On the third night Owen could still see the outline of Mountain Lake looming behind them. “What lies beyond what’s left of the lake?” he said.
“Wilderness as far as you can imagine. And a place known as Perolys Gulch.”
“Who lives there?”
“A race of cursed people. Outcasts. Diseased. If you ever speak of going there, you will go alone. I’ve known no one to return from there alive.”
Owen pondered her fear, and they walked a little farther. He could tell Watcher was upset just talking about such a place.
“In some places in my world we have mountains you can see for miles while driving.”
“Driving?”
Owen had to explain the concept of cars, which made Watcher gasp. That led to his telling her of all the differences between their worlds. When he mentioned school and every child learning to read, Watcher stopped and stared. “I can’t imagine owning a book, let alone reading one.”
“I can teach you,” Owen said.
“It is forbidden.”
“By whom? Surely not the King.”
“The Dragon. The King is in hiding. We live under all kinds of rules.”
“And how does he make known these rules?”
“Each village is part of a township, the townships divided into regions. Representatives from each region receive the rules from a member of the Dragon’s council.”
“And the citizens have no say?”
“Anyone who has ever argued or even questioned a rule has been killed. Bardig was our representative, but Connor will probably take his place.”
“Is he not afraid the Dragon knows he is a rebel?”
“He fears nothing and no one. Bardig tried to persuade Connor not to mount an attack until the time was right. Until the Wormling came.”
So there it was again: the responsibility that made Owen shiver. He was having a hard enough time taking care of himself. Now others depended on him for their very lives.
“Anyway, you can’t teach me to read,” Watcher said.
“Don’t be so sure. The Dragon is not my sovereign. He has no authority over me. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, he has no right to rule this kingdom. He appointed himself. He destroys. He kills. He’s done nothing but keep the land under his thumb, if he has one.”
Owen grabbed a stick and wrote the first few letters of the alphabet in the sand. “We’ll begin with the basics.”
“And someday I’ll be able to read that big book?”
Owen smiled. “Maybe one day you’ll write one.”
* * *
When Owen and Watcher seemed to have distanced themselves from the voices, they settled into a comfortable pace. Now they walked by day and rested at night. Every day at first light they set off, moving steadily until they couldn’t see the path in the darkness. They slept under trees or in burrows or caves. Watcher was able to determine which dens were vacant merely by her keen sense of smell.
Owen had worried about what they would eat when Bardig’s wife’s treats and the few soggy provisions in his backpack ran out. But they found berries and other fruit along the way, and they occasionally stocked up from the vegetable gardens and fruit trees of villagers. Watcher assured him it was understood among the Lowlanders that any traveler was welcome to the bounty at the edges of each property.
Just when Owen believed he had had enough fruits and vegetables to turn him into a salad, Watcher—quick footed and able to pounce—would catch a pheasant or a turkey or a rabbit and they would roast it. Owen had never enjoyed food that . . . well . . . fresh, but he learned quickly that hunger is always the best seasoning. He also discovered he had a natural talent for cooking the meat to perfection.
As they walked and talked all day, Owen told Watcher stories from his many hours of reading. Treasure Island was one of his favorites, as were the Harry Potter series, the Hardy Boys, and countless fairy tales. He took her into the world of Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked and alone—or so he thought—on a deserted island.
Watcher could hardly stand it when Owen stopped a story in the middle and told her he would tell the rest the next day, but he knew that would keep her interest and make her even more eager to learn to read.
Every day at sunset they found a place to spend the night, gathered wood for their fire, ate, and then Owen read from The Book of the King. Often he read the prophecy of the Wormling, then a story from another part of the book. There were so many to choose from. Some told the exploits of daring knights and kings, others of sojourners like him and Watcher, and still others were simple fables.
“Read the smiling story,” Watcher said one night as they finished their rabbit. She looked exhausted.
“You sure it won’t put you to sleep? You’ve heard it so many times.”
She shook her head and her ears twitched.
Owen opened the book and began to read.
“Gretchen was a young girl with only one smile left in a land where no one smiled. Not even at birthday parties. People were glum. Serious. They didn’t have time for childish things like fun or laughing.
“It had been Gretchen’s practice in the evenings to lock the door of her room, sit in front of the mirror, and smile. It made her feel so warm and good that she couldn’t wait to do it again. But something told her—and she had every reason to believe it—that she had but one smile left. She was saving it for just the right moment when she needed to feel wonderful.
“Walking home from her village one day, her last smile tucked away so she could enjoy it when she chose, she came upon a lad sitting by the roadside, tears streaking his dirty cheeks. He had somehow twisted his ankle, leaving it swollen and puffy. He wouldn’t let Gretchen even touch it.
“She tried to help him up, but still he cried.
“From her basket she pulled a piece of candy, a sucker that made his tongue turn blue, but still he cried.
“Gretchen knew one thing that would make the boy feel better, one thing she could give him that could change his life. But she had only one left, and she wanted to save it for herself.
“Gretchen had to make a choice. Save her last smile or give it away.
