The Fork-Tongue Charmers

by Paul Durham

  Rye looked at Fair Warning in her hand. The Belongers had seen it too. Their eyes drilled into her, demanding an explanation. With her other hand, she carefully patted her skull. She felt a wooden circlet between her fingers, sitting low on her brow and too big for her head.

  Pigshanks, she thought.

  “I’m sorry,” Rye called, as she carefully removed the Driftwood Crown and set it on the rock beside her. Up close, she could see that its three jagged spikes were carved into the shapes of a fish, a ram, and clockwork gears. “But you must listen. The Isle is in danger. Look! The ships are coming, and they won’t wait for you to decide who’s in charge.”

  But the Belongers did not turn their attention away from her.

  “It’s a child!” someone called.

  “Whose is it?” another onlooker demanded.

  “None of ours!”

  “An Uninvited!” a different Belonger spat, as if the words themselves were distasteful.

  “STOP!” commanded a voice so deep and powerful that it seemed to echo from the hills. The crowd hushed into quiet whispers.

  “The girl is no Uninvited!” the voice called as it moved through the crowd. “She’s as much a Belonger as any of you.”

  Rye’s heart jumped as the man pushed his way to the edge of a seawall. It was Waldron. When he used his staff to push himself up to his full height, he stood taller than nearly all of the other men. A stunned buzz seemed to fall over the Belongers. The faces Rye could see looked to one another in disbelief.

  “And she has more sense than all of you combined,” Waldron continued, voice booming. The crowd rustled. “Does your stubbornness clog your ears? Look to the sea! The true Uninvited have come for Pest once again.”

  Waldron thrust his staff toward the water. Following its path, Rye saw the enormous warships. Closer now, they towered like castles rising from the water.

  “There will be time for petty squabbles tomorrow! For now we must stand together. The men on those ships outnumber us three to one! But they have yet to taste the wrath of Pest. Secure your children, take up your arms, and defend this High Isle, as we have always done before!”

  If the Belongers were inclined to protest, the return of Waldron Cutty seemed to shock them into action.

  “You, Master Dunner,” Waldron called, pointing his staff to the Fiddler with the white plume of hair. “Dust off your toys of mayhem and get them into place.” He turned to a group of fisherman. “Fishers, barricade the harbor. And Crofters, use those farm muscles to retrieve the weapons. Tell me you haven’t forgotten where you put them!”

  The Belongers tore from the seawalls and made for Wick. From the wall above her, Waldron caught Rye’s eye and gave her a nod.

  Rye smiled back, and for the first time recognized the man her mother had described. She knew that somewhere in the crowd, Abby would be smiling too.

  22

  The Shoemaker

  From atop the westernmost seawall, Rye watched as Wick became a hive of frenzied activity. Fishers repositioned the fleet so that their boats formed a barricade across the mouth of the inner harbor. All around the village, Belongers retrieved hidden arsenals from storehouses and long-forgotten armories. Their weapons were heavy and imposing: great two-handed broad swords, poleaxes, and maces. Rye doubted she could even lift one of them.

  Rooster joined Rye at the edge of the wall. His father, with the help of several other Fiddlers, rolled a heavy cask into the basket of a massive, wheeled catapult situated next to them. Rooster’s father blew dust off the imposing war machine, polishing it proudly with the sleeve of his shirt. Obviously it had not seen any use in quite some time.

  “Pride o’ the Isle,” Rooster’s father said to Rye, with a nod at the cask. “Strongest mash this side o’ the sea or any other.”

  “Whiskey,” Rooster translated for her. “We’ll hurl them right onto the ships.” The Fiddlers rolled several more casks into a neat line, ready for quick reloading.

  “Are you hoping the soldiers will drink it all and fall asleep?” Rye asked dubiously.

  “No,” Rooster replied, shaking his auburn plume. “The casks are as heavy as boulders . . . but their contents light like tinder.”

  A Belonger arrived with a horsecart laden with beach sand.

  “And that?” Rye asked.

