Monsterland

by James Crowley

  “‘The Cryptozoologist’s Cyclopædia of World Creatures,’” he read aloud, prying open its heavy pages. “F’s—‘Fafnir, Familiars, Fenghuang, Foxfire, Frankenstein . . .’”

  Charlie turned the page, only to find a chapter on Frost Giants.

  He turned back to the last page of the chapter on Foxfire, realizing a section was missing. Charlie pulled the encyclopedia open as far as he could and found jagged edges that ran the length of the book’s spine. Someone had torn out the chapter on Frankenstein.

  Flipping through the ghastly pages of his required reading, Charlie could not believe what he had agreed to; the horseman, this giant whom he was supposed to travel with to find Billy, was actually the monster, the one created by Dr. Victor Frankenstein, the Frankenstein monster? It was really sinking in now, and as he looked down at the encyclopedia and the many horrors that awaited him in Monsterland, he realized that once again sleep might not find him at all this evening.

  VOLUME II

  — chapter 15 —

  The Departure

  CHARLIE GOT OUT of bed at the sound of horses below in the courtyard. Dawn was just arriving, and from the window he could see Ringo and Mrs. Winthrope, in the form of the large gray-red wolf, politely herding the black Clydesdales into a loose circle. Charlie slowly got ready, though his stomach was in knots and he thought that he might be sick. He looked at his picture with Billy. While the journey ahead gave him some hope, he had to admit that he was afraid of where he was going; he was afraid of the unknown that lay ahead.

  And the encyclopedia that had kept him up all night didn’t seem to help—from banshees to ogres, trolls to vampire cats. The trolls seemed to be the worst of the lot. Trolls were vicious, the book said. With their long, razor-sharp fingernails and the way they gnawed on their victims’ bones until they were dust. They traveled in numbers and could turn themselves to stone, like a turtle retreating into its shell, at a moment’s notice. Charlie took a deep breath, trying his best to remain calm. After all, this was a book, and certainly could be exaggerated as most good books are. He had already met a few creatures, two of which, vampires and werewolves, had been horribly described. Yet both had proved to be most affable and impeccable hosts. He also reminded himself of the giant’s quiet confidence and the Prime Minister’s air of certainty that one could not help but find contagious. He would trust them—he had to, no matter what they were, thinking that if anyone could, his new guides would be able to help Billy, wherever he might be.

  Charlie thought about his mother and wrote her another letter. It was short and to the point.

  Dear Mom,

  So far so good. I am good too. We haven’t found Billy yet, but don’t worry, we will. We have a plan now, and they say I should be home before the snow covers the pass. Please say hello to Dad and Old Joe. Oh, and forgot to tell you, Ringo is with me, so don’t worry about him either.

  Love,

  Charlie

  PS—Please also tell Old Joe that he wouldn’t believe the horses here and some other crazy things too.

  That was enough; Charlie knew if he took too much time with the letter, or tried to explain more, going through the absurdity of his situation again might actually change his mind. So he folded the letter, tucked the photograph in his pocket, pulled on his boots, and stuffed the encyclopedia into his pack with the rest of his belongings. It was time to go.

  The courtyard was buzzing with activity when Charlie arrived. Mrs. Winthrope, no longer a wolf, and Rohmetall were at the cart tightening a heavy tarp that covered their supplies. The Clydesdales shifted and shook as the giant stood in the dark, straightening the saddles and adjusting his gear. The larger of the saddled horses, Faust, was heavy with arms of every sort. There were swords and hammers, an ax, a crossbow, and lengths of thick chain. The giant wore his hooded cloak and boots of polished leather. Through the open cloak, Charlie saw that he also wore a short sword, a knife, and a coarse vest of armored leather.

  “Here, boy,” the giant called. “Put this on under your coat.”

  He threw Charlie a smaller version of the vest. The unexpected weight of the garment knocked him back.

  “Ahh, Charlie, the grandest of journeys starts with a single step.”

  The horses trembled uneasily as the Prime Minister appeared from the shadows behind them.

  “Keep these with you at all times,” the Prime Minister instructed, holding out a roll of parchments. “These are your papers of transit, my guarantee of safe conduct. Present them if you must.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie said, taking the papers and securing them in the pocket of his coat with his photograph of Billy, the fangs, and the rest of his chocolate bar.

  “Let us hope you find no reason to use this, but best to be prepared.” The Prime Minister held out a long object wrapped in thick red cloth.

  Charlie took the bundle and felt the weight of it in his hand. The fabric fell away, revealing a bone-handled sword similar to the ones that the gladiators had used. Charlie pulled the weapon from its scabbard of hand-tooled leather. The blade looked old, but its edges were razor sharp. There were odd engravings carved deep into the aged metal.

  “It’s a gladius, isn’t it?”

  “Well done, Charlie. Well done.”

  “I did a book report on gladiators when I was in the fourth grade.”

  “Well then, you may be interested to know that the hilt of this particular gladius is dragon’s tooth. Strongest bone on earth,” the Prime Minister said.

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything. And, sir”—Charlie pulled the Hershey’s bar from his pocket—“I’d like you to have this.”

