Monsterland

by James Crowley

  Franklin glanced over at the boy. “It was foolish to go on your own to help this girl. But it was also brave, Charlie. Selfless. And for that I am proud of you.”

  Franklin threw another piece of driftwood on the fire.

  “But from here on out, if you wish to continue, you will listen. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie said softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand,” Charlie said, then went on to explain that the little girl’s name was Abigail Rose and that she had been chained to the dock, forced to fish for the old man. He told Franklin of the squalor of her shack and the old man going after her with the stick.

  Franklin shuddered. “It saddens me to hear of such treatment. I too have been chained like a beast, and while I cannot speak for this Abigail Rose, like a beast I acted.” The Monster rubbed his scarred wrists, lost in thought. “Back then, in those chains, I was angry and afraid. Sometimes confused. I did not know why I was feared. But now that I have broken my shackles, I see things more clearly. I am not so different. We all go through life angry and scared at times. As sad as that is, it is also a sort of comfort, knowing that we all face the same demons at one time or another.”

  Franklin looked over at the little girl and sighed.

  “Let us hope that this Abigail Rose will find some kind of peace with her newfound freedom and not the shackled burdens we discuss.”

  The fire sparked before them, shooting up embers that seemed to float overhead.

  “Abigail said she couldn’t remember much before that dock, but the old man said he found her wandering in the woods. How come she can’t remember that?” Charlie asked.

  “It is difficult to say. It could be this place. When you have been here long enough, it is hard to remember anywhere else,” Franklin said. “My own memories are clouded. At times I wonder if they are even mine and not some odd remnant of my parts’ expired lives instead.”

  Charlie watched as Franklin looked up longingly at the stars.

  “You know, I wonder, Charlie, as I gaze upon the glory of these heavens, if I were to have a soul, is it mine or did it once belong to someone else? Perhaps this Abigail Rose shares a similar plight . . . a similar confusion. Or her memories could just be experiences better forgotten. Hard to say.”

  Franklin glanced over at Charlie, and again the boy saw a faded glow beneath his coal-black eyes.

  “There must be something in there,” Charlie said with a smile. “I believe that. Monster or not, you agreed to help me find Billy. And just today you pulled us from the river. You didn’t have to do that. Would have made your trip a lot easier . . .”

  Franklin almost returned the smile. “At least we will rest tonight knowing that we saved a fellow tortured soul,” he said, patting the boy on the back. “Get some sleep, Charlie. As the Prime Minister is fond of pointing out, you will need it.”

  Charlie did not dream that night and woke in the morning to find Franklin and Abigail standing next to the rowboat at the river’s edge. The Monster held the long chain and the cuff that he had managed to remove from her ankle in his hands. He said something to the girl and then hurled it out to the middle of the river. Abigail watched the chain land with a splash, then disappear into the depths.

  “Thank you,” Abigail said once the chain was out of sight.

  “It is my honor,” Franklin said politely, dropping his head. “Now to rejoin the horses. I’m afraid we’ve still a long way to go.”

  — chapter 27 —

  The Baroness Draguta Flori

  ABIGAIL SAT WITH Charlie in the bow, and as the canyon opened, the current slowed, making the morning’s travel seem leisurely. They passed a passel of hobgoblins who threw rocks at them from the banks of the river, but they ran to the shelter of the trees when Franklin shot an arrow in their direction. At midday, they encountered another set of heavy rapids, which Franklin navigated successfully and then hugged the shore as the river widened at the bottom. Staying near the rocky bank, they rounded a bend to find a hand-pulled ferry secured to a stone jetty. Ignacio was paying the ferryman as Rohmetall drove the cart and horses to land.

  “Ah, you made it. A pleasant enough day for a row, I suppose,” the Ranger said. “There’s lodging here if we can convince the owner. Might not be a bad idea. The temperature is dropping and this fine fellow says it looks like snow tonight.”

  Franklin lifted Abigail Rose and handed her to Ignacio, who set her gently on the dock.

  “Ignacio Santos, Ranger. And who might you be?”

