by Paul Durham
Rye breathed hard. It had grown colder. She could see her breath. From the corner of her eye, she thought she could see things moving in the shadows of the buildings. Then, when she would look, they’d be gone.
Rye began to run.
Rye wasn’t the fastest runner on Mud Puddle Lane but she could run the longest. Whenever she raced Quinn from her house to Miser’s End Cemetery, Quinn would always win. When they raced to the cemetery and back again, Quinn didn’t stand a chance. Rye’s big lungs and strong legs served her well on the night of the Black Moon. She tore through the streets, falling twice over loose stones. She picked herself up and kept going.
By the time she reached the broken wall, her chest pounded and her hood stuck to the sweat on her forehead. Her head was spinning worse than her stomach now, but she was greatly relieved to make it to Mud Puddle Lane without anyone seeing her, grabbing her, or otherwise scaring her out of her pants. She was even more relieved when she opened the door to the O’Chanters’ cottage and found it to be quiet. Rye had managed to make it home before her mother.
Then she realized the problem. Nobody else was there either.
“Quinn?” Rye called.
The door to her mother’s room was open. Rye poked her head inside but found it empty.
“Quinn!” Rye called again. She opened the door to her own room. The covers were off and Lottie was nowhere to be found.
Rye picked her fingers as panic set in. She ran to the main room and threw open the front door, about to run to Quinn’s house to see if he’d taken Lottie back with him. A thought made her pause. She quickly walked to the wall by the fireplace and pushed on a painting of Mona Monster’s belly button.
Quinn was in the secret workshop, pinned to a chair by Lottie. Her arms were around his neck, her mop of red hair buried on his shoulder. She snored like a hive of lazy bees. Poor Quinn looked frightful. His hair was as wild as Lottie’s and his face was covered with blue paint.
“You said you’d be right back,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Rye said.
“You said she never wakes up.”
“She doesn’t,” Rye said. “What happened?”
“She said she had to go wee.”
“Did she go?” Rye asked.
“Not wee,” Quinn said.
“Oh,” Rye said. “Did she use her Pot?”
“No,” Quinn said glumly and pointed to his shoes in the corner.
“Ugh,” said Rye.
“It was awful, Rye. What do you people feed this girl?”
“I’ll clean your shoe.”
“She was screeching about a lazy glue wagon,” Quinn said.
“A baby blue dragon,” Rye corrected.
“And magic narbles,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “She refused to sleep until I gave her a magic narble. Where on earth am I supposed to find one of those?”
“A magic marble,” Rye said. “They’re just beach pebbles. Lottie gets one every time she uses her Pot. When she fills her goodie jar, my mother says she can have a baby blue dragon.”
Rye had no idea where they might acquire a baby dragon of any color. But Lottie didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about her potty training anyway. She was just as likely to go in her mother’s vegetable garden, or a cook pot, or poor Quinn’s shoe. She had only collected three marbles so far. They still had plenty of time to sort out the details.
“And that one,” Quinn said, pointing to the corner, “has been unbearable all night. I thought he was going to rip down the door.”
Shady paced the floor restlessly. He looked over his furry shoulder as they spoke about him.
“He scratched me,” Quinn said. “Twice.”
He held up his arm. There were four long, red welts.
“Sorry, Quinn,” Rye said. “Where else did he get you?”
“I’m sitting on it.”
Shady blinked his yellow eyes and chattered, quite satisfied with himself.
“Quinn,” Rye said. “Why did you bring Lottie in here? She’ll tell my mother for sure.”
“I didn’t,” Quinn said. “I was chasing her. Trying to get my shoe. She knew right where the door was—ran back here and hid. I was shocked myself.”
Just then the flame in the tabletop lantern flickered from a draft.
Shady noticed it too. His ears perked up and he darted from the workshop.
“Pigshanks,” Rye said. “The front door.”
The front door was open, but not because Abby was home. In her haste to find Quinn and Lottie, Rye had forgotten to close it. Rye ran back into the main room from the secret workshop just in time to see the fluff of Shady’s black tail disappear out the door.
