Rumors persist that a small number of wishes remain, stored in glass jars and sold to the very, very rich, but this is likely—dare I say it—wishful thinking.
Chapter Two
Bo woke when he felt a boot digging into his stomach.
“Get up, you lazy lump,” grumbled Mads, the owner of the boot. “It’s market day. Wood’s not going to sell itself.”
Bo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d shivered half the night to the sounds of Shadow Creatures prowling outside, louder and closer than usual. Of course, Mads burned a candle throughout the night—without it, the hut would become Dark and the Shadow Creatures could find a way in. But it didn’t stop Bo’s fears: What if the Light blew out? What if the Shadow Creatures found a way in regardless?
When Bo had finally fallen asleep just before dawn he had dreamed of the tree, of the trunk bursting open and a horde of Shadow Creatures pouring out to eat him alive.
Bo sat up and looked blearily at the small, dank space around him: four wooden walls, an open fire, a cot where Mads slept, and a bucket for the kind of business it’s not polite to talk about. Bo slept on the floor.
A lick of morning Light teased the corner of Bo’s blanket. He wondered how early it was, if he had time to run to the center of the forest and tend to that beastly old tree before market. He glanced at Mads’s cot in the corner of the hut, where, underneath, there was a box containing the gold-red powder he needed. But how was he to get hold of it without Mads knowing?
“Up, up, up,” growled Mads as he plonked onto the edge of the cot to tie his boots.
Bo tried to stand but there was a dead weight on his feet where Nix slept. “Get up, you lazy lump,” he said. The fox opened one eye but did not move.
Mads stood, tossing a knob of bread and cheese into Bo’s lap. “Eat. Be quick about it.”
Mads was a tall man, tall and thick and knobby and gray. And grumpy. But Bo was thankful the woodcutter had taken him in when his mother had dumped him. He’d been a scrawny, bawling, stinking little mite in soiled sheets with a note pinned to his shift.
“What did the note say?” he’d asked Mads once.
“That your father’s dead and your mother never wanted you. Now don’t go asking more questions or it’ll be slop duty for a month,” the old man had replied.
As long as Bo completed his chores, Mads fed him and gave him shelter.
Bo wriggled out from under Nix. The fox stretched, shaking out his fur. Bo rolled his thin mattress tightly and stowed it away, then he halved his bread and cheese, sharing them with Nix. He chewed loudly, eyeing the shadowy space beneath the cot. He had nothing to fear from the shadows during the Light, when they were harmless once more. But if Bo couldn’t get his hands on the box hidden there, and Mads found out he didn’t take care of the tree yesterday . . .
Bo flinched as the old man snapped, “We’re late.” Mads shrugged on his coat and hid his wild tufts of silvery hair beneath a felt cap. It was morning and already the stench of lindberry beer clung to him. “No time for staring into space, you useless boy.”
Bo swallowed the last of his breakfast and followed Mads to the door.
The tree would have to wait.
* * *
The village of Squall’s End was a coil of pearly white huts nestled in the Valley of Stropp in the province of Irin. A narrow road led from a forest in the northwest, where Bo lived, down into the village.
Mads hauled a cart stacked high with wood along the gravel road. Bo hurried along behind, stumbling on the hem of his hooded cloak, three sizes too big.
The Light was pale as it peeked above the first quadrant. Bo yawned.
“Keep up,” said Mads.
Bo looked back at Nix, trotting behind him. “He means you.”
Nix barked.
“Does too.”
The road grew narrower as it entered the village. Whitewashed huts huddled in curved rows, crowding the edge of the road. Villagers were up and about, unlocking the heavy doors and window shutters that protected them against Shadow Creatures.
“How dare you step foot in this village,” sneered a hunched old lady. She was bashing a rolling pin against a rug slung over a washing line, the dust mushrooming into the air around her. Bo coughed, tugging at the edge of his hood, pulling it farther over his face. Maybe she isn’t talking to me, he thought. But the old lady spat at Bo’s feet as he passed, leaving him in no doubt. “The Shadow Creatures were in a state last night, thanks to you,” she said. “Howling and scratching and screeching. My best rosebushes wilted and died. It’s all your fault, Devil-child.” Bash, bash, bash. “You lead them into the village, don’t you? Looking for innocents to devour!”
A flush of bitter heat rushed through him. He turned away before the old lady could see the wetness in his eyes, but her words burrowed under his skin and pricked him all over like a thousand stikenbee stings.
“Pay her no mind,” said Mads, the wheels of the cart croaking and groaning as he ambled on. “Superstitious claptrap.”
Bo hurried to catch up, leaving the sneering woman and her cloud of dust behind. “It was bad last night, though, wasn’t it?” said Bo.
Mads sniffed.
“The Shadow Creatures, I mean,” continued Bo. “They were making a racket. I could hardly sleep. I thought they were going to break the walls down. It’s never been like that before.”
Mads looked skyward. “Some nights are worse than others,” he said before shaking his head and speeding up. “Come now,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re late.”
The road spiraled inward until it reached the village square, which wasn’t a square at all but a large paved circle in the center of town. Most stalls were already set up, laden with fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, breads, and sweets. Only Mads sold wood; no other villager dared set foot near the haunted forest, let alone inside it. That was why they were so terrified of him; that, and his hulking size and ready fists. Bo hoped to one day be as tall as Mads—perhaps then the villagers would leave him alone too.
“Here comes the Devil-man and his Devil-child,” muttered the baker as Bo passed, and a small child leaning against his mother’s legs looked up at Bo with wide eyes.
“It’s the Devil-child,” the young boy whispered to his mother. “He’s come to eat me!” The child’s bottom lip trembled as he gripped his mother’s skirt. Bo pressed his lips together, tugging the hood over his face as the mother hurried her child away. But the cloak felt as if