The Luck Uglies

by Paul Durham

  That night they all went to bed together in Abby’s room. They exchanged “good nights” and “sleep tights.” Nestled between Rye and Abby, Lottie fell asleep first. Rye found herself staring at her sister’s delicate features. She tried to recreate Harmless’s face in her mind. As unpleasant as Lottie could often be, Rye had to admit she was remarkably cute and scar-free—which made for a tough comparison. Still, her mother’s conspicuous silence had left Rye wondering how well Abby and Harmless really knew each other. She was determined to continue her morning visits—one way or another.

  Shady rested on Rye’s feet at the foot of the bed and began gently snoring. Rye couldn’t tell if her mother was asleep yet, but she soon drifted off herself.

  Rye didn’t know how long she had been sleeping, but she woke to a heavy pressure on her chest. When she opened her eyes, two yellow orbs glowed inches from her face. It was Shady. His thick body stood on her chest, his big feline eyes wide and alert.

  “Shady,” Rye whispered, “what are you doing?”

  A low growl escaped from somewhere deep in Shady’s throat. Rye sat up carefully. Both her mother and sister were fast asleep.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she said.

  Rye slipped quietly from the bed and set her bare feet on the cold floor. She tried to pick Shady up in her arms, but he wanted nothing of it and wrenched himself free. Clearly it wasn’t Rye he was interested in. He climbed to the head of the bed and stared intently at the window.

  “What is it, Shady?” Rye whispered again. “Is something outside?”

  She put her hand on the shutter. Shady twitched with anticipation. Rye opened it quickly. Only the night’s darkness greeted her from the other side of the glass. The room was dark too except for the glow of the fireplace embers.

  “See, Shady?” Rye whispered with relief. “Nothing’s there.”

  Shady’s tail stopped twitching, but he now made a clicking sound like he was grinding his teeth. He obviously didn’t believe her.

  “Maybe it’s a possum or a skunk,” Rye said, and cupped her hands around her eyes as she pressed her nose to the windowpane. She didn’t see Shady’s collar begin to glow.

  A bulging watery eye appeared on the other side of the glass, just an inch from her own.

  Rye screamed and nearly leaped out of her nightgown.

  Outside, Leatherleaf unleashed his terrible beast-baby wail.

  Nobody on Mud Puddle Lane was sleeping anymore.

  The O’Chanters watched from behind their front windows as Leatherleaf stalked down Mud Puddle Lane. The moon was bright in the sky and cast enough light for them to see his hulking shadow, but little else.

  Rye saw candle lights and lanterns in the other windows on the street, her neighbors keeping watch just as they were, but no one ventured outside. Leatherleaf had already eaten two sheep and a chicken he’d plucked from a neighbor’s yard, and tufts of wool and chicken feathers were matted in the thick hair on his chest. His appetite seemed to be satisfied for the time being, and he turned himself to another favorite Bog Noblin pursuit—vandalism. He kicked over a wooden fence. He grabbed the trunk of the apple tree in Old Lady Crabtree’s yard with both claws and shook it violently, until each and every apple had fallen to the ground. He then picked them up and started throwing them in every direction.

  Rye turned from the window and looked around the cottage. The doors and windows were firmly latched, but she had no doubt that Leatherleaf could knock them open in one or two blows if he was so inclined. Shady was doing his best to rip them down from the inside. He howled and yowled and threw himself against the door. That didn’t work and he had now taken to clawing at it with his paws, his determination so fierce that he left deep grooves right in the wood. Abby seemed to consider him for a long time. Finally, reluctantly, she hauled him scratching and thrashing into the pantry and shut the door.

  “Not now, little warrior,” Rye heard Abby say to the door, in a whisper that was barely audible.

  She rejoined the girls at the window. Lottie’s chin barely cleared the sill, but she pressed her nose against the glass.

  “Mama,” she said, “bear outside?”

  “Yes, Lottie. It’s a bear.”

  Lottie scowled. “Mean bear. Throw Nanny Cab-Tee’s apples. No, no, no,” she said, shaking a finger.

  Abby stared out the window, never taking her eyes off Leatherleaf, watching the street.