“Shady, no!” Rye yelled, with no effect.
Quinn followed her from the workshop, shoeless, with Lottie hanging upside down from his arms, still fast asleep.
“Quinn, stay here. I have to go after him,” Rye said.
“No way,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “You can’t leave me here alone with her again.”
“Please, Quinn,” Rye said, and didn’t wait for an answer.
Rye ran back into the night. She stood in the middle of Mud Puddle Lane, calling for Shady in a whisper at first, then louder. With his black fur, he’d be invisible in the shadows. Rye thought about what she would do if she was a cat let outside for the first time. Cats were cautious, so she would probably take her time and look around. After that, well, she’d probably try to catch a bird. The hens?
Rye rushed around the side of the O’Chanters’ cottage toward the backyard. She didn’t see anything at first, but she could hear the hens rustling in their coop. The goat was bleating in its pen. Everything seemed restless on the Black Moon. Then, low in the grass, by the side of her house, she saw a strange, pale blue glow.
She squinted in the dark. Could it be a wirry? It was very still. Rye crept closer. As she approached, she saw that the blue glow was attached to two glistening eyes. They were yellow. It was Shady. He was crouched low on his belly, staring at the yard and beyond. Maybe she was right, he was getting ready to explore the henhouse. The blue glow came from the collar around his neck. The runestones had taken on an otherworldly light.
Rye pulled at the collar of her cloak and craned her head to look down at the choker around her own neck. It had the same strange pale glow. She had never noticed that before. It certainly didn’t glow when she was asleep in bed. Had it been doing that all night?
She tiptoed carefully, whispering compliments and sweet words as she approached Shady. She was just about to pick him up when he darted into the yard, faster than she had ever seen him move. All she saw was his blue collar speeding past the henhouse. She ran to follow but the collar kept going, over the wattle fence of their backyard. Rye’s words were no longer complimentary or sweet.
She hurdled the fence and watched the collar now well ahead of her. Shady was heading up the path along Troller’s Hill. Once he got to the top he would have two options. To the right was Miser’s End Cemetery—a forgotten old graveyard that everyone said was haunted. Rye hoped he would go that way. Her heart sank as she saw the blue glow stop at the top of the hill. Shady chose to go left and headed down toward the bogs.
The bogs were not pleasant under the best circumstances, and Rye tried to avoid them even during the day. They were damp and full of moss, hip-deep in places. It was easy to get stuck if you weren’t careful. Snakes and bloodsucking insects made it their home, and if the beasties didn’t bite you, the plants would. Carnivorous bog plants trapped and ate things with their leafy mouths—frogs, birds. Folly said her brothers found one so big it nearly ate one of their hunting dogs. Rye didn’t quite believe that. Of course, that wasn’t the worst thing Folly said someone saw in the bogs.
Chasing after Shady, Rye didn’t have time to think of any of those things. She knew if she lost sight of Shady’s collar he would be gone forever. He still had a healthy lead and pulled farther away as she splashed through the dark, knee-deep
water. The salt fog was rising, making it difficult to follow even a glowing beacon. She was shivering, her clothes soaked from the spray of her footsteps. She pushed herself as hard as she could, but her feet stuck in the layers of moss and muck until she could barely move. The blue light faded away.
Rye stopped and threw her arms to her sides in frustration. Running was pointless. Her stomach churned as if she might be sick again. The night had left her head dizzy and disoriented. She listened. Frogs. The hum of a thousand insects, even this late in the season. Somewhere in the distance she heard a splash.
“Shady!” she called in despair, as loud as she could.
The bog went silent. The frogs—even the insects—stopped humming. Rye felt a shiver run up her spine. Then it went up the back of her neck. It was a centipede. Blech. She swatted it off.
Then she saw something. A faint glimmer on the ground in the distance. She couldn’t tell if it was blue, but it was most certainly a light. Rye pushed through the muck as best she could. As she approached, she realized the light was coming from a mound of earth, dry ground sitting up out of the wetness of the bog. Carefully, she crept up to the clearing. It was a small, smoldering fire, made with loose twigs and logs and encircled with stones. Over the fire, some sort of animal cooked on a crude spit.
