don’t tell me there are rats in here.”
“Snakes? We’re at the border of the forest. No snakes at the border.”
“And spiders or rats?” Sam said, urinating. But Raske had walked on, forcing Sam to hurry the process. “It’s too damn dark. I can’t see where I’m peeing.”
The nearby brush proved to be an obstacle, and he navigated to the small hill where Raske retreated. A fierce squawk came from the trees and flew toward Sam. He swung a fist into the air and dipped low before yelling, “Bat!”
Raske appeared at the top of the mound, and the creature circled him. He yelped as he fell to his stomach. The flying nuisance landed on the pavement and walked under the street light.
“Looks like it’s just a bird.” Sam helped the hudger to his feet.
“Seein’ a bird at night is a bad omen.”
Sam crouched. “What’s it mean?”
“Can’t remember, too flustered. But it’s not a common sight in my book.”
The bird tilted its head as if it were analyzing the two. Its sky blue feathers had flecks of brown, but the deep rings of gray around its eyes were unsettling to Sam. He reached out in a slow twist, but the bird flew into the trees, sending Raske falling to his knees.
“Shh! Where’d it go?” he shrieked.
Sam couldn’t differentiate the blue bird against the backdrop, so he left Raske behind. He heard music toward the street’s end: addictive chants, high-pitched ditties, and drumming. Sam’s heartbeat synchronized with the racket, and he peeked through the mangled branches.
“Join us!” shouted a woman behind them, taking Sam by surprise as she gripped his wrist and skipped toward the flashes of lights. The woman wore a flower crown with spinning florets that hovered over her forehead. Her friends arrived, looking similar save for a fellow covered in color-changing paint. They rushed onto the cobblestone street and danced a circle around Sam for a glorious moment before parting ways.
Raske—neither phased nor amused—told Sam to ignore further distractions.
“My home’s past this clearing,” he grunted.
Sam followed behind but stared at the crowd fading into the distance. The screams of joy and displays of magic tugged a part of Sam he hadn’t let breath in some time, and this jarred him.
Raske ushered the fleshling over the hill, where a marvelous, small-scale village appeared. The hudger pushed open a wooden fence, which Sam stepped past. He fell silent, admiring the cluster of homes, each angled a degree to either side.
“This is mine. Stay out back and don’t make a sound.”
Sam crouched in Raske’s backyard, careful not to obliterate the small deck furniture. Though he knew nothing about the hudger, this pink house didn’t fit the angry man’s persona.
“Dad!” screamed a voice from inside the home. A young hudger, of equal height to Raske, ran from the entrance with his arms open.
“Ya expectin’ someone else?” said Raske, from within the tight embrace.
“Just surprised ya came back.”
“Why wouldn’t I be back?”
“Well, that Athens chameleon had trampled ya good.”
“Standin’ here in the flesh, aren’t I?”
“Well, ya never stayed at Sir Gaspare’s more than a night. Took one night fer the quagga attack, one night when ya fell off the zeppez, one night fer the time the rhino—“
“That’ll do Rowen,” blurted Raske. “Go fetch yer mother.” The young hudger ran into the home, and Sam leaned out, waiting for Raske’s attention. “What did a rhino do to you?” His foot slipped, knocking a line of trash cans.
Raske clasped his fists, but before he could react, another voice shot from the doorway.
“So, ya decided to come home,” Raske’s wife said, marching to his front.
“Again, where do the two of ya think I’d go?”
She unclenched her arms and jabbed a finger into his chest. “Two nights. Two. Nights.”
“Didn’t know I’d be there so long, Wenda. Sorry is all.” Raske backed away, twisting his beard. “Seen Torold, dear? Have us a problem.”
“Can’t wait ’til I do see him. Next time Torold holds ya two nights, he’ll be needin’ more than his healin’ powers to save himself frem me.”
“Wenda—”
“Yer takin’ his side?”
“Of course not. It’s just—”
“I suggest ya get some rest. Since yer all better, the Wildlife Commission will want ya back.” She closed the distance between them and hugged Raske. Her hand glided over his freckled head, and she squeezed him tighter. “Healed as new. Thought we lost ya this time. Don’t ya dare handle them beasts another day. Ya paid yer dues, time and again.” Wenda pulled away, locking eyes with her husband. “Laura stopped by yesterday, said it happened again: another batch of spiked fowl slaughtered.”
