Monsterland

by James Crowley

  “No, there’s been some misunderstanding,” Charlie said. “He’s not an ogre and he doesn’t work for me. I don’t have any money.”

  “So the big fellow holds your coins for you, is that it?”

  “Holds what coins? I don’t have any coins—”

  “A likely story,” the other goblin added.

  “Likely indeed,” the first goblin said.

  The Monster reentered the room from behind the bar carrying a large tray with what looked like turkey legs sticking out on top.

  “You two, what do you think you are doing there?” the Monster said gruffly.

  The goblins retreated to their table.

  “Beg your pardon. Just talking to the boy. No damage done.”

  “You have no business talking to the boy, or to me for that matter. Be on with you.”

  The Monster set the tray of what he was able to scavenge from the kitchen on the table. He grabbed a large drumstick and ripped into the flesh with his rotten teeth. Breathing heavily, he sneered at the goblins in the corner.

  “What was that about? What did I tell you about minding yourself?”

  “They were asking about the horses,” Charlie said.

  “The horses? My horses? Why is that their concern?” The Monster pushed the tray toward Charlie. “Eat. I look forward to ridding ourselves of this vile burg in the morning, you can be sure of that. Vile place . . . vile.”

  Charlie ate what he could and soon found himself following the Monster and the innkeeper up a narrow wooden staircase. It groaned under their weight.

  “Not to worry, made of the choicest timber, by the finest of the goblin craftsmen,” the innkeeper said, leading them to their rooms on the upper landing.

  The rooms opened to the hall and faced the road where they had left Rohmetall with the horses. They were connected and the Monster moved quickly, inspecting the locks on the doors and windows.

  “This will do,” the Monster said, tossing the innkeeper another coin. The innkeeper caught it, bowed his head, and left, closing the door behind him.

  “I will check on the stables,” the Monster said, dropping Charlie’s rucksack on the bed. “You will hear all manner of sound as the night wears on, but rest assured. You are safe here.”

  The Monster looked out the window and then pulled the dingy, threadbare curtains closed.

  “Shout out if you need me, and remember, study your book.”

  The Monster went into his room, bolting the door between them. Then Charlie heard him lock the doors to the hallway outside, followed by his heavy steps as he crossed the landing and went down the stairs.

  Charlie double-checked the locks, propped his photo with Billy up against an oil lamp on the nightstand, and got into bed. He took out the book and read two chapters, one on the physiological nature of the Persian manticore and a second that debated the various ways to disarm a hostile gnome. The wind picked up and slammed a shutter roughly on the side of the window frame while he read. As the night wore on, it howled and blew harder. Charlie could hear the cries of wolves and something screaming off somewhere in the hills that surrounded the village. From the street below, he heard low voices that grumbled and growls that echoed off the narrow buildings.

  Charlie set down the book and pulled his blanket up higher, almost above his head. At least Ringo and the horses are safe, he thought, looking at the photograph again. When he blew out the lamp, he wondered if the same could be said for Billy.

  — chapter 17 —

  Just a Few Coins

  BILLY. CHARLIE COULD see him clearly this time. He was close. Right there, standing in front of him out on the desolate plain. And he was shouting. Billy was shouting something, but there was nothing coming out of his mouth; his lips were moving, but it was silent. He shouted again, and then, as quickly as he had appeared, the shouting stopped and Billy was gone.

  Charlie opened his eyes; it was still dark, but he knew that he was in his bed at the tavern by the howling winds that raged outside the window. There was something else, though—a faint clinking sound, metal shifting on metal, and it was coming from the door to his room. As Charlie sat up, he saw the doorknob slowly turning.

  “Just a few coins.”

  The door creaked open, and Charlie saw the outline of a goblin.

  “There, there, young sir,” the goblin whispered, crossing the room, his counterpart following closely behind. “A few coins is all we’re after, just a few coins . . .”

  The goblin stood over the bed. He had a long, curved knife in his hand. The other goblin had a similar knife in his teeth and was riffling through Charlie’s coat in the corner.

  “So where might they be? Your coins, that is?”

  Charlie saw the bone handle of the sword that the Prime Minister had given him sticking out of the top of his rucksack. It was glowing in the moonlight, right there, but he couldn’t move. He was too scared. He tried to call out, but his words were tangled and lost.

  “Just a few coins,” the goblin repeated, following Charlie’s eyes to the blade. “Well, well, what is this? A bit of an old relic for a young sir such as yerself.”

  The goblin bent down to retrieve Charlie’s sword but stopped short as the door to the adjacent room broke open. Knocking the door off its hinges, the Monster was on top of the goblin in the corner in a flash. He roughly grabbed the creature and threw him against the wall, then turned toward Charlie. It was all happening so fast; still, Charlie could have sworn he heard him roar.

  The goblin next to the bed scrambled to his feet and pointed his knife at Charlie’s throat.

  “N-n-n-not another move,” the goblin stuttered, obviously shaken by the sight of the Monster.

  The Monster paused halfway across the room.

  “There, that’s it. Like I said, we’re new here, just weary travelers in search of a few spare coins,” the goblin explained, stepping closer to Charlie. “We’ll take what we’re after and be on our way . . .”