Rye had a horrible thought but quickly determined that it wasn’t a cat. Maybe a big hairless rat or weasel. It looked even less appetizing than the sea lion. Someone must have been hungry, as there were already large bite marks in its haunches.
The fire appeared to be recently abandoned. Rye looked around for any clues as to who might have made it. There wasn’t much of a camp, but in the dim light she could see a small leather pouch no larger than her fist lying next to the fire. It was tied shut with a horsehair rope. She crept forward carefully and picked it up. She untied the cord and peeked in. The three items inside were quite unusual. Rye was inspecting them so closely that she didn’t notice the long, nasty-looking club on the ground beside it. The one with the bent iron nails jutting out in all directions.
There was another splash. Rye peered into the darkness. Fifteen or twenty feet from the camp, two eyes flickered at water level. Something was bent over, using its hand like a cup and drinking from the bog. One of the eyes, independent from the other, suddenly looked over in Rye’s direction. The second one followed, and they both rose up from the water as it straightened at the waist. Even stooped over, the eyes came to rest at the height of a fully grown man. As it stood, Rye knew immediately that this was no man. She was about to run, but it was too late.
The creature covered the ground between them in three strides. It had leathery, gray skin and large ears, with a pointed nose turned up at the end like a pig’s. Its chest was covered in thick hair and, although tall, it was bony. Rye could see its ribs between its shallow breaths. Under its distended jaw, a long, orange beard was braided like ship rope and tied at the end with a child’s bootlace. The top of its head was knotty and elongated like a pine cone, with a tuft of coarse hair that matched its beard and would have reminded Rye of a carrot if she had been in any mood for silly thoughts. The miserable beast had metal fishhooks through each ear and another through its nose, and at the corner of one furrowed eyebrow, a small red puncture seeped and oozed. Around its neck was the most horrible necklace Rye had ever seen. Strung on a brass chain were three pairs of what looked like human feet.
Rye had time to observe all of this because, unfortunately, she wasn’t going anywhere. The terrible, knot-headed creature had snatched her up by the collar and was examining her closely with its most terrifying feature—its eyes. They were small for its head but they bulged like someone was squeezing it by the neck. Each eye rotated in a different direction as it studied Rye. The creature lapped at its lips with a long black tongue, leaving spittle in the hair on its chin.
After a moment, the creature’s two eyes apparently reached consensus and fixated on Rye’s throat. With its free hand it pushed aside the collar of her cloak with a crooked finger.
Rye thrashed her arms and legs in an effort to break free. She couldn’t.
The creature’s eyebrows furrowed. Its eyes squinted closely and its mouth opened. Rye could see its jagged, misshapen teeth.
Suddenly, its left eye darted in one direction and grew wide. The right one quickly joined it. The creature unleashed a horrible scream, a cross between an animal in pain and a baby wailing. Rye threw her hands over her ears.
She saw a dark flash out of the corner of her eye, and then she was falling. Rye’s shoulders landed hard in the mud. The back of her head followed close behind, bouncing off earth that was moist but not soft.
Her world went dark.
9
Watch What You Eat
Before Rye opened her eyes she knew she was someplace warm and familiar. She heard the crackle of a fireplace and felt the comfort of soft bedsheets. She turned her cheek and saw a toothy, pink hobgoblin staring at her from the other pillow. Mona Monster.
She felt the pressure of something moving on her chest. She lifted her neck to look but it hurt her head. It was Shady. The big black pile of fur touched her chin with his wet nose and gave her a lick. There was someone else moving in the room. Rye assumed it was her mother, but when she turned her head she would have jumped out of the bed if she’d had the strength.
A man stood over her. He was tall, with longish dark hair to his neck. He had scars on his cheeks and nose. She could see them through the stubble on his face. He seemed surprised to see her awake and studied her carefully with his dark eyes. He was familiar. Rye had seen him before—at the Dead Fish Inn. That could have been hours or weeks ago. Her memory was fuzzy and dull around the edges.