“Just the fowl? What else did she—”
“Let ’em handle it. Ya did enough fer ’em, and nobody can say otherwise.”
Raske swept his wife into his arms and grasped her tight. Her head fell into the nape of his neck, and he flashed the ruffled flowers from inside his coat. “See ya in the mornin’.” he said, adjusting her tiny garb, which resembled medical scrubs.
“Ya’d better be here.” Wenda grabbed the flowers. They shared a long kiss, and she went on her way through the narrow passage.
Sam shifted knees when he noticed the pothole he’d made. Nothing a few shrubs can’t fix, he thought. He plucked a bush from the ground and placed it into the crater, which did little to distract from the massive dip.
Wenda stopped beside a boulder, but it had floppy ears, which rose as she grazed its surface. It was a kangaroo, at least, Sam had thought. The beast had hair on its chest like a mangy dog and a long, yellowish beak. It stood three times taller than Wenda and placed her into its pouch before it leapt out of sight.
“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” said Sam. Taps on his leg forced him to twist. A group of hudgers had collected behind, and a robust member pressed on his leg even after he had turned. They whispered to one another while shooting hateful glances. Sam surrendered his hands into the air; he became convinced a hudger at the rear of the mob had grabbed a rock.
“Not to worry! He’s workin’ fer me,” screamed Raske, drifting around the corner. The neighbors mumbled among themselves but failed to disperse.
“Pacts don’t work fer hudgers, and we don’t need ’em,” shouted a man near the front.
“Now, Gerty, I hear what yer sayin’, I do,” said Raske.
Resistance from all directions bombarded the pair. “He’s a new pact? Never seen ’em before,” followed by “What’s this oaf doin’ on my grass?”
“Ain’t yer grass, it’s all of ours,” said a woman in the back.
“Quit the community bullshit, Mela. Yer grass ain’t even better than Ivan’s.”
“Hey! Don’t ya brin’ me into this. Ya seen me fertilize my lawn. They’re late bloomers.”
Things were getting weird, and Sam motioned backward while the crowd continued to argue.
“He’s a wizard, ain’t he? He’s a wizard, and he’s got ya under a spell, Raske.”
“No, no, he’s not. Hear me out,” Raske blurted.
Gerty, the largest hudger, yanked a vial from his jacket. The glass had a green liquid, which glistened in the darkness. “I’ve got yer back, Raske,” he screamed.
Gerty uncorked the vial and launched it at Sam. Raske attempted to intercept, but it flew higher than any of the hudgers could reach. The glass collided with Sam’s chin, but, to his surprise, it didn’t break. Still, the green potion splashed onto his sweaty face. He motioned to wipe it off, but the concoction seeped into his skin.
“Gerty! What’ve ya done?” shouted Raske.
The tiny audience blurred, and their rants muffled. Sam’s spiking nerves melted away,
substituted with euphoria. He fell forward, which, under the effects of the potion, felt more like floating. Despite the weightless drop, nothing could stop the pain from falling face first.
three
The Bazaar
“You tried to fix my broken nose while I was asleep?” said Sam, huffing through his mouth.
“Not fix. I tried to clean the blood off ya,” cried a young, curly-haired hudger.
“And?” Sam recognized the discount nurse as Raske’s son, Rowen.
The hudger passed Sam a cracked mirror. “I—uh—made it worse.”
“Holy shit,”—Sam stopped to inhale—“I’m a clown!” His flat nose now featured a wicked bend but also a colony of bumps as red as maraschino cherries. “It’s like you buried me to my nose in the desert. It looks like I’ve been snorting lines of ketchup.”
“Sorry! I tried to help.” Rowen’s hands trembled.
“Well, keep trying, kid!” The panicked hudger displayed a blunt stick.
“Whoa, whoa. What the hell is that?” Sam blurted.
“Well, supposed to be a wand. Gonna try again.” Rowen aimed at Sam’s nose. The tip of the stick drooled and hinged like a severed carrot.
“Nope—get away from me. Kid, you’re a real shoddy wizard.”