“As she gazed upon the weeping child, she made her decision. She took the boy by the shoulders, looked deep into his eyes, and smiled.
“Of course he had never seen such a thing in the land of no smiles. And so the change in him was instantaneous and dramatic. He couldn’t help but respond, and instead of taking the smile and running away with it, he gave it right back.
“So Gretchen had one more smile to enjoy for herself . . . or to give away again. She learned that you can never lose what you freely give.”
Watcher sighed and brought her forelegs up under her, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “I love that story. I know it’s about learning to give, but it also makes me want to smile more often. That sure makes life more enjoyable.”
Owen scooted closer to the fire and curled up. He was teaching Watcher to read, but she was also teaching him. And the next day they were to learn even more.
Ahint of salt blew on the wind, and Watcher told Owen the islands of Mirantha were still at least a day away.
As they slowly picked their way through the wilderness, Watcher kept reminding Owen to be quiet.
He whispered, “Why?”
She nodded toward a barren region of rolling hills filled with tumbleweeds and upturned earth. “The Badlands,” she mouthed.
It appeared to Owen as if the bad part stretched a thousand miles. The land before them had turned from forests and glens to rocky crags, desolate save for scrub oak and the occasional cactus. On either side of the path sheer rock walls created a narrow passage. It was the only way in or out, and they had to move in single file.
Dark clouds foamed and roiled as if a storm was about to explode. It made the passage look like a black tunnel of death.
“This must be Forbidden Canyon,” Watcher whispered. “It is said that the Dragon lived here for a time after his fall fro
m the King’s court.”
“The Dragon used to serve the King?”
Watcher lowered her voice even more. “Something terrible happened between him and the King. I know only what Bardig told me.”
“How did Bardig know?”
Watcher stopped suddenly, and her ears twitched. She looked up. “Demon flyers. Come!”
She pushed Owen inside the canyon as a blast of wind swept over them and a giant wing flapped, reminding Owen of the terror of the Dragon pursuing them at the B and B. Owen ducked a jutting rock and fell into the sand. Watcher joined him as the flyer passed.
“Are they looking for us?” Owen whispered.
Watcher shook her head and closed her eyes. “Demon flyers herd and gather their prey.”
Owen studied the rock walls. Something drew him, but he couldn’t place it.
“You’re not thinking of going up there, are you?” Watcher said.
“Perhaps the King’s Son is there. If we follow those flying things back to—”
Watcher pulled him down. “Another!”
The air swirled violently, and an unearthly cry echoed off the walls, penetrating Owen’s heart. It sounded like the screech of some demonic beast.
Watcher said, “Come, hurry, before it’s totally dark in the canyon.”
Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance as Owen squinted to try to see. Stones skittered down the walls, forcing Owen and Watcher to take cover. Floating through the chasm came an eerie, mournful lament, as if someone was rehearsing deep regrets and sorrows.
“That’s an enchantment,” Watcher said, raising her shoulders to cover her ears. “Hurry. Don’t listen.”
But Owen was already caught in the grasp of the music. He looked up as it swirled around him like smoke from a campfire. He noticed movement—eyes peering down. He quickly caught up to Watcher.
“If you get trapped in this, Wormling, I will have to leave you! There’s no hope for you if you become enchanted.”
The music followed them, and Owen thought he heard movement above, perhaps voices. Was this part of the enchantment? Something stirred deep within him. “How can there be music,” he whispered, “when it’s been outlawed for so long?”
They could see only a thin strip of the dark sky from this deep in the canyon, and Owen noticed mist descending. Thunder cracked closer, and the music became even more somber, sounding like a funeral dirge. Owen had been to only one funeral in his life, for an old man whose workshop had been next to the bookstore. The music had been played soft and slow, as if the room couldn’t handle the people’s silence. It was the one thing Owen remembered, other than the strange symbol on the dead man’s ring.
Suddenly drums joined the music, and it grew so loud that the ground shook.
Owen glanced up to see Watcher’s mouth form an O as she stared at something behind him.
Owen looked back just in time to see a wall of water every bit as tall as the breached lake bearing down on them. No way could they outrun it, but still Watcher ran, Owen hanging on to her fur and being dragged along.
“Find high ground!” Owen yelled.
When they reached a widening in the canyon, Watcher shook Owen free and jumped, climbing the wall.
He followed, scrambling to reach a ledge just as the water engulfed them. It was freezing and made Owen feel as if he were standing in the foam of a milk shake.
“Flash flood,” Watcher panted. “They can come out of nowhere, and the water is channeled through the gorge.”
A steady current flowed a few feet below them, but it was slowly rising. “No wonder the walls are so smooth,” Owen hollered over the din. “We need to go higher.”
Watcher was easily the more adept climber, making footholds of just about any spot on the rocks. Owen did his best to stay close, but the water was rising faster than they were, and the current was so swift he had no doubt they could be swept into a wall and smashed like pumpkins at any moment.
The water had reached their knees when Owen spotted a ledge above with a deep darkness behind it. “Cave!”
“A cave won’t save us from this!” Watcher shouted.