  He handed the chocolate to the Prime Minister.

  “Why, Charlie,” the Prime Minister gasped. A spark had appeared in his tired eyes. “Most generous of you. Now it is I who must thank you.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I remember you saying you liked chocolate and that it was good for you and all, so it’s the least I could do.”

  The Prime Minister bowed graciously as Mrs. Winthrope joined them holding a covered basket.

  “There’s food for you in there and a lump of coal for Rohmetall. He knows where the rest of it is in the cart, so don’t ya worry about that. Come now.”

  Mrs. Winthrope and the Prime Minister walked Charlie to his horse.

  “This here is Goliath. A fine horse,” Mrs. Winthrope said as she secured Charlie’s rucksack to the back of his saddle. Goliath was smaller than Faust, the giant’s horse, but still towered over Charlie.

  “Come now. Up ya go.”

  Mrs. Winthrope clasped her hands for Charlie’s foot and hoisted him up onto Goliath’s back.

  “You cut a fine figure in the saddle, Charlie,” the Prime Minister said with an eye to the rising sun.

  “Now, you do what yer told, and you’ll be all right,” Mrs. Winthrope said, but Charlie detected a hint of apprehension.

  “Will you mail this one for me too?” Charlie pulled the letter to his mother from his coat.

  “Of course I will,” Mrs. Winthrope promised. “Such a good boy—yer family will welcome an update.”

  Goliath shifted his hooves and turned slightly to Faust. The giant sat tall in the saddle, his armaments at his sides and on the horse’s flanks.

  “So, you are sure about this?” the giant said.

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie replied. “I’m sure. And you, sir?”

  “As if I had a choice in the matter. Well then, let’s be on our way.”

  Faust stepped forward and Goliath followed.

  “You be careful with my horse, you hear me, boy?” the giant warned as he rode. “Valuable stock, so mind yourself. I don’t want any mishaps.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie said, looking back across the courtyard. Rohmetall sat at the top of the cart, which rocked forward after them across the cobblestone. Ringo stood next t
o Mrs. Winthrope, licking her hand, but the Prime Minister was already gone.

  “Go on, now,” Mrs. Winthrope said, petting Ringo good-bye. The dog ran forward and leapt into the back of the cart. “Take care, Charlie. We’ll see ya on your return!”

  “And to you, Prime Minister!” the giant called out as they traveled away from his castle. “You will remember that it was I who said this was a bad idea, who feared for the boy’s safety.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him,” Mrs. Winthrope shouted after them.

  “Oh, he hears me,” the giant yelled. “He hears me.”

  Mrs. Winthrope answered, although her words were stolen by the wind. Charlie watched her wave from the courtyard for as long as he could but lost sight of her as they rounded a bend in the road.

  Charlie rode Goliath up next to the cart where Ringo stood on the heavy bundles happily wagging his tail.

  At least Ringo’s up for it, Charlie thought, and pushed Goliath forward, trying his best to stay in stride with the giant.

  — chapter 16 —

  The Ride to the Tavern

  IT WAS ONLY midday, but Charlie’s eyes were already heavy as they rode. The sun shone warm and bright, and the skies that stretched out over the mountains were the deepest blue.

  “Odd weather. Not often we see the sky in this valley,” the giant said, turning back in his saddle. It was hard to see his face beneath his hooded cloak. “If yer tired, you can ride in the cart.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

  “Didn’t sleep much, did ya? I find the night to be long myself, especially before a trip.”

  Charlie thought about his problems sleeping, realizing that last night was the first night since he had been in Monsterland that he had been bothered by his insomnia. The first two nights he had fallen asleep right away, and his dreams did not seem as troublesome here. More than likely, he concluded, because of the very real nightmares that already inhabited this place.

  “I read the book, though, like you said,” Charlie responded.

  “Good, the more you can learn about what frightens you, the less you have to fear. And it’s never a bad idea to know what you’re up against.”

  Charlie urged Goliath forward to keep up with the giant. “Uh, and, sir . . .”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Charlie said. “But I’m not sure I know your name.”

  Charlie thought he might have missed it in all that had happened and wondered, with what he had seen last night, if the man should simply be called Frankenstein, even though he was actually the doctor’s creation. Old Joe would know, of course, but Old Joe wasn’t here to tell him.

  “I looked it up in the book. But the pages on Franken . . . well, Frankenstein were torn out.”

  “Were they, now? I wonder how that might have happened,” the giant grumbled.

  “Well, you know, with the pages torn out and all, I guess it left me wondering . . .”

  “My name?” the giant growled impatiently. “You want to know my name?”

  “Yes, what should I call you?” Charlie asked, hoping he wasn’t insulting him with his question.

  “What to call me?” the giant said, turning his head to Charlie. “An interesting question, as I have been called many things through the years: ‘fiend,’ ‘daemon,’ ‘wretch,’ ‘it,’ ‘a vile insect,’ even . . . but a proper name? I suppose I am most commonly known as the Monster.”

  “The Monster? I should call you Monster?”

  “That will do,” he replied, digging his heels into Faust’s flank and trotting ahead. “Come now, enough of this. We have a long ride ahead.”