  Perhaps the most interesting thing Rye noticed was the pale blue glow around all their necks. The O’Chanters’ chokers, even Shady’s collar before his banishment to the pantry, glowed a matching shade of blue.

  There was a loud thump as an apple bounced off the house. All three O’Chanters jumped in surprise.

  “Mean bear hit our house,” Lottie yelled.

  Outside, Leatherleaf had taken his vandalism to a far more serious level. He had climbed onto the roof of the cottage across the street. His weight alone buckled the thatch-and-shingle roof, but now he was digging into it with his claws and tearing pieces away.

  “Mama,” Rye said, “it’s the Pendergills’ house. There are babies in there.”

  “I know,” Abby said quietly. “I know.”

  “Mama,” Rye said. “We have to do something.”

  Rye started dancing from foot to foot, as she often did when she was excited. It usually meant that her brain was about to stop working and she was going to run off somewhere and do something not-so-smart. Abby caught her by the arm and held it fast.

  “Riley,” she said, “you are staying right here.”

  “But, Mama,” she said, “the babies.”

  Leatherleaf had managed to tear a hole in the roof. He stared down through it, his black tongue flicking wildly at his lips.

  “Mama,” Rye said, her eyes welling with tears, “he’ll hurt them. Please, we have to stop him.”

  “Mean bear not nice,” Lottie huffed, and stepped away from Abby’s side.

  Abby turned and reached for her. As she did, she lost her grip on Rye’s arm.

  “Lottie, wait—RILEY!”

  “Humph!” Lottie said as she stomped to her room, angrily slamming the door behind her.

  Rye didn’t say anything at all as she unlatched the door and rushed out.

  Leatherleaf plunged his long, knotted arm through the hole up to his shoulder, fishing it around like a hungry cat’s paw in a kettle of sardines. His face wore a toothy smile, as if he had grabbed something tender and sweet, but when he noticed Rye his jagged grin disappeared. He climbed down from the roof empty-handed and approached her.

  She stood at the edge of her yard, now completely befuddled by what she had expected to accomplish. In her long history of bad decisions, even Rye had to admit this one might be her worst. She’d rushed headfirst into danger without thinking. Now she was alone, in the dark, with the same beast that had tried to make a meal of her once before.

  Except this time she wasn’t alone. She felt her mother’s arms wrap themselves around her from behind and pull her close to her body.

  Leatherleaf was less than three strides from them. He stared at them intently, his drippy, bulging eyes rotating in different directions. He stepped forward, then hesitated and took a step back. He paced back and forth, advanced and seemed to reconsider again. The smell of the bogs filled Rye’s nose. Skunk cabbage. The same smell as the pouch she’d taken from Leatherleaf’s camp.

  Rye felt Abby draw her in tighter.

  Leatherleaf snarled, pulling at his beard with a claw. He lurched forward, causing Rye to nearly jump out of her leggings, but he stopped short. Abby didn’t budge.

  “Stand strong,” she said in a whisper.

  Leatherleaf paced. He scratched at his face as if struggling with some enormous challenge, but Rye had no idea what it could be.

  Rye looked up at her mother.

  “No, no,” Abby whispered without looking down. “Eyes right at him.”

  Rye noticed her mother’s choker, exposed now f
rom the loosened collar of her dress. It glowed even brighter than it had inside. Rye glanced down. Her choker beamed too.

  Leatherleaf, on the other hand, was growing more and more agitated. He scuffled at the ground with his clawed feet like a bull ready to charge. He slapped at his own knobby head. His eyes rotated from Abby to Rye to the Pendergills’ house and back again.

  Rye felt her mother’s hands move up to rest on Rye’s shoulders.

  Leatherleaf drooled. Mucus from his eyes ran down his cheeks.

  With Abby guiding Rye by the shoulders, they took a collective step back toward their cottage.

  Leatherleaf pitched his head toward the sky and let out the fearsome wail Rye had already heard too many times. But instead of following them, he turned angrily and faced the Pendergills’ house. Rye’s eyes grew wide. Leatherleaf started for the hole he’d already made. Rye opened her mouth to scream but another sound froze him in place.

  It was a long, low whistle that carried its way up Mud Puddle Lane.