They pulled themselves up onto a ledge, just above the waterline, and Owen saw fear in Watcher’s face.
“We’re going to be all right,” he said, trying to believe it himself. Had the music stopped? All he could hear were the rush of water and claps of thunder.
The cavern was eerie—barely light enough to see the white foam ascending toward them. The sheer walls rose hundreds of feet, but their smoothness made climbing impossible.
Lightning struck above them, and thunder immediately roared off the rocks. In that instant, Owen spied a solitary figure on the ledge above them, poised to shoot a sharp arrow directly at him.
“Stop!” Watcher shouted. “We mean you no harm.”
“Go back the way you came!” The voice was raspy and high, Munchkinlike but menacing. “You’re not welcome!”
“We can’t go back!” Owen called. “We’ll be killed!”
“Come farther and you shall surely die!” The being waved to call forth 10 more like him from the shadows, bows and arrows poised.
The water covered Owen’s feet now, and he struggled for a grip on the smooth rock until his fingers ached.
“Please!” Watcher said. “We’re headed to the islands of Mirantha! We won’t bother you! We just need high ground!”
“What is your business on the islands?”
Successive flashes of lightning allowed Owen to study the man. A mere four feet tall at best, he had silky brown hair that hung straight to his shoulders, and his eyes were dark slits in the matted fur of his face. A black pug nose pushed his cheeks back, and in the tangle of whiskers sat a mouth more human than Watcher’s, with cherry lips. His long ears hung from the top of his head. He wore a tight-fitting coat that looked like camel hair and heavy pants that came to the tops of furry boots.
“What do we do, Watcher?” Owen whispered.
Watcher raised her chin, facing the tiny leader of the band of archers. She looked and sounded unafraid. “I live high in the Valley of Shoam. Near Mountain Lake.”
“We have heard it is no more,” the being said.
“The demon flyers breached it and flooded our whole valley.”
“Many died?”
“But more escaped.”
“Then what brings you here to face our flood?”
“We didn’t know the danger,” Watcher said. “I am taking my friend to the islands.”
“For what purpose?”
Watcher sniffed at the air. “Please, can we at least come up to the dry ledge to speak with you?”
He waved them forward, and as Owen and Watcher carefully crawled onto the ledge, all but the leader stepped backward.
“I’m taking the Wormling to meet with—”
At the word Wormling, the leader’s eyes widened, and he dropped to one knee. The others followed, emitting a strange hum.
“—someone for an initiation ceremony.”
“Forgive us,” the leader said, peeking at Owen. “Why didn’t you tell us you were the Wormling? News of your arrival has spread through the land. Come with us before the water covers you.”
He led them to rough-hewn steps that went straight up. Bowing from the waist and motioning Watcher and Owen to go first, he said, “I am Erol. Welcome, Wormling.”
They reached the next level, with Erol and his charges right behind, just as a new wave hurtled through, flooding the cave below.
“Don’t worry,” Erol said. “The water has never reached the top cave. You will be safe.”
“How many caves do you have?” Owen said.
The group chuckled, and Erol put a hand to his chin. “We recently counted more than 300. Most are single dwellings and difficult to get to, but many, like this one, are accessible through our vast series of tunnels.”
As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Owen was stunned to find a cozy retreat with a fire i
n a hearth. Erol pointed Owen and Watcher to chairs before a stone table bearing a large bowl of fruit. They ate hungrily. Owen could hear the roar of the water as it coursed through the canyon, but he felt safe and warm. He awkwardly leaped to his feet when a woman delivered steaming drinks, and Erol introduced her as his wife, Kimshi.
“Meet the Wormling we’ve heard so much about,” Erol said.
Kimshi covered her mouth and backed away, bowing. “What we have is yours.”
Erol gathered in his wife and stood with his arm around her. “Excuse our surprise, but of course we’ve never had a Wormling in our midst. Please sit.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Owen said, sitting again, “what sort of beings are you?”
The room grew quiet, and Watcher cleared her throat.
“I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that I’ve never seen . . . I mean, just like you haven’t seen a Wormling, I’ve never seen anything quite like you.”
“We should play it for him,” one of the creatures whispered.
“Quiet,” another said.
“We are musicians,” Erol said. “Even though it is forbidden by the Dragon, we make music.”
“Are we safe from being heard?” Owen said.
Erol cocked his head. “Never completely, but we have sentries on the ridgeline. That’s how we knew you were coming.”
Several of the creatures left and returned with bells, tambourines, shakers, stringed instruments, and what appeared to be flutes or recorders made from some exotic shiny redwood. Three carried drums around their necks with leather belts holding them in place.
Erol took one of the stringed instruments and tuned it. A rush of discordant sound filled the room as the others tried to tune to his instrument. Finally Erol bowed slightly and said, “For your enjoyment, a song written by my wife.”
Owen liked all types of music, but what he heard in the cave that night was the most original, most joyous he had ever experienced. The delight on the musicians’ faces made plain that they were doing what they were created to do. And when Erol began to sing, Owen thought his heart would burst. Watcher’s eyes filled.
The Sword of the Wormling Page 4