  Ignacio took Abigail’s hand to shake and Charlie noted his slight hesitation at the coldness of her skin.

  “She is Abigail Rose,” Franklin said, pulling the boat to shore. “And I would imagine she could do with a good meal by a fire.”

  “That way,” the ferryman offered, pointing a long, bony finger up toward the trees.

  Charlie tried to see his face, but the ferryman pulled his hood down farther.

  “The lodge is up behind the rocks, back in the pines.”

  “We thank you,” Ignacio said. “Is the baroness in?”

  “Hard to say,” the ferryman answered, turning back to his business. “She comes and goes as she pleases.”

  Rohmetall pulled the cart and horses around, and they were soon mounted, with Abigail riding in the back next to Ringo. The dog was reluctant to join the girl at first. With his ears pinned back, he whined and almost cowered in her presence, but he soon came around, and Abigail seemed to enjoy his company.

  Charlie and Franklin rode ahead, finding that the trail narrowed as it entered the deep pine forest. And, as the ferryman had said, back, high in the trees, sat a large lodge made of stacked rock. Over time, the pines had grown over the structure, cracking the stone and forcing their way in, almost becoming one with the building.

  Franklin pulled his horse around and dismounted. “Wait here,” he instructed, handing Charlie his reins.

  Franklin took the worn stone steps to a thick wooden door and pushed it open. Charlie dropped down from Goliath’s back. He was tired and stiff, and the stitches in his shoulder were tight and throbbing.

  “Hello, Ch-Ch-Charlie. I will take the horses to the stable-stable,” Rohmetall declared, grabbing ahold of the reins and leading the horses next to the cart.

  “Fantastic, isn’t it? The way the trees have joined the stone,” Ignacio said as he rode past.

  “It is,” Charlie answered, watching them go.

  Ignacio continued on to the stables, and Charlie, figuring the horses were taken care of, climbed up the stone steps and entered the lodge. The first room was large and open with long tree trunks cut into rough-hewn tables with heavy benches. And the forest had certainly found its way in; branches curled through cracks in the corners of the ceiling and wound back on themselves across the length of the building.

  “No one is about,” Franklin said. He stood hunched at a stone counter over a large dusty book. “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s been here for some time. But it is stocked. Well provisioned. I signed us in on this ledger.”

  Franklin dropped a gold coin on the counter.

  “See about a fire, Charlie. I’ll go and fetch Miss Abigail.”

  Charlie crossed the room to the large fireplace. There were neat stacks of wood and kindling, so he took some dry moss and twigs and lit them with a long match that he found on the mantel.

  He sat back as the flame caught, but a cold draft blew down the chimney, threatening the struggling flicker. Charlie thought he could almost see the gust for a moment, a small, vaporous cloud, but then it was gone.

  The door opened and Ignacio entered to find Charlie staring at the ceiling.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Just thought I saw something,” Charlie said, turning back to the fire.

  Franklin and Rohmetall
brought in their gear, followed by Abigail. The small girl walked into the room and immediately looked up at a corner.

  “It must be the Baroness, Draguta Flori,” Ignacio said. “She’ll show herself soon enough.”

  “A Baroness.” Abigail continued to stare at the ceiling. “I’d like to meet a Baroness.”

  “Or what remains of her,” Ignacio added with one eyebrow raised.

  “Like a ghost . . . ?” Charlie asked.

  “Ghost. Middle English—Gost, from Old English Gast. See Old High Germanic Geist.” Rohmetall set down his load and announced, “A spirit or soul of the deceased that may appear to, or their presence felt by, the living. Sanskrit root Heda denoting ‘fury or anger.’ Also see ‘the undead,’ ‘poltergeist,’ ‘wiedergänger’—”

  “‘Specter,’ ‘kelpie,’ ‘banshee’—this list goes on,” Franklin said, cutting off the metal man and turning to Abigail. “Come, girl. Stand next to the fire.”

  Ignacio stepped up onto a bench and looked toward the ceiling. “Ah, yes, Draguta Flori. Have you never heard of the pouty princess?”