  Abby loosened her grip on Rye and they both looked toward the source of the noise. Leatherleaf’s eyes darted nervously.

  They had to squint, but there, at the far side of Mud Puddle Lane, on the forested end of the dirt road, was a solitary figure. It was covered head to toe in a dark, hooded cloak, and it stood perfectly still.

  Leatherleaf remained motionless, watching the figure, as if hoping if he stared long enough, it might go away.

  Neither of them moved for a long while, then finally the figure took a step forward. Then another. It approached Leatherleaf at a slow and deliberate pace. Leatherleaf seemed to grow increasingly nervous and agitated as the figure neared, but did not advance one way or the other.

  When the figure was about halfway down Mud Puddle Lane, it brushed aside the folds of its cloak and reached over its shoulders. Hands reappeared holding two sharp blades. There was something around its neck. Something that glowed intensely blue, like flames in a white-hot fire.

  Then Leatherleaf did something entirely unexpected. He began to run. In the opposite direction.

  What happened next was a blur to Rye. No sooner had Leatherleaf cleared the Quartermasts’ cottage than heavy netting engulfed him. The ropes of the net were as thick as a man’s arm and each end was weighted with heavy iron anchors. While Leatherleaf struggled to free himself, dozens of armored soldiers spilled onto the road from the village end of Mud Puddle Lane. They chopped at Leatherleaf’s legs with clubs and flails. Leatherleaf let out his hideous wail. All the soldiers paused for a moment to cover their ears before promptly resuming their attack. The more Leatherleaf struggled, the tighter the netting became.

  Rye looked back toward the other end of the street. The figure just stood there and, while she could not see its face, its body language seemed to indicate it was just as surprised as Leatherleaf at this recent turn of events. Abby took Rye by the arm and hurried her to their house.

  There were cheers and Rye looked to see the soldiers jumping up and down. They had managed to drag Leatherleaf to the ground. They continued to pummel him. Rye craned her neck toward the cloaked figure as Abby pushed her into the cottage, but he was nowhere to be found.

  Over the next half hour, the soldiers secured the Bog Noblin for transport. Leatherleaf put up a mighty struggle even on the ground, but after being beaten nearly senseless by a small army of soldiers—he’d managed to dispense with several even while caught in a net—he had no more fight left in him. An enormous cart pulled by a team of draft horses was brought to Mud Puddle Lane, and Rye’s neighbors began to venture out onto their doorsteps to watch the extraordinary proceedings unfold.

  Abby leaned on the window in silence, her jaw tightening as she took in the spectacle. Rye wondered if her mother was angry with her, Leatherleaf, or something else entirely. Lottie had rejoined them. A copper pot rested on her head, serving as a makeshift helmet. She held the lid as her shield, a small garden spade as her weapon. She seemed disappointed to have missed the battle with the mean bear.

  Rye noticed that Abby was clutching the collar of her nightdress, covering her choker.

  “Mama,” Rye said, “why do our chokers glow?”

  “What’s that?” she said, as if she hadn’t heard.

  “Our runes,” Rye said, tugging at her own choker. “Why do they glow whenever the Bog Noblin’s around?”

  Abby glanced over. She stepped toward Rye and adjusted Rye’s collar closed too.

  “It’s a warning,” she said simply.

  “They warn us when Bog Noblins are near?”

  “Something like that, yes,” Abby sighed. “But more importantly, it warns them to stay away.”

  Rye shook her head in disbelief. Where in the Shale would chokers like these come from?

  There was a great deal of hooting, hollering, and armored backslapping outside. With Leatherleaf finally secured to the enormous cart, the horsemen cracked their whips. The fleet of horses began pulling the cart and the vanquished Bog Noblin toward the village walls.

  15

  Trouble Afoot

  Rye watched carefully as Harmless tossed the gold grommet straight up in the air and caught it in his right hand three times, the coin flashing in the sunlight. The fourth time, he flicked it across his body and caught it in his left. But when he opened his left palm to show Rye, it was empty.

  Rye shook her head. “I don’t understand. Where did it go?”

  “Nowhere. It’s still in my right hand,” Harmless said, showing her. Indeed it was.