  “Have you ever had sand in your boots?” Rooster asked.

  “My boots, my leggings, my hair. I haven’t been able to get it out since I arrived.”

  “Exactly. The barrels are for the ship, but the sand’s for the soldiers.” He raised a mischievous eyebrow. “Imagine what it’s like stuck in armor—and heated as hot as boiling tar.”

  “Stand back,” Rooster’s father called as he adjusted counterweights and gears. The catapult’s enormous arm flung up and forward, hurling the cask through the air. Rye marveled as it sailed past the length of their seawall, over the crescent harbor, and kept on going.

  “Uh-oh,” Rooster said.

  The cask cleared the far side of the harbor and crashed through the grass-crowned roof of a Wick home. The Fiddlers on the opposite seawall ducked and shook their fists, then returned to preparing a similar catapult.

  “Looks like we may need to make a few adjustments,” Rooster added with a shrug.

  Rye, her family, and friends returned to the farmhouse in the early evening. Captain Dent, who had been tasked with watching Lottie and subjected to her endless dress-up games, seemed hugely relieved to see them as he quickly removed a ladies’ straw hat. Dark clouds now brewed offshore and Dent said rough seas would likely keep the ships away from the dangerous coast for at least another night. While Abby and Knockmany continued preparations, an exhausted Folly and Quinn collapsed into their beds before twilight.

  Rye remained anxious, wondering whether Constable Valant would risk braving the turbulent waters before morning. She wandered outside, staring at the warships from atop the fishing boat.

  She tightened her fists around her cudgel.

  Why did Longchance ruin everything? Why must he chase her family across the sea?

  Rye swung her cudgel hard against the hull.

  He’d run them out of their home.

  She slammed it hard again.

  He’d sent the Constable to the Dead Fish Inn. Even the Shambles weren’t safe anymore.

  Rye lifted the cudgel over her head and brought it down a third time.

  Now his soldiers were on their way here. To her mother’s island. To go to war with these people who wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

  “If you put any more dents in that boat she’ll never fish again,” a gruff voice called.

  Rye froze and turned on her heel. It was Waldron. He leaned on his staff with a bemused look on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cause any damage.”

  Waldron waved her off. “I’ve been telling Knockmany to get rid of that wreck for years.”

  Rye was relieved to see him smile.

  “However, what I will not tolerate is a Cutty who swings her cudgel poorly.” He set his staff on the ground and walked toward her. “Here, let me show you.”

  With thick but gentle hands, Waldron took the cudgel and demonstrated how to grip it.

  “You swing not with your wrist or arm, but your whole body. Like this.”

  Waldron swung in a quick fluid motion. With a splintering crack, the cudgel didn’t just strike the hull of the boat, it tore through it.

  “See,” he said. “You can wield it this way as well.”

  He pulled the cudgel free and held it across his body, over the opposite shoulder. When he swung downward, the cudgel’s whipping motion doubled its force and sheared away several planks.

  “A blow like that will hobble a man for life,” he said.

  He handed it back to her. She replicated what Waldron had shown her. It didn’t break the wood, but left a substantial dent.

  “Good,” Waldron said. “Now try this one.”


  They passed the cudgel back and forth, taking turns on the unlucky boat. After she mastered one motion, he showed her another. Before long they were circling each other in the grass, where he demonstrated how to use the cudgel to disarm a man, and how to take one off his feet. Waldron was a willing subject, and despite his age he remained strong and fast. When she finally knocked him to the ground they both laughed and clapped, although it took him a long time to climb back to his feet.

  “I think that’s enough for one day,” he said, breathing hard.

  “Agreed,” Rye said, brushing her hair from her eyes.

  They both examined the boat’s hull, which was now dotted with fresh holes.

  He cocked a silver eyebrow at Rye. “Do you feel better?”

  “A little,” she said. The exercise had provided her with an outlet for her frustration, but now, as she eyed the sea, her worries returned. “But not really.”

