Opal Summerfield and The Battle of Fallmoon Gap

by Mark Caldwell Jones

  “Uh, Ms. Trudy, your books. They’re—”

  Opal backed away until she ran into her happy hostess carrying a tray of sugar cookies and fine white china cups. The collision sloshed the ginger tea.

  “Oh yes, they aren’t dead,” she said. “More—shall we say—indisposed? Sugar?”

  “Yes please,” Opal stuttered, trying to pry her eyes from the gruesome collection.

  “That shelf—let’s consider it restricted. At least, I think it should be. You’re far too young to worry about the fleeting joys and seductive deathtraps of romantic love.”

  Opal thought that sounded like good advice. She mulled it over and sipped her tea. A muffled voice murmured on the restricted shelf. Ms. Trudy lifted a nearby flyswatter and smacked Volume IV a few times until it resumed its book-ness. It was titled: Timothy Hillman and the Tale of the Maiden’s Broken Engagement.

  Opal knew a young man named Tim Hillman who lived in Grigg’s Landing. He was the son of James Hillman, a saddle maker with a small farm on the east side of town. Tim was about ten years older than Opal and a notorious Casanova who made all the girls swoon. She disliked Tim because he had pinched Mattie’s derrière so hard that she dropped her books, screamed, and then blushed for two weeks. It was embarrassing for everyone, and Opal swore, if it ever happened to her, she would make sure Hillman went home with broken pinching fingers.

  “Tim Hillman, I know that boy. He is awful. He keeps the saddle shop for his paps.”

  “More than awful dear. Absolutely without honor. And he no longer keeps anything, especially the company of respectable women. Now let’s think on happier things. I know you’ve been busy learning all you can about the Veil and Fallmoon Gap, but how about a good adventure story—maybe a knight and a dragon with a maiden to rescue?”

  Ms. Trudy’s scowled as she pondered the choices, then her eyes lit up like she had a perfect suggestion.

  “Opal, I know you a little. I don’t think a maiden-needing-rescue story really fits you, does it?”

  She stood and scurried back to a stack of books delicately balanced on her sewing table.

  “Ah, yes, this one—a new addition to the series. Captain Ravenheart and the Creature of the Unfathomable Deep. I thought it was better than the last one. And the finest part is that Captain Ravenheart is a woman!” She wiped away a bit of dust that had collected on the illustrated cover. “A very brave, competent woman!”

  “I love those books!” Opal jumped up and rushed over. “Are pirates real, Miss Trudy?”

  “Most definitely, yes! My goodness, the Veil has many realms with cities along the sea. They are full of nasty brigands!” Ms. Trudy said, sweeping her arm through the air like she was brandishing a sword.

  Opal could only imagine a real ocean, and the closest thing she knew to a pirate was Timerus McCaw. One day she had seen the riverboat captain drunk out of his mind, swaying perilously on the boardwalk. He yelled at a group of elderly ladies returning from an afternoon tea at Mabel Kentworth’s house.

  “Steady the ship. Steady the darn ship, you rapscallions!” he bellowed, as if they were his pirate crew. “Mend those sails or this ocean will swallow us whole!” Then he fell backward, hit his head on a hitching post, and knocked himself out cold.

  “Captain Ravenheart is a marvelous series. I won’t spoil it for you, but it’s perfect for young girls. Ravenheart is a smart heroine you can model yourself after. And the illustrations are wondrous.”

  “I don’t know what I would do without your books!”

  Opal flipped through the pages. They were silky and lined on the edges with silver. Periodically, she found a beautiful color plate depicting one of the scenes in the book. One showed a creature of monstrous proportions thrashing its tentacles at Ravenheart’s ship, The Mermaid’s Cutlass.

  In another illustration, the female pirate was peering into a chest of abundant treasure, and her face was rimmed in gold. The last one showed an army of skeletons with the hero backed into a corner; the girl pirate had a furious scowl and was swinging a flaming sword. Opal wanted to start reading that moment.

  “Have you ever seen the ocean?” Opal asked as she continued to flip through the book.