  “I haven’t,” Charlie said.

  “Me either,” Abigail added.

  “Oh, a curious tale indeed. Why, she was a Baroness whose father controlled lands that stretched as far as the eye could see. He owned great houses and manors and castles—what castles! But young Draguta, as you might imagine, was terribly spoiled.”

  Ignacio kept his eye on the ceiling as he spoke. “Whatever she wanted was hers. If she failed to get her way, she would simply hold her breath in protest until her poor father eventually gave in. Miserable child. She could never be satisfied. At some point she stopped leaving the castle entirely, preferring instead to just sit in her room and pout. Her skin soon turned a ghostly white, as it never saw the sun, and dark circles grew under her eyes. She grew weak and one night, so the story goes, she held her breath just a little too long—”

  “And she died,” Abigail said bluntly, finishing the story for him.

  “Sure enough. Just fell over, dead as a doornail.”

  A blast of cold wind rushed through the room.

  “And it looks like her ghost has found its way here,” the Ranger said.

  The wind whipped around Ignacio and then swirled past Franklin, who swatted at it like a fly.

  “Then again,” Franklin added, “it could just be an unusual draft.”

  They settled in for the night, with Abigail helping Franklin prepare dinner and Ignacio tending to the damage done to Charlie’s shoulder.

  “Not bad if I say so myself. Just a couple of stitches popped,” Ignacio said, tying off the latest stitch. “Now let’s see that you keep ’em in this time.” Ignacio glanced back over his shoulder at Franklin. “It was gallant, though, Charlie. Real Ranger spirit,” he whispered. “Well done. Don’t see enough of that these days, a true and heroic rescue. I’m sure young Abigail appreciates her new surroundings.”

  Charlie looked at Abigail as she stood next to Franklin, cutting turnips for a stew. She seemed tiny and out of place, and her demeanor had changed little since leaving the dock. But seeing her there in the lodge with them warmed Charlie; he felt as if the chill of the cold river had finally left.

  They ate dinner together at the long table. Charlie sat beside Abigail, and as the meal progressed, he noticed that although there was food on her plate, she seemed content to just push it from side to side with her fork. He never saw her take a bite.

  After dinner, Charlie wrote another letter to his mother while Ignacio and Franklin pulled out their charts and maps to discuss the journey ahead and to prepare their official dispatches for the Prime Minister.

  “Here.” Ignacio pointed to the great desert on the map. “The Rangers in the region say that Tok’s main raiding parties come from this spot in the north and here in the west. With the weather turning, I am afraid another attack is imminent. They will want to get in one more run before winter.”

  “I wonder if a change in the seasons will be enough to curtail the situation this time,” Franklin said, finishing the last of the stew. “It’s a long-standing dispute and one that this Tok puts squarely on the Council. I would just as soon not get involved in the local politics. I already regret letting the Prime Minister talk me into this diplomatic mission.”

  The wind picked up outside as a mixture of snow and sleet began to fall on the stone lodge. Franklin built up the fire and left with Rohmetall to check on the horses while Abigail and Charlie laid out their sleeping blankets. A furious gust of snow and ice blew in when Franklin opened the door and then seemed to remain in the lodge after they were gone.

  “I wonder if the Baroness has chosen to join us again,” Ignacio said, trying to focus on the gust, which whipped itself into a whirl and spun wildly across the tabletops.

  Abigail dropped her bedding, climbed up on a bench, and held out her hands as if to embrace the wind. As Franklin’s papers flew about the room, Charlie thought he could see the outline of a person begin to materialize. The crystallized vapors of the snow and ice seemed to cling to a shape in the center of the mist and then a little girl, smaller than Abigail Rose even, slowly appeared.

  “Greetings, Baroness,” Ignacio said, lowering his head and dropping to one knee. “Ignacio Santos, Ranger, Mountain Division. It is an honor to find ourselves in your presence.”

  The Baroness’s shape became more evident as the swirling winds around her calmed. She was wearing a long, elaborate gown and a jeweled tiara that was tucked into her snowy white hair.

