The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  “Jaaack …”

  Jack froze. So did the others.

  “Jaaaack … We hear you, Jaaack.…”

  It was the great creatures inside the walls. Even from that distance, they could hear the companions whispering.

  “Who are you?” said John.

  “Sssss … Weee are the children of Polyphemus …,” the creature said. “Be ye alive, or be ye dead … we’ll grind your bones to make our bread.…”

  “Giants!” Jack hissed. “What are giants doing in Oxford?”

  “This isn’t Oxford,” John said irritably. “But if these are giants … Perhaps we could use the Binding? From the Geographica? Maybe …”

  “Is that even possible to do without royal blood?” Jack whispered back. “Who’d be crazy enough to try?”

  There was a chuffing noise from behind the walls of bone, and after a moment the companions realized that the giants were laughing at them.

  “Foolish mansss …,” the giant said. “Nnooo Bindings on the sons of Polyphemus … not like before …”

  “Before?” said Jack. “Someone has tried to Bind them.”

  “Yess!” rasped the giant. “You, Jaaack … you have tried. … Jaaack, Jaaack, the Giant-Killer …”

  “Oh Lord,” Jack said under his breath, before he remembered they could hear him anyway. “You’ve got me confused with someone else,” he called more loudly. “It wasn’t me!”

  There was a pause, almost as if denying it was persuasion enough. And then …

  “Jaack Giant-Killer … Caretaker Jaack, Companion of John …”

  It was a strange moment for Jack, as John looked at him with something akin to astonishment, while the badgers looked at him in unabashed admiration.

  “Achaemenides!” the giant bellowed. “Achaemenides! Loooose usss! Loose us to seize the slayer of our father!”

  With an impact that shook the ground, the giants—four of them, the companions could now see—pressed against the walls, and one began pounding on the gate. The giants were tall enough that the tops of their heads rose above the walls, and the companions could see that below the scraggly tufts of hair and rough foreheads, their eyes had been sewn shut.

  “They’re blind,” said Jack. “At least they can’t see us.”

  “Nnooo …,” said the first giant, a triumphant purr settling into his voice, “but weee can hearrr youuuu. …”

  “That’s it,” John exclaimed, grabbing each of the badgers by their collars. “Run, Jack! Run!”

  With the calls of the giants echoing in the air behind them, the four companions ran as fast as they could, John carrying Uncas and Jack carrying Fred. There may have been some slight breach of etiquette or decorum in simply carrying the small animals like cabbages—but at the moment, none of them cared. All that mattered, literally, was getting out of earshot of the giants.

  John was more than happy to let Jack take the lead again. Of the two of them, Jack was the quicker thinker in situations like this.

  Jack led them back to the intersection where the great spider-webs were, then took the road leading to the right, keeping them at a dead run.

  The direction they were running took them to an area that was pockmarked with structures. Most of them were on stilts and stood ten feet or more off the ground. The ones that weren’t on stilts were either in a bad state of disrepair, or burned past usability. The road itself was in better condition, and there were fewer obstructions to slow them down. There were still no lights or fires visible, but as they passed, John imagined he could feel someone watching them from the shadows.

  When they had finally gone a far enough distance that the badgers could run for themselves, John and Jack lowered them to the ground and slowed to a brisk trot. As they jogged along, Jack realized that he was still the object of intense admiration.

  “Did you really kill a giant, Scowler Jack?” Uncas asked. “They sure seemed t’ know you.”

  Jack sighed. “I’m sure if I had, I’d remember it, and if I was the Giant-Killing type, I probably wouldn’t be as afraid of that lot as I actually am.”

  “Oh,” the badger said, deflating slightly. “But,” he added, brightening, “y’ did speak t’ them very boldly.”

  “That he did,” Fred agreed. “Very boldly indeed.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jack said, sitting heavily on a soft-looking patch of dirt. “I think we’ve run far enough. And I’m knackered at any rate.”