  “You know, Opal, I have a vague memory of it as a child. I remember building a tower in the sand, and my father holding a shell to my ear, and we were running in that spot where the seawater sloshes up on the sand. But I wonder if that was my own memory or just another book I read. Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell.” As she said this, a wave of melancholy washed over her. “As you can see, I read a lot.”

  “Where did all these books come from?” Opal asked.

  “They come with me, and I go with them. It’s always been that way.”

  “Seems like a lot to haul around. Must be ten wagons full of books here,” Opal said, amazed.

  “A true lady does not haul,” Ms. Trudy said. “They are delivered for her by gentlemen devoted to service and chivalry. Remember, you need to find a man like that, Opal. When you are ready of course, and not before.”

  “How do you know when you’ve found the right kind of man?” Opal asked.

  “I have a few simple rules, Opal. A good man treats you like you are as delicate as a teacup, while respecting your strength. He cherishes you like a hidden treasure, and tries to be a man worthy of that prize. But he also accepts you, flaws and all, and does not try to tame you, even if you have a wild heart like Captain Amanda Ravenheart. Instead, he runs with you, beside you, into every happy or daunting adventure the two of you encounter.”

  “Are there really men like that?” Opal asked. She snuck a glance at the restricted shelf.

  Ms. Trudy looked back at the books as well. “Sometimes it will seem like those men don’t exist. A girl can get discouraged. But I believe that if you focus on becoming the best woman you can be, the right partner will appear.”

  Opal tried to picture what it meant to be a woman worthy of that kind of partner. It was strange, because she never felt worthy of Luka’s attention. She did feel that way around Tirian, but there wasn’t the same spark. Ms. Trudy’s standards seemed thoughtful, but a bit lofty. It made her feel insecure, so she changed the subject.

  “Did you grow up in Fallmoon Gap?”

  “Oh heavens no. I’m not from around here,” Ms. Trudy said.

  Opal latched onto that phrase. It was one used by many of the odd people in town. They never said where they were from; they just said: not from around here. Opal began to understand it as a code of sorts. She took it to mean: beyond the gates, through the rift tunnels, past stonewalls, up or down the Veil’s magical stream.

  Like Grigg’s Landing, Fallmoon Gap was full of strange wayfarers who had been drawn from other distant magical realms. Opal hoped she would eventually visit them all.

  One day, she thought. She curled up in one of Ms. Trudy’s lush chairs, sipped some of her ginger tea, and stepped onto the deck of The Mermaid’s Cutlass. Ravenheart’s ocean was enough adventure for now.

  70

  Opal’s classes were requisites for all new Wardens. In order, they were:

  Basic Warden Training

  Fundamentals of Veilian Law

  Forensic Magic & Engineering Enchantments

  Surreptitious Scouting & Surveying

  Magical Armaments

  The one class she had not yet been allowed to attend was Classification of Veilian Life & Creature Control. The other officers jokingly called it ‘C.C.C.’, or Crunch, Chew, Chomp.

  Opal was displeased to realize that part of the Protectorate’s mission was making sure that the strange monsters created by Veilian magic were not running amok and snacking on unsuspecting Ozarkers.

  This was considered an advanced class because you had to meet a retired Warden, Professor Jack Thomason, out in the wilderness, away from the magical shielding devices that protected Fallmoon Gap. You were supposed to have completed an entire course of basic training, as well as magical armaments, before you were allowed t
o go.

  However, one day while attending Tirian’s class, she was given permission to venture out.

  Using a mapping crystal Tirian gave her, she found the location of Professor Jack Thomason easily. He was not far from the gates of Fallmoon Gap, but without the mapping crystal, she would have surely missed it. The shack was hidden in a cul-de-sac of maple and pine trees, accessible only by weaving her way down a muddy trail that seemed to have been laid out by a blind person.

  First, there was a gauntlet of signs to navigate. They seemed to be made by frightened Ozarkers:

  Danger!

  Deadly vermin in the area

  Loss of YER life or YER limbS possible

  Keep out or die!

  I said keep out!

  Are you reading these signs?

  Turn back already!

  Oh boy, yer gonna die!