  “New here?” the Monster said. “A few words, then. Some introductory advice, if I may. You will take nothing, and it would be wise, medically speaking, to just leave the boy be . . .”

  “Ah, well, you’re not really in a position to be giving out advice, are you?”

  The Monster slowly pulled back his coat, revealing the sheathed long knife that hung at his belt.

  “That’s enough of that,” the goblin said. “Put your hands—”

  But before the creature could finish, the Monster drew and threw his knife, hilt-first, hitting the goblin squarely in the forehead with its heavy handle. The goblin dropped his weapon, took another step, and then fell forward, unconscious.

  The Monster turned back to the other goblin with a menacing glare. Fearing for his life, the second goblin ran out into the hall, jumped over the railing down to the landing, and tumbled down the remaining stairs.

  “Get your things. It is almost morning. We will move out,” the Monster instructed. “And next time, Charlie, call for help. I cannot protect you if I do not know that you are in trouble.”

  “I tried,” Charlie said. “But nothing came out . . .”

  “Try harder.”

  The Monster left in pursuit of the second goblin, and Charlie hurriedly stuffed his belongings into his pack. From the floor below, he heard another roar, followed by a shirking yelp that made Charlie wonder where the Prime Minister and Mrs. Winthrope were and what they would have thought of all this. He looked down at his trembling hands as he secured the sword to the side of his pack, and thought about his parents. What would they think of this, or Old Joe for that matter? But then, when he stepped over the unconscious goblin to leave, he thought that Old Joe would have at the very least found it interesting.

  The downstairs of the tavern was dark, and Charlie was startled when the innkeeper stepped from behind the bar.

  “I
heard the commotion,” the innkeeper said. “I did not know—I promise . . .”

  He was holding a kerosene lantern and followed Charlie out to the street, where they found Rohmetall driving the cart and pulling the other horses. Ringo rode in the back barking at the small crowd that had gathered, torches in hand, to see the excitement.

  “You should have called for help, Ch-Ch-Charlie Cooper,” Rohmetall called.

  “I know,” Charlie said, reaching for the pommel. He tried to pull himself up into the saddle but slipped. He tried again and was surprised by the grace of his second attempt before realizing the Monster was lifting him.

  “The sun will be up soon.” The Monster dropped Charlie onto the horse. “This danger has passed.”

  “You should have called for help, Ch-Ch-Charlie Cooper,” Rohmetall repeated.

  “Yes, you should have,” the Monster said, swinging up into his saddle. “And if you’re in trouble, be quick about it.”

  They rode toward the edge of the village with the mob of curious onlookers following on foot. A shriveled woman with wild hair twisted in dirty knots did not seem concerned with the pace and walked briskly between the cart and Charlie’s horse.

  “So this is the boy?” the old woman asked. She was looking up at Charlie from under the brim of a wide felt hat.

  “What boy?” The Monster pushed his horse forward through the growing crowd.

  “Aye, my lord,” she cackled. “The word is out . . . You travel with a newcomer. A boy. A living human boy . . .”

  “As I said,” the Monster continued, looking down at her. “What boy?”

  “Ah, yes. What boy . . .” The old woman walked closer to the cart. Ringo whimpered as she reached a long, bony hand out and stroked the dog’s heavy coat. “I hear there’s strange goings-on the farther one ventures.”

  “We have heard the same,” the Monster replied.

  “You’re headed into the wilds now, boy,” she crowed, pointing a knobby finger at Charlie. “You best take care of yourself.”

  “He will,” the Monster promised, taking his horse to a gallop. “I guarantee.”

  The old woman stopped and removed a handful of dried leaves from the pocket of her apron. Charlie wasn’t sure how, but she lit the clump and then waved it about the cart and horses as they passed.

  “Well, safe travels to ye,” she said, watching them ride across a small bridge where the cobblestone turned back to gravel. “Safe travels.”

  — chapter 18 —

  The Function of a Name

  THE CARAVAN RODE on out of the village, moving higher into the tree line. They traveled throughout the day without incident, allowing Charlie to take in the magnificence of the trees, which towered above them. There were giant pines and redwoods, heavy hemlock, and silver birch. Some of the trees’ trunks were as wide in diameter as ten men. Charlie thought about Billy, wondering if he too had traveled this way and seen these very trees. They stopped midday to water the horses, and Charlie followed the Monster as he walked up a small incline and knelt with the knotted rope in his hand before a pile of rocks that served as some sort of a roadside shrine. Charlie stood to the side, dwarfed by the trunks of the giant trees around them.

  “Why are you always lurking about, coming up behind me?” the Monster said after some time had passed. He was still on his knees, and asked the question without looking back at the boy.

  Charlie picked at the oversize bark on the trunk beside him.

  “Speak up,” the Monster commanded.

  Charlie took a deep breath. “It’s just . . . I don’t know where to be sometimes.”

  The Monster sighed and turned to Charlie. It was quiet except for the wind in the high trees and the gurgle of a small stream.

  “Do you know where we are going, boy? Do you even know why you want to go there?”