  Waldron nodded knowingly. “Such is the way of the cudgel . . . and the sword. They may help for a moment, but seldom cure our troubles in the end. It’s a good lesson to learn young—most never learn it at all.”

  He took notice of something by Rye’s ear. The dragonfly hair clip dangled from a loose strand of hair. He carefully removed it and regarded it between his thick fingers. A look of recognition passed over his face.

  “I gave this to your mother when she was your age,” he said quietly. “It was your grandmother’s before that.” He gently clipped it back in place and curled his bushy lip in a smile. “Perfect.”

  The thought made Rye smile too.

  Waldron turned toward the farmhouse. “Come inside and have a rest. The coming days are sure to be long ones.”

  Rye nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

  He waved a hand. “I’ll go save that cockeyed sailor from your sister. She’s hidden his boots and won’t go to bed until he guesses where she put them.”

  Rye directed her attention to the ominous ships once more as Waldron plodded inside. She felt her ears growing hot again, but was interrupted by the sound of a voice at her feet. She leaped back.

  “Are you quite finished?” it asked.

  The voice came from under the boat’s hull. Rye carefully peeked through a large hole. She was shocked to find a man sitting amid a pack of supplies and some loose bedding. He brushed splinters from the coarse white hair that draped his face under a well-worn leather cap.

  He looked up at the new holes in his makeshift shelter. “I hope it doesn’t rain tonight.”

  His voice, and the glint in his gray eyes, now seemed familiar.

  “Harmless?” she whispered.

  “It’s a good thing Waldron didn’t find me here. I’m afraid he would have practiced his swing on my head.” Harmless flashed a grin.

  Rye scrambled through the gap and joined him under the hull.

  She threw her arms around him and he held her tightly. When she sat back she couldn’t contain herself.

  “What are you doing here?” she gasped. “And what happened to your hair?”

  Harmless lifted his cap with a wink. His long white locks were actually a wig of horse tail sewn into the lining of the hat. He set it on the ground and scratched his own head of dark hair, tied back into a ponytail.

  “I arrived last night. I’ve been masquerading as a shoemaker ever since,” he explained, patting a bag of tools.

  “So I guess you know that Longchance’s ships have followed us here,” Rye said.

  Harmless nodded grimly. “Those rumors began swirling shortly after you left Drowning. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. And now I’ve seen them offshore myself.”

  “Can we be certain they’ll attack Pest?”

  “I don’t expect Longchance would commission three warships if he had anything less in mind. Their hulls sit low in the water—loaded with soldiers. His forces in Drowning are down to minimal reserves.” Harmless narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. “It’s an incredible risk to commit so many men in this way, and the timing is most peculiar. Constable Valant himself commands the lead ship.”

  “The Constable has come this far?” Rye asked in disbelief. “Are we such a prize?”

  “I can’t fathom the logic either, and yet, undeniably, here he is.”

  “They sank the Slumgullion,” Rye said. “Captain Dent told me so himself. He’s at the farmhouse.”

  Harmless nodded again. “Fortunately, Dent keeps a few spares. He’s still got the Slumgullion Too . . . or Slumgullion Thrice,” Harmless added. “I can never tell them apart.”

  Rye looked at him in surprise.

  “Don’t let Dent’s guise of doddering clown fool you. It masks the shrewdest smuggler on all the seas.” Harmless gave her a wink. “I would never have entrusted your safety to anyone less.”

  Rye’s thoughts turned to her uncle and the turmoil in Village Drowning. “What about Bramble? Has he returned to High Isle as well?”

  Harmless’s eyes darkened. “I come alone. Bramble stayed in Drowning at my request. He’s keeping watch on Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers until I return.” Harmless raised an eyebrow. “As I’m sure Waldron has told you, Luck Uglies are no longer welcome on Pest.”

  With the urgency of Dent’s news, Rye had forgotten about the mysterious black stones that seemed to follow her wherever she went. If Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers were still in Drowning, it seemed the stone on the sill really must be nothing more than coincidence.