  Once she was a half-mile in, a space opened up within the trees to reveal a monstrous contraption—half machine, half living vine, a twisted mess of overgrowth and metal. It looked like a baby’s mobile made of old tin, metal junk, and animal skulls dipped in red paint. It was a spider web of tangled creepers and string tied off, it seemed, to every nearby plant and tree.

  The mobile blocked the most obvious path to the professor’s shack, and no matter how Opal tried to get past it, she risked setting off the device. The spinning of its various parts whirled one way and then another. It gyrated and gathered centrifugal force, then spun faster, backward, storing energy until the top of the device opened like a weird mechanical flower. The petals clacked and Opal could smell kerosene, followed by the sound of some sort of electrical sparking.

  Suddenly a blast of flames shot two or three feet into the air like a giant torch. One blast, two blasts, and then three, at which point the metal flower smacked closed and dark-gray smoke seeped through its petals, forming a miniature mushroom cloud.

  One thing was for sure: if any animal or human came through this part of the woods, Professor Jack Thomason would know it before they got within a quarter-mile.

  Opal wondered if this was how the old Warden survived, living off the helpless creatures caught in his strange web of death.

  Frankly, she was a bit amazed at the whole contraption—more fascinated, really, than scared. She looked down to see her necklace glowing orange.

  Orange as the sun, the Tiger-eye tells us when to run!

  It was too late. A vise-grip of steel twine pulled her leg out from under her so fast that one minute she was standing looking at the machine, and the next she was swinging through the air suspended by a tentacle of vine and metal wire. A counterweight began lowering itself to the ground, as she swung wildly. At each arc of the swing, she felt herself go higher, until she found herself like a fish at the end of an old metal fishing pole dangling, thrashing, and hanging dangerously close to the smoking metal flower, which seemed to be rumbling back to life.

  “HELP! Agama Stone, WAKE UP!” she screamed.

  The noose cut into the flesh of her ankle and she felt the warmth of blood trickling down her leg. Looking up, she could see it was getting worse. It was apparent that any minute her foot would either be severed, or she would die by the flame of the fire-flower.

  The necklace erupted in emerald light.

  Opal folded herself up, reaching for the noose. The tips of her fingers snagged part of the contraption, and vines began to grow in a swarm around the machine. They massed over the gears and wheels and seemed to slow the machine down—but it didn’t shut it down fast enough. The metal flower petals clacked open and smoke began building. The flames were coming. Opal was about to get roasted.

  A voice called from the trees just beyond the trap. “Not much good you’re doing! You know, you could cut your foot off. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it. I’ve definitely had my fill of animal paw soup.”

  A grizzled older man stepped out. He wore a strange wizard’s hat made of green leaves and vines pushed down over his flaxen hair. He seemed to be dressed in the forest itself. His face was covered in dirt and his clothing was pure camouflage—a burlap shirt and trousers that made him look like a walking tree. He had a long black goatee and a flamboyant mustache lathered in wax and curled in an artistic flourish. He walked up directly beneath Opal just as the smell of kerosene filled the air. His evergreen eyes were wide with anticipation.

  “Child, you are about to burn up. You shouldn’t have come this way!” he said. The electrical sparking became louder.

  Opal looked at the man. This was no professor or Warden of the Protectorate. He was just some grimy, backwoods hillbilly. She wondered if she was lost. Who was this crazy old-timer?

  The pain intensified and all she could do was yell out in anger. She climbed up the wire, hand over hand, as fast as she could, just in time to pull her head out of the first belch of flame.

  She knew it was forbidden, but called on the dangerous ruby-power anyway.

  “Immolbution! Burn it down! It’s trying to kill me!” Opal screamed.

  Before the Agama Stone reacted, the man slammed his hand down on a long rusty lever. The whole machine immediately went limp. The metal flower retracted, and Opal’s noose released her and reeled itself back in so fast that she was momentarily suspended in the air. A moment later, she hit the ground with a great thud.

  “Don’t move girl! Don’t move a dang inch, or I’ll string you back up!”

  “Oh my lord, don’t worry!” Opal said.