“Don’t tell my dad, please. I can get ya back to normal. I just need an elixir frem Trixie’s.”
Sam guided his finger along the curve of his nose but stopped after the pain throbbed. “You’re killing me. When does your dad get back?”
The embarrassed hudger presented a note:
Twit,
Sorry about your nose. I’ll return with Torold to fix you. It’s important you stay here unless you’d like to get yourself killed. My son, Rowen, will bring your meal at lunch. To reiterate—stay here, twit.
Raske
“Real eloquent guy, your dad.” Sam exhaled through his nose, but the pain returned. “You might be able to tell, I’m in a little discomfort.” Music in the distance reminded Sam of the group that paraded in the streets the night before. “Please tell me the cure is that way.”
“Sure is, but Dad clearly wants ya to keep outta sight.”
“Well, he’s not here, is he? I’ll be back before he finds out I left.” Sam rose to his feet and assessed the scenery. “Are these docks?”
“Ya weren’t gonna fit in our place or anywhere in our village, fer that matter. Dad had Mr. Gerty and some fisherman place ya here, least ’til ya woke.” Rowen dipped his smoldering wand into a puddle. “If yer gonna leave, yer gonna need me fer directions. Fizzawick’s Bazaar is beyond that gate.”
“Fizza-what?”
“He lives!” yelled a stocky, brown man with a puffy mustache. He stomped forward, sharpening a stick into a dangerous spike. Sam backpedaled so quick he nearly fell into the purplish water beneath.
“Easy, pal, I’m not gonna hurt you.” The man removed his sailor cap and withdrew a pack of cigarettes hidden inside. “He’s a jumpy guy, eh, Rowen?”
The hudger jabbed at Sam’s leg and said, “This is Pele. He runs these docks ya slept in.”
“And best fisherman in the South Pacific—you remember that. Must’ve had one too many drinks, pal; we couldn’t wake you if we tried—and we did try. Fredrick Driggs covered you in midnight lobsters, but they didn’t snap your nose. Why’s that shit so red?”
Sam pretended to wipe his nose, but he couldn’t disguise his embarrassment. Pele balanced a cigarette on his lip, and he waved the dangerous spike; a red flame shot from its tip and lit his smoke. Stacking crates at the edge of the dock, Pele stomped back and forth with legs thick like tree stumps. Upon aiming his sharp wand, the top of a crate flew open, revealing a flurry of speckled, white orbs.
“Any of yous want a moon fruit? Freshly picked from the small reef near Okra Island.”
The pair gave a unanimous “no, thank you,” which Sam immediately regretted. Pele flaunted the bowling-ball-sized fruit from the box and cracked its hide on an anchor. Though the outside resembled the moon—whites and grays stretching across like splattered blemishes—its inside looked like a tie-dye hybrid of watermelon and kiwi.
“Could ya explain how to use this thin’? Last time, promise,” said Rowen, raising his stubby wand and exposing the craftsmanship between the two.
“You need to learn for yourself. Here, launch that crate into the water,” Pele said. “Remember what I told you: eye contact, visualize, and do the damn thing.”
Rowen got quiet. He chattered his teeth and aimed his wand; it flared, and after a quick flash, thin lines dissected the container. The crate crumbled into hundreds of domino-sized pieces, but to Rowen’s credit, a few did fall through the cracks and into the ocean.
“Hmm. Must be something wrong with the make of your wand. Just cause they’re supposed to be able to do everything, doesn’t mean they will—amirite? But you didn’t get that from me—clear?” Pele pointed his sharp stick at Rowen. “Keep it hush. Same goes for you, Rudolph.”
Rowen begged for more instruction, but Pele jogged away, more focused on his moon fruit. Though the hudger might’ve felt slighted, he didn’t voice his frustration. He sprinted past the fences and empty buildings without checking if Sam had followed. Beyond the warehouses were shrubbery three times Sam’s height; they acted as a partition between the decrepit dock and the marketplace a quarter of a mile from where he slept like a bear.
A woman and a stroller passed by, and Sam darted into the bush’s shadow. She gushed as her baby broke into laughter. When the woman stopped, so did the stroller, which seemed to push itself. She turned and knelt, the smile still plastered above her sharp jaw.