  “We thank you for your hospitality. In your name we will be sure to leave plenty for the next travelers who come this way,” Ignacio said, though the Baroness’s cold gaze remained fixed on Abigail.

  “Cold, so cold,” the Baroness Draguta Flori snapped as she approached the girl.

  “Perhaps she is cold,” Ignacio said to Charlie. “Are you cold, Baroness? We could build up the fire if it helps.”

  “I think she meant Abigail,” Charlie whispered.

  The Baroness turned to Ignacio. Her pale skin glittered in the mist like flecks of diamonds on fresh-fallen snow, and for a moment, she almost looked peaceful.

  “Are you cold?” the Ranger repeated.

  “No!” the Baroness shrieked. She spun around and shot to a high corner of the room. “No! No! No!” the Baroness cried again. She took a deep breath that filled her cheeks and held it until her face turned crimson and then a scarlet red.

  “My, my. Such behavior. I suppose the stories are true, then,” Ignacio said, bowing again. “Baroness, we only wish to pass the night here. We will move on in the morning—I promise.”

  The Baroness let out the long breath and dropped back down to Abigail.

  “A question.” The Baroness turned her attention to Ignacio. “Yes, if you wish to pass the night, first a question . . .”

  “A question? Why, yes. Something been troubling you?”

  The Baroness ignored the Ranger and continued, “What is a friend in summer but an enemy come winter?”

  The Ranger looked at Charlie and Abigail. “Friend in summer, enemy in winter? I’m afraid I’ve never been good at riddles.”

  “Yes,” the Baroness said. “Friend in summer. Enemy in winter.”

  “I’m not sure I know what she’s talking about,” the Ranger whispered.

  Charlie thought about it. Friend in the summer. The summer is hot. Enemy in winter. The winter is cold. He thought about the hot summer days back home at Old Joe’s orchard and the cold arctic air that rushed down from the mountains in the winter.

  “It’s the wind, isn’t it?” Charlie blurted out, not entirely sure of the answer himself, but it was almost all that he could think of in the Baroness’s blustery presence.

  “Is this your answer?” the Baroness screeched, dropping down from the rafters to Charlie. “All of you?”r />
  Charlie looked at the Ranger and Abigail. Abigail’s expression remained blank. The Ranger shrugged.

  “Yes, the wind. That’s the answer,” Charlie said, this time with more confidence. “It’s the wind.”

  “The boy is correct,” the Baroness shrieked, her words emphasized by a rush of sleet and snow. “A breeze is welcomed in the heat of a summer day but the same gust cursed in the dead of winter.”

  “Well done, Charlie,” the Ranger said. “Well done.”

  “It wasn’t all that difficult,” Charlie whispered, brushing the Baroness’s frost from his shoulders. “First thing that popped into my head.”

  “Another!” the Baroness cried. She circled just above Abigail’s head and began to sing.

  “I left my home, I am alone, and now I can’t get back.

  I look around, my face a frown, for I know not where I’m at . . .

  There goes the sun, this day is done and yet I am still here.

  Darkness falls, but no one calls, it’s just me and all my fears.

  So turn three times, and have a cry, and answer if you can.

  The riddle’s done, the song’s been sung, now tell me what I am?”

  Charlie ran the lines back in his head. I left my home, I am alone, and now I can’t get back . . .

  “What do you think, Charlie? I don’t have a clue,” Ignacio admitted.

  “Me either,” Charlie said, running through the next verse. I look around, my face a frown, for I know not where I’m at . . .

  “We best figure it out. I would rather not sleep out in a snowbank if it can be avoided.”

  An agonizing moment passed as the room fell into an uneasy silence. Then Abigail stepped up from the bench to the table and after turning in a circle three times spoke.

  “Lost,” she said flatly. “You are lost.”

  “Lossst,” the Baroness hissed. “Is thissss your answer?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Ignacio said, looking at Charlie and then back at Abigail. “You sure?”

  Abigail nodded.

  “Yes,” Ignacio Santos announced. “Lost is our answer.”