The man reached toward Rye and she could see his green tattoos. Rye shuddered as he touched her, but when he put his big hand gently over her eyes, everything went dark again.
When Rye next woke, it was to a great commotion.
“Mine, mine,” Lottie was yelling.
“Lottie,” Abby said, “put that sword down this instant.”
“No!”
A door slammed.
“You’ll lose a foot playing with that thing,” Abby called. Then, more quietly, “Riley, you’re awake?”
Abby came and sat on the side of the bed. She placed a cool hand on Rye’s forehead.
“How are you feeling, my darling?” she said.
Rye tried to talk but she couldn’t summon a voice. She just touched her throat.
“Yes, your voice,” Abby said. “Don’t worry, it will return soon enough.”
There was a loud crash in the other room, followed by Lottie’s cackle. It sounded like a small army was going to battle with the cook pots.
“In the meantime, we could use some quiet around here,” Abby said. She got up and fetched a cup of steaming liquid from a kettle boiling over the fire. “Here. Peat tea. It will help.”
Rye sat up in her bed and took a sip. The tea was bitter, and a little too hot going down, but it seemed to help her catch her breath.
“A man,” Rye said, in the loudest voice she could muster. It was little more than a whisper. “He had a scar on his face and . . .”
Rye ran her fingers up her forearms. It was easier than trying to say “tattoos” with no voice.
Her mother seemed to think for a moment before answering. She gave her a tight smile.
“He’s a friend, Riley,” she said finally. “He comes by from time to time. Don’t worry. He’s harmless.”
“Mama . . . ,” Rye whispered, but couldn’t force any more words. She took another sip of tea. “Mama . . . there was . . . a Bog Noblin. I saw it.”
Her mother put her hand on Rye’s cheek and shook her head.
“I did,” she whispered, “in the bogs.”
“I believe you,” Abby said. “We found you collapsed and feverish on Troller’s Hill. It’s a good thing Quinn was able to tell us where you’d run off to or you might have been out there all night
.”
Rye thought she saw a tremble in her mother’s reassuring smile.
“It breaks my heart that you had to experience something like that,” Abby said. “But you’re safe now, as safe as you could ever possibly be.”
“Mama,” Rye said, pushing her mother’s hand away from her face. “We need to tell the soldiers. Before it, it . . .” Rye shuddered. “Comes back.”
“Darling, quiet now.” Abby eased her back down. “Your close call is something best kept to ourselves. Bog Noblin attacks attract attention. The Constable—and the Earl—would be eager to speak with you. That’s not the type of attention we want.”
Rye didn’t understand.
“But what about the rest of the village?” she said, with the last of her voice.
“Riley,” her mother said. “Listen to me carefully. I’ll make sure the right people know what happened. But at the moment, you need to rest. Your encounter in the bog was not the only trouble that befell you on the Black Moon. You were poisoned.”
Rye stopped. Her eyes grew wide.
“That’s right, my love.” Her mother gave her a knowing look. “You must watch what you eat at places like the Dead Fish Inn.”
Rye swallowed hard, for a variety of reasons.
“That sea lion cake you ate was laced with Asp’s Tongue. It’s a deadly poison—intended for someone other than you, of course. You just happened to pick the wrong plate to sample. More than one or two bites would have been fatal. As it is, it caused your fever and turned your stomach inside out. That, plus what must have been quite a thump on your head, put you in bed for days.”
Rye was stunned. She didn’t know what to say.
Her mother smiled again. She leaned over and kissed Rye on the forehead.
“Don’t fret too much, darling.” She stood up. “We will talk about this after you are feeling better. We have a lot of talking and explaining to do, don’t we?”
Rye nodded. Abby nodded back.
“Good,” Abby said. “In the meantime, some people have been waiting very patiently to see you. I promised them fifteen minutes once you were awake. But no more than that. You need your rest.”