“Almost there, mijo! A few more steps,” said a tall gentleman to the wobbling child beside him. The little boy’s hands were high in the air, mimicking an acrobat on a tightrope. A pudgy snake slithered alongside the child.
“Mira, he’s such a good walker!” said the man. They clapped for the child, but a false step shifted him off-balance and into an inevitable fall. The snake, however, lurched forward and corrected the child with its round head. The happy boy giggled, bouncing his chubby hand on the reptile as if to show gratitude. His mother scooped him into her arms, and the man joined them in a brief embrace. The snake twirled around the foot of the stroller and nestled beside the baby.
Sam focused on a sign for Chewy Tom’s Saloon, which hung low across the cobblestone street. The pub had a brick building stacked above; Sam figured they were apartments, on account of the cats glaring at passers-by from balconies. Bold shades of red with black accents adorned Chewy Tom’s. Its name protruded in gold letters, and large windows showed off its squad of happy customers.
“It’s barely eleven, you drunkards!” screamed a petite woman at the pub’s entrance, boisterous enough to hush the playful banter inside. “Next round’s on me. You’re looking at the newest Creature Seeker!”
The bar-goers erupted with applause. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and struck a few muscle flexing poses before launching herself into the outstretched embraces and lifted mugs.
“Hey, how about grabbing me a cold one? Might help with the pain,” said Sam, grimacing.
“I’m only nineteen. Shame, too, since Esther Chong’s buyin’.”
“Well, you got two years before you’re storming in there like that.”
“Try five years, least on Lekly. Heard ’em drinks can put a giant out on their back.”
“I’m gonna gloss over the fact you said ‘giant,’ and attribute it to species miscommunication. But what’s Lekly?”
“What’s Lekly? First, do ya know who Lekly is?” Rowen’s eyes went wide. “Edmond Lekly founded Trida—the first sorcerer here. But the island we’re on is also called Lekly, and I assume ya came through Lekly Manor. How’d Dad get ya to our place, Lekly Metro?”
“No, we walked.”
“Through Lekly Forest?”
“Yes—wait—I’m not sure. This guy sure is egotistical, naming the island
, subway, and forest after himself?”
“Also Lekly Union Bank. The Caves of Lek—”
“Rowen!” Sam resisted the urge to shake the hudger. “You’re banned from saying his name while you’re with me. Now, how far’s the cure?”
Rowen fiddled with his fingers. “Trixie’s—well, thin’ is, Fizzawick’s Bazaar is big, and Trixie’s is in the middle.”
Sam mumbled, “Alright. Tell me how to get there.”
“Lookin’ like that? Ya don’t seem to know the first thin’ ’bout this place, but I got a solution fer ya.” Rowen dodged through the crowd and scampered into the shop beside Chewy Tom’s. Moments later, he returned to the planters, raising a toy astronaut helmet. Sam could only laugh at the idea and brushed over its decal that read: Corvis Space, for all things astronomy.
“You got a knack for blending me in, I’ll give you that,” said Sam, forcing the helmet to his neck. The visor kept his face indistinguishable, but his breathing fogged the interior.
“Follow me. Lots to get through.” Rowen contorted around the sea of legs, and Sam chased behind. The volume of shoppers reminded Sam of a county fair, complete with tabletop merchants, clashing music, and the heavy dose of food smell that transcended his ailing nose. A line of girls, arms interlocked and skipping by, separated him from Rowen. Sam scurried into the first opening: a wall-less yurt with an overbearing smell of coffee. The blackboard had a chalk drawing of a fan, which spun, but better yet, it produced an actual breeze.
“Care to try our new Jade Owl Brew?” said a young man at Sam’s side. He held a silver tray of small cups filled with dark-brown drink. “Don’t worry, there’s no jade owls inside them. They only help in the harvesting.”
“It’s a little hot for coffee but thanks.”
“Not a problem!” The barista pried open a pouch on the tray and withdrew a sprinkle of grains. He held the pinch in front of his lips and blew. The air frosted like a slide that led into the newly iced coffee. The barista handed the sample to Sam and uttered, “If you have any questions, feel free to holler.”