  “But the Luck Uglies and Fork-Tongue Charmers are concerns for the High Chieftain,” Harmless said. “And right now I choose to be a shoemaker of modest ability. Let’s see what I can do about those.”

  He rolled up his sleeves and pointed at her ragged boots.

  “It’s been years since your grandfather has seen me, but he was always as keen-eyed as a hawk. It’s best that I stay away from his shoes.”

  “He hardly ever wears any,” Rye said with a smirk.

  Harmless smiled in return. “You won’t say anything about my arrival until I can speak with you mother?” he said, with a knowing look.

  Rye nodded.

  “Good. And how is her mood?”

  “Hit or miss,” Rye said.

  “For the sake of my jaw, let’s hope she misses.”

  Rye giggled as he got to work.

  “What’s wrong with your feet, by the way?” he asked, looking up. “They smell dreadful.”

  “Folly smeared mushrooms on them,” she said, wiggling her toes. “They glow in the dark, too.”

  Harmless shook his head. “I don’t understand the games children play these days.”

  23

  Kiss of the Shellycoats

  After a night filled with the sounds of wind and rain, Rye and her friends woke to fair skies the next morning. It wasn’t long before a winding caravan of wagons pulled by shaggy ponies arrived from the crushed-shell path. They were followed by a large group of Belongers on foot—Fishers and Dunners, mostly children joined by their elderly relatives. The Crofter children already lived in the hills and would meet the rest of the Belongers at Westwatch. Rooster had set out with Padge to join Hendry and his family at the Tarvish farm.

  Knockmany wasted little time in organizing the caravan for the trip through the hills. The hike would be long and steep, and he loaded the youngest and oldest Belongers onto the wagons to make the first run to Westwatch.

  Rye found her mother by the old fishing boat. She was surprised but glad to see Abby sitting with a certain white-haired shoemaker in its shadows. Rye didn’t know when Harmless had gotten around to finding Abby, but it was the first time she could remember seeing them share a private moment.

  Harmless eyed the crowd congregated around the farm. “I’m glad to see someone was able to bring them to their senses.” He flashed Rye an impressed look.

  “News of brash action travels fast in small places,” Abby said, catching Rye’s eye as well. She hadn’t scolded Rye, or said anything much about her solution to the Pull. Rye couldn’t
tell if her mother was proud or exasperated.

  “You’re quite certain your father didn’t hear me at your window last night?” Harmless asked Abby.

  “He had a long day in Wick,” Abby said, flicking a glance toward the farmhouse. “And he sleeps heavy.”

  “Just like old times,” Harmless said.

  Abby narrowed an eye in return, although Rye thought she saw the tightest of smirks at the corner of her lips. Maybe she wasn’t entirely unhappy to see him.

  “What do we do now?” Rye asked.

  “You, Folly, Quinn, and the other children will get to Westwatch,” Harmless said. “The Belongers will stay in Wick until Valant plays his hand. I don’t think they will have long to wait.”

  He gestured for Rye’s spyglass.

  “They’ve been offshore for days,” Harmless said, raising the spyglass to his eye. “With crews that size, supplies will run short quickly. The seas are as fair as one could hope for . . . and I believe they will come under cover of darkness. If I had to guess, it will be tonight.”

  Harmless lowered the spyglass and handed it back to Rye.

  “Waldron’s already in Wick. I’ll go there myself and stay out of sight until we see what the night might bring,” he said. “The Belongers are a hardy lot—I don’t doubt their skills or ferociousness once the fight is brought to them. I worry about their numbers, though. Longchance’s forces may be overwhelming. If Wick falls, any Belongers who remain will retreat to Westwatch.”

  “You can come with us,” Abby said quietly.

  Harmless shook his head. “I owe the Belongers this much. If not for me, neither the Constable nor Longchance’s soldiers would be here at all.”

  Rye chewed her lip and clenched her itching toes inside her mended boots. The burden wasn’t just Harmless’s. They’d all come to Wick for safety, and only succeeded in putting the entire isle in jeopardy.