  “Of course I do. I need to see my cousin Billy. I need to talk to him. I want to tell him that I miss him and I want him to come back,” Charlie said. “I need to find him and tell him I’m sorry . . .”

  “Sorry?”

  “That I couldn’t do more, that . . .” Charlie could feel his throat tightening up and stopped.

  “And you cannot say these things to him here? Beneath these trees?”

  Charlie looked at the ground.

  “I see. I too have known these feelings,” the Monster said. The stern look on his face had softened a bit but quickly returned as he finished his thought. “Well then, no need to look so glum about it. We are going, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “So get your chin up—no more of this sulking, you hear me?”

  “Chin up, yes, sir,” Charlie said, wiping his nose on his coat sleeve. “You know, my grandfather back home, he says that too, chin up . . .”

  “Does he?” the Monster said, turning back to the shrine.

  “Yes, sir, he sure does.” Charlie felt better. He sat down at the base of the tree and waited. Then followed the Monster back to the cart and horses when he was done.

  THEY RODE THROUGH THE AFTERNOON, AND AT DUSK THEY dropped down into a low gully lined with heavy rock and divided by a clear mountain stream. The Monster pulled his horse around, surveying the site.

  “Rohmetall, see to the horses. Charlie, you will gather wood for the fire and fetch water. These are your duties, Charlie. We all have to pull our own weight.”

  Charlie gladly slipped down from his horse. If he thought he was stiff from the wagon ride the other day, that was nothing compared to how his legs felt now. They were loose like rubber, and he had trouble walking as he set out to complete his chores.

  The Monster spurred Faust out of camp with Ringo running behind him. Charlie found a bucket in the cart and carried water to Rohmetall for the horses and then went off to gather the firewood.

  He piled the wood in the center of the clearing and looked up at the setting sun. The forest around them came alive with howls and cries, and Charlie hoped that the Monster and Ringo would return soon.

  When they did appear, the Monster had a large stag tied over the haunches of his horse.

  “What is this?” the Monster asked. “It is almost dark. And the fire is not lit?”

  “Yes, Ch-Ch-Charlie Cooper. Why is not the fire lit-lit?” Rohmetall sputtered. He was carrying a heavy crate of cooking supplies toward them.

  “Well, you are not much help, are you?” the Monster said to his metallic creation.

  “Yes, Ch-Ch-Charlie Cooper. Why is not the fire lit?” Rohmetall repeated.

  “Uh, I wasn’t sure what to do. I did what you said but . . .”

  “Come on, boy, what is the point of the wood if there is no fire?” The Monster was now down off the horse. “And do you think this is sufficient fuel to make it through the night?”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Well, I assure you it is not.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie said, and worked his way toward the edge of their camp for more wood.

  “And you,” the Monster said to Rohmetall. “You could make yourself useful, help the boy.”

  “Help Ch-Ch-Charlie Cooper. Charlie Cooper needs my help.”

  Rohmetall joined Charlie and began breaking small tree trunks into usable fuel.

  “Helping, helping . . .”

  Charlie stepped behind a rock outcrop and took in the sight of the rising moon. The forest was raucous now with unseen movement, and the sound of creatures moving in the dark around him urged Charlie quickly back to camp with his last armload of wood.

  He returned to a roaring fire, with Rohmetall tending the blaze. The Monster stood away from the flames, cutting hunks of the stag with his long knife, Ringo paying close attention beside him.

  “I was once afraid of fire, but now worry that some nights we will not be able to have one for fear of what it may attract,” the Monster
said.

  Charlie dropped the load of wood.

  “You can organize that, there. Kindling, middle-sized, on up, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With Ringo eagerly watching, the Monster brought the bloody chunks of venison toward the fire and stuck them on the ends of sharpened sticks.

  “I realize now that it was my mistake last night at the tavern, Charlie, not yours,” the Monster admitted. “Call out next time, but I should have been more diligent. Been holed up in the castle too long, I suppose. Losing my edge for the wild. I should have left the dog with you too, and for that I am sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Charlie said, glancing up from the kindling that he was separating. “I was pretty scared. I’m sure glad you were there.”

  The Monster grunted softly and turned back to the meat.

  “I’ll try to be more brave,” Charlie said, picking up a small log and throwing it on the fire. He then looked back at the Monster. “And, uh, sir . . .”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Well, I was wondering, with me supposed to call out and all, other than Monster, have you ever had a name? A real name, you know, like I do?” Charlie asked.

  Rohmetall’s head spun around toward the Monster.

  “You know, like Charlie or Rohmetall?”

  “Rohmetall. Noun of Germanic origin. Translation to English: ‘raw or crude metal.’ ‘Raw or crude,’” the steam man stated.

  “Enough. I thought we had settled this,” the Monster grumbled.

  “I know you said Monster. But that’s like calling me boy instead of Charlie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I suppose it is, if you happen to be the boy of all boys . . .”

  Charlie was having second thoughts about bringing up the subject again, but he was curious, so he continued anyway.

  “Come on, you must have a name.”

  The Monster cleaned his long knife in the grass.

  “I do. It’s Monster.”

  “But that means so many things. How about something that I can call you? And only you?”