  John scanned the horizon in the direction from which they’d come. “I think we’re okay for the moment. But I think our plan of approaching whoever is in charge of the tower is right out.”

  Jack pulled off one of his shoes and examined his foot. “Bugger this for a lark. I’ve gotten a blister. I hope it doesn’t get infected.”

  “A blister?” John snorted. “I’ve seen you take cudgel blows that nearly took your arm off, you’ve been stabbed by swords, and even shot with an arrow—and you’re complaining about a blister?”

  “It’s a really big blister,” said Jack.

  “Here,” Fred said, hopping forward. “I can help with that.”

  The little badger started flipping through pages in the Little Whatsit, humming to himself as he did so. Then he seemed to settle on the page he wanted, scanned it twice, then replaced the book in his coat.

  “I’m going to need the penknife, please, Scowler John, and Scowler Jack, tell me—are any of your coins silver?”

  “One of them,” Jack said as John handed over the knife. “What are you going to do?”

  “This’ll sting a little, and I’m sorry for that,” said Fred, “but I can keep it from getting infected.”

  Jack removed his stocking and let the animal examine his blistered foot. Fred clucked and purred over it a moment, then swiftly lanced the blister with the knife. As it drained into the cloth Jack pressed against it, Fred used the knife to scrape tiny slivers of silver from the coin, which he then ground to a fine dust between two stones. Finally satisfied with the powdered silver, he pressed it to the wound, then bound the foot tightly with a strip of cloth from his coat. Standing back, he handed the coin to Uncas and told Jack he could replace his stocking and shoe.

  “It’ll sting a bit, there’s no helping that,” Fred repeated, “but it’ll be healed in a few hours, and it won’t get infected.”

  “Amazing,” said Jack. “How is it you learned this?”

  Fred patted the book in his pocket. “The Little Whatsit,” he said proudly. “I told you—it has something about everything in it.”

  “Handy, that,” said John. “I’d like to take a look at it—but later. I think someone’s followed us.”

  There was a bulky shape moving along the road some distance back, coming straight toward them. It was too small to be one of the giants, but large enough to be worth hiding from.

  Jack led them under one of the stilt-houses and under the fallen archway of a house that had been burned. With any luck, they’d blend in with the protruding ribs of the frame that were sticking out of the rubble.

  “I think something must have died,” Jack whispered, wrinkling his nose and checking his shoes. “It smells horrid over here.”

  “Uh, that would be me,” Uncas admitted sheepishly. “I stepped in a puddle. Sorry.”

  “Wet badger fur,” Jack groaned, nodding. “Charles never told me it was this bad.”

  “Quiet,” said John, hunkering down. “It’s coming.”

  The thing that followed them resembled a motorcar, but it had no engine. Instead it was drawn by two skeletal-looking horses with bandaged heads. With horror, the companions realized that these were dehorned unicorns. And the appearance of the carriage’s driver gave the impression that he’d happily have done it himself, and then used the horns as toothpicks just for spite. He stepped down from the carriage and looked about, eyes narrowed. From their concealment, the companions could see he wore a great gray trench coat and a matching top hat. His beard was full and black, he was all of eigh
t feet tall, and he wore a blue rose on his lapel. A Cossack, out on the town.

  Then he opened his coat.

  Where his torso should have been was a great wicker cage, and through the weave they could just make out the shapes of small creatures moving about inside. At first John thought they might be monkeys, but then the large man stopped and opened his chest to let them out, and the true horror was laid bare in the chalky moonlight.

  They were children.

  Little boys, perhaps ten but certainly not as old as twelve, and thin as bamboo. They were filthy, and dressed in rags. Each had a thick iron ring fastened around its neck, which was connected to a leash held by the man. The dozen or so boys who emerged from him spread out at his feet, sniffing the ground.

  “Ah, my little Sweeps, my precious Sweeps. Finds us the manflesh. Finds us it, and make Papa happy.”

  “Yes, Papa,” the children answered in unison.