  The old man hovered over her. He smelled like he’d been bathed in skunk. Opal ached everywhere. Her ankle throbbed with pain and she felt queasy. All she could do was raise her hands in surrender.

  “I give,” she said. Then she lurched forward and vomited all over the stinky man’s shoes.

  Professor Jefferson “Jack” Thomason was a devoted naturalist. He had made it his life’s mission to catalogue every creature in the entire Arcanian realm. He was gifted, industrious, and a fount of knowledge—but he was a horrible host.

  He smelled like rotting trout guts.

  “Creature repellant,” he explained.

  The smell, plus his unfortunate lack of social graces, kept most visits quite short.

  Nevertheless, throughout the Veil, he was a legend, at least to those who had an interest in magical cryptids. His notoriety had been built on tales of his battles with monstrous beasts in the course of his work.

  The old scholar was assumed dead by people outside the Protectorate. Others spread rumors about his descent into madness. This was exceptionally appealing to Thomason, because it gave him an air of genius and made his paintings of Veilian creatures (those that made it out of Arcania) incredibly valuable.

  His dogtrot shack was overstuffed with reams of paper, books on top of books, volumes of detailed notes, animal bones, taxidermy supplies, and most significantly, his extraordinary paintings. His passion for the creatures he studied was evident in the richness of his artistry. The beauty of each painting spoke more than the notes that accompanied the images.

  Opal sat in a corner across from him, sipping water, trying to recover. She was not impressed with him personally, but she was amazed at the art.

  One painting depicted a beast of immense proportions. It was lizard-like, but the size of a massive steer. Its back legs were extended like a giraffe’s and appeared to be three times the length of its front legs. The creature looked perpetually off-balance.

  “That there is a hide-behind. At least that is what the hillfolk call it. The scientific name registered with The Crypto-Zoological Society of the Protectorate is Varzella arcanus. Certified as a never-before-known creature by yours truly,” he bragged.

  “Never seen one,” Opal said. She gave her host a suspicious glance.

  “Nope, not unless you live on the wrong side of Devil’s Alley. I was very proud of catching up to that one. It is an unfortunate and poor construction for an animal—quite odd. Evolution wouldn’t have let it get past its mother’s nest. But being an aberration cause
d by the rifts—it lives! Magic is a bit more whimsical than evolution,” chuckled Jack. “So how’s that leg of yours, young lady?”

  “Are you serious?” Opal said scornfully.

  “Oh, I don’t really care that much. Just trying to make polite conversation. I’m always told I don’t know how, you see. But I keep practicing, whenever I have company. Round here, visitors are about as scarce as preachers in paradise.”

  “Why is that? Because you kill all your company?

  “Look, pout all you want. You looked dangerous to me.”

  “I’m a girl, and I’m half your size!”

  “That necklace gave a strange shine, didn’t it? Made you look like the Devil red-hot from home. I don’t take chances out here, and that’s why I’m still alive—much to the chagrin of many.”

  “You’re a crazy old man, you know that? I was sent here for a class! You should have turned that crazy trap of yours off.”

  “I call it the williper-walliper. And that little contraption has become very necessary. Lots of nasty beasties roaming these parts.”

  Opal sat surrounded by volumes of evidence supporting that statement. She flipped through a few more of Thomason’s drawings.

  “What do you know about wereboars?” she asked.

  “Wereboars? Interesting question. Well, I can tell you that just the sound of ‘em howling in the woods makes most people crazy as a frog eating fire. They’re fearsome creatures. Vicious killers. They sit in their own little category. Ain’t really cryptids, per say. They are made. It takes very strong black magic from a conjurer or some other malfeasant to conjure a kapranthropy spell.

  “Can they be killed?”

  “Well, it doesn’t take much. A little well-placed silver—pure silver—does the trick. But getting close enough to do that—well, that’s a long shot with a limb in the way.”

  “But it can be done? You’re not really answering the question.” Opal had a brief flashback to Sugar Trotter’s story.

  “Well girl, I got a friend who’s done it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But it ain’t something I want to see again. And I sure as heck don’t advise anyone trying it.”