  “Monster?” Charlie called after him. “What kind of a name is Monster?”

  They rode on over open country and deep green pastures, passing alongside a stream and crossing it twice. The travel was pleasant and the weather was good.

  In the late afternoon, they went past a slow wagon moving in the same direction driven by two hooded creatures.

  “Goblins,” Rohmetall announced with an asthmatic whistle. “Goblin. English. Anglo-French gobelin, or gobelinus in Latin. From kobalos, Greek meaning rogue. A creature of legend, often described as ‘grotesque’ and ‘evil.’ Known for their greed. Also known as excellent metalsmiths and for their woodwork. Danger level . . . calculating . . . calculating . . . danger level . . . high . . . tic . . . tic . . . high.”

  The goblins scowled as they rode by and steered their wagon clear of the Monster. When the wagon was well out of sight, the Monster turned back in his saddle.

  “We will stop earlier tonight than usual, need to pick up additional provisions. Up here at the tree line, there’s a village. We will stay at the tavern. Let’s move, though, we do not want to be roaming these streets at night.”

  As they entered the village, the gravel road turned to cobblestone. It was quiet save for the few oddly shaped creatures that hurried about their business here and there. Charlie pulled his werewolf mask from his pack and slipped it over his head.

  “What is that?” the Monster asked, looking down at him.

  “It’s my mask. You know, from Halloween? I thought it might help me blend in,” Charlie said, but through the rubber slits he could see that the Monster did not share his enthusiasm.

  “I suppose that could work from a distance, but at close range it will only draw attention,” the Monster said, pulling Faust to a stop at a wooden two-story building. “Take it off.”

  Feeling childish, Charlie removed the mask and returned it to his pack.

  “The dog can stay with the horses. Might serve as a decent sentry, even. This place will pick up come sunset. Believe me.”

  As they dismounted, the Monster instructed Rohmetall to secure the horses and cart and to stay with them at the stables for the night. Charlie joined him as they crossed the road to the tavern.

  “You will be safe in here for the most part,” the Monster said, approaching the tavern. “There are a number of humans who work in this village—more than what’s typical for the valley—but still mind yourself. They’re all profiteers, really.”

  The Monster entered the tavern, dropping his head to avoid hitting the door frame. It was dark and smoky in the low room with just a few shadowy figures, who sat silently in the corner. A tall, thin man appeared from a door behind the bar. His skin was pearly white and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “We require rooms for the night and a meal,” the Monster said, tossing a thick gold coin in the innkeeper’s direction. The coin bounced with a ring on the bar before the innkeeper caught it in an outstretched hand.

  “We can oblige your request, but first allow me to inquire as to your manner of being,” the innkeeper said, looking the Monster up and down.

  “My manner of being?” the Monster replied, removing his hood.

  The innkeeper stepped back.

  “Ah, I see, sir. Your cloak . . . I did not recognize you. I beg your pardon. As you may imagine, some requests come from guests who require, ahem, additional responsibilities—potential damages, which must be considered and perhaps even compensated in advance. However, this is, of course, not your concern.”

  “No, it is not my concern. But seeing that we are fed is.”

  “I understand,” the innkeeper said, bowing his head. “Right this way.”

  They were seated at a table in the corner with their backs to the wall, facing the open middle of the room. The crowd was thin, although the two goblins they had seen on the road had now joined the shadowy figures in the corner.

  The innkeeper brought out two wooden bowls and a large pot of steaming stew.

  “And some fresh bread for ya,” the innkeeper announced, leaving them two rock-hard loaves.

  The Monster took a spoonful of the stew and then pushed his bowl forward.

  “This swill is intole
rable. We would be better off over an open fire, but that will be soon enough.”

  Charlie forced the stew down. The Monster was right. It wasn’t the tastiest, making him wonder what exactly they ate in this land, and what strange ingredients might be lurking in the bowl before him.

  “I will see that the innkeeper hears about this,” the Monster said, getting up from the table and pushing open the door to the back of the tavern. A loud commotion of pots and pans clanged from the kitchen.

  “You may consider this bog water stew, but I certainly do not!” the Monster bellowed.

  Charlie stared down at his bowl. There was a small claw bobbing at the surface of the murky liquid. He picked out the claw, hoping it was from a crab or crawfish, and set it on his plate with a grimace. When he looked back up, there was a goblin standing at the table. He was short and stocky with thick greenish-gray arms, pointed ears, and a long, tangled beard.

  “Those were fine mounts we saw you on out there on the road today,” the goblin said, exposing his pointed yellow teeth.

  “The horses?” Charlie said.

  “Aye, the horses,” the goblin said, joined by the other goblin, whose beard was equally long. “A heavy purse needed for horses such as those. Yer a rich, young fellow, then, aren’t ya?”

  “Why, no, not at all. They aren’t my horses.”

  “And you expect us to believe that horses as magnificent as that would belong to the ogre you seem to have in your employ. A likely story . . .”

  The other goblin leaned forward. “Could you spare a few coins . . . for me and my friends here? We’ve just arrived in this place and find ourselves without sufficient funds.”