  As the companions watched from their hiding place, the Sweeps began a revoltingly fascinating transformation. They bent low, walking on all fours and sniffing the ground. And as they went, they began murmuring phrases that at first seemed like nonsense.

  “I love my vegetables,” said one.

  “I stabbed my sister in the eye,” said another.

  “My farts smell like flowers,” said a third.

  And as the boys voiced these obvious lies, their noses began to grow. Some grew longer than others, but all of them soon had noses of extraordinary length, and their search picked up the pace accordingly.

  “Good, good, my precious Sweeps,” purred their “papa.” “Finds us the man-flesh. Finds it now, for your papa and the King.”

  The man and his Sweeps were looking around the stilt-houses on the opposite side of the road, far from where the companions were hiding. For a brief instant, John and Jack both harbored the notion that they could sneak away, but then one of the Sweeps stood stock still, like a chipmunk. It sniffed the air several times, and then turned and looked directly at the companions.

  The Sweep ran to its master and whispered to him, and the great man and his hideous children all turned around and began to move across the road.

  Suddenly a ball of flame erupted in the center of the road, throwing a blazing light over the whole area. For a moment the Sweeps’ master locked fury-filled eyes with John, but he retreated from the fire, pulling all the children back inside himself. Mounting the carriage, he wheeled the unicorns about and disappeared over the hill.

  “That was lucky as all Hades,” John said, rising from where he’d been crouching. “Very lucky.”

  “It weren’t luck, really,” came a muffled voice from above. “The Sweeps can withstand a lot, but the Wicker Men hate fire more than anything.”

  A thin, limber man dressed in tattered clothes dropped down from the stilt-house to the left of them. His face was wrapped in cloth save for his eyes, and his arms were bandaged to the fingertips. From the blackened cloth, they could tell he’d been badly singed in saving them.

  “Naw,” he said, waving off their concern. “I’s been burned worse, see?”

  He unwrapped the cloth from his face to reveal old scars along his right cheek and chin. The companions all gasped in shock—but not because of the scars.

  It was Charles.

  “Scowler Charles!” Uncas said joyfully. “Of course it be you who rescued us! Of course!”

  “Who’s Charles?” said the man, eyeing the badger suspiciously. “I only helped you out ‘cause I hate the Wicker Men. It weren’t to save you lot of idiots a’tall.”

  “These are scowlers … uh, scholars, not idiots,” Fred said defiantly, “and they are two of the greatest men in all the world.”

  “It doesn’t matter why,” Jack said, offering a hand that was studiously ignored. “Ah, I mean, there’s no one in England I’d be happier to see right now.”

  “England?” the man asked. “What’s an ‘England’?”

  “What kind of question is that?” John sputtered, spreading his arms. “This is England. This country, where we live. England. Great Britain. Home.”

  The man looked puzzled. “I don’t know where you blokes come from, but this is Albion. Always has been, as long as anyone can remember. There are some what call it otherwise, but not aloud, not unless they be brave, or foolish. The king’s minions, like that one what just run off, have seen to that. I shouldn’t even be sayin’ as much as I have.”

  “Either way,” John said, “we are truly grateful for your help. I’m John.” As Jack had done, John stuck out his hand, which the man finally shook.

  “Strange, stupid travelers from afar, you can call me Chaz,” he said hesitantly. “Welcome to the Winterland.”

  PART TWO

  Fractured Albion

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tat terdemalion

  The fishermen had wondered about the cart, and the scrawny horse that pulled it, and the solitary driver who had waited with it by the river’s edge for nearly three hours. He was unshaven and unkempt, but wore robes of great quality and worth. His cart was battered and poorly kept but could withstand such treatment because its builders had been masters of their craft. And the steed was thin, but its bearing was noble. This driver was, despite the appearances, a great dignitary, or even possibly a king who sat in his cart next to the river.

  The wild-eyed look he wore, coupled with the fact that he seemed to converse only with himself, encouraged them to leave him be. The fishermen moved their nets farther down the river and left him to his own devices.