  “But I saw you throw it.”

  “Your mind saw it, but it never really happened,” Harmless said. “That’s the illusion. Here, watch again.”

  Rye watched again, closely. Again, she saw the coin fly from his right hand to his left. But when Harmless opened his palms, the coin hadn’t moved.

  “Your mind is a very powerful tool,” Harmless said, “but it can be deceived with a little practice. Someone who learns to trick the minds of others is very powerful indeed.”

  Harmless tossed her the coin. Rye bobbled it and dropped it into the overgrown weeds of the cemetery. She quickly found it and picked it up. Harmless just smiled.

  “Keep it for practice. Or spend it if you like. Whatever you prefer.”

  Harmless retrieved his bowl and spoon from the fallen headstone that served as their makeshift breakfast table. Rye was exhausted after her sleepless night on Mud Puddle Lane. She suspected the rest of the neighborhood was weary too, although they all seemed greatly relieved now that the Bog Noblin had been captured. Despite her drooping eyes and dragging feet, there was no way Rye was going to miss a morning with Harmless. She had too many questions in need of answering. Yesterday her mother had said no sneaking around the cemetery until the Bog Noblin mess was settled. It certainly seemed settled now.

  “Breakfast is delicious,” Harmless said. “What is it?”

  Rye looked skeptical.

  “Cornmeal mush and molasses,” she said.

  Harmless spooned it all up with great enthusiasm. Clearly he was not a fussy eater.

  When he finished his meal, he set the bowl on the headstone, stretched, and let out a large belch. Rye giggled. Her mother didn’t always appreciate her and Lottie’s burping contests at the table.

  “You know,” Harmless said, “there are places where it’s considered rude if you don’t belch after a meal.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right,” Harmless said. “It’s how you say thank you.”

  “In that case, you’re welcome,” Rye said.

  They both sat quietly for a time. Harmless wasn’t going to make it easy, and he seemed content to just sit and enjoy the morning sun.

  “Everyone is quite relieved that the Bog Noblin has been captured,” Rye said finally.

  “I imagine so,” Harmless said.

  “It’s been a frightening few days,” Rye said. “Weeks, really.”

  Harmless rubbed his stubbly chin. He seemed to be considering
things. “Leatherleaf’s behavior was much unexpected. I’m surprised he ventured onto Mud Puddle Lane. It makes very little sense.”

  “You said you’ve been following him,” Rye said. “Aren’t you glad he was captured by the Earl’s men?”

  “I’m neither happy nor sad about that. I am, however, troubled by what comes next.”

  “Next?” Rye said.

  Harmless turned to her. “I’m not the only one following Leatherleaf. There are others. Leatherleaf, you see, is running for his life.”

  “Running from who?” Rye said, her eyes wide.

  “His clan,” Harmless said. “That’s like his family. Although they’re nothing like a family you or I would imagine.”

  “Why would he run from his family?”

  “It’s a sad and complicated story. But to make it simple, Leatherleaf’s clan—the Clugburrow—is one of the oldest and fiercest of the Bog Noblin clans—which is saying something, believe me. They are unforgiving, and terribly cruel. Leatherleaf was the runt of the clan—the smallest and weakest. He was beaten and tormented mercilessly. Finally, he fled.”

  The runt, Rye thought, and shuddered. What on earth did the others look like?

  “Why does everyone say Bog Noblins are extinct?” Rye said.

  Harmless gave her a tight smile. “We often tell untruths to help us sleep easier at night.”

  Rye frowned and wondered what other untruths she’d been clinging to.

  “Anyway,” Harmless continued, “Leatherleaf has been running for several months now. I am most surprised he has stopped and dawdled for so long. . . .” Harmless trailed off in thought. “Only something very compelling would keep him here.”

  Rye’s mind jumped to the leather pouch. Could that be the answer? One she knew but Harmless didn’t? Rye’s excitement quickly soured. If the pouch was indeed keeping Leatherleaf here, it meant all his destruction—and any more to come—would be her fault.

  “Why is his clan chasing him?” Rye said. She suddenly felt like she’d swallowed a rotten pigeon egg. “Why won’t they just let him go?”