  The king (for that was, in fact, what he was) had been lured to the riverside by a promise. All he need do was wait for the man depicted in an illumination he’d been given, then deliver him to the distant tournament that had already commenced. And for this, the king would be given his heart’s desire—or at least, the fulfillment of the family obsession. It never occurred to him to wonder how his benefactor had discovered the location of the Questing Beast, but the promise itself was enough, and made it worth his effort to try.

  When it was nearly dusk, the autumn light had faded to a haze that painted the belly of the clouds gold and crimson. As the sky grew dimmer, the king’s patience finally found itself rewarded when a shortish, slightly discombobulated man came staggering up the embankment.

  He was more disheveled than in the illumination, but the manner of dress was the same, and he was here, in the appointed spot, at (almost) the appointed time. The king lowered himself from the cart with a grunt and a groan and bowed his head in greeting.

  The odd man he’d been sent to retrieve spoke strangely, almost unintelligibly. Perhaps he was an idiot. Either way, the king reasoned, he needed to communicate his intention. With a series of half phrases and pantomimed gestures, it became evident to the man that the king was there to offer transport. He clambered into the cart, sitting next to the king, and stuck out his hand in greeting. The king looked at it oddly for a moment, then gripped the man’s wrist, as if looking for a concealed weapon.

  The man laughed uproariously at this and said something the king finally realized was his name: “Dyson. Hugo Dyson. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The king loosed his wrist and nodded. “Pellinor,” he said, tapping his chest. “Pellinor.” With that he grasped the reins and clucked his tongue at the horse. They were three days late and still had a long way to go.

  Following their familiar-yet-still-a-stranger liberator gave John and Jack time to observe and evaluate him. He was, for all that their senses could accrue, Charles. But at the same time he was, as he insisted repeatedly, not.

  Some of the scars he bore were fresh, but others were years old. He had not come here in a trice, as they and the badgers had done. It was possible he had gone through one of the doorways, as their hapless colleague had earlier, and found himself thrust backward in time—but that wouldn’t explain why he didn’t recognize them, or worse, why it seemed as if he had no memory of the Charles they knew at all.

  C
haz was obviously uneducated, and he spoke with worse grammar than Uncas. He bore some of Charles’s mannerisms, and certain speech patterns were familiar, the cadences, the tone.… But both the scholarly rationalism and playful inquisitiveness were gone. What remained was the shape of Charles, his outline, but it was filled with fear, and distrust, and overwhelmingly, the basest of instincts: to survive at all costs. This was made clear right away.

  “Get rid of the animals,” Chaz had said, to the badgers’ great dismay.

  “We’re not getting rid of anyone,” John stated firmly, backed by incredulous nodding from Jack. “They’re with us, period.”

  Chaz shrugged. “Have it your way. But they smell, and that means death here.”

  “You aren’t a garden of roses yourself,” Fred pointed out.

  “Fred!” Uncas exclaimed. “Mind your tongue! This be Scowler Charles you be addressin’!”

  “There you go with that ‘Charles’ business again,” Chaz said, irritated. “My name is Chaz, not that it matters to you. And you owe me a life-debt.”

  “For what?” asked Jack.

  “Saving you from the Sweeps,” said Chaz, “but I’ll consider it paid if you give me the fat badger to roast.”

  Uncas couldn’t decide whether to be offended at being called fat, or horrified at the idea of being eaten. Fred just bared his teeth and stepped in front of his father.

  “You must be joking,” said Jack. “These aren’t merely animals—they’re our friends!”

  “Thank you,” said Uncas. “I think.”

  “Where we’re from, Chaz, we don’t eat our friends,” John explained.

  “I thinks you’re here now, not where you’re from,” Chaz replied. “But I’m not really that hungry anyway.” With a last look at the badgers, he turned and trotted off. About twenty yards away, he turned around, a silhouette against the hillside. “Well? Are you idiots coming or not?”

  There had been little choice. And as obscured as it was by strangeness, the voice that beckoned to them was their friend’s voice. So they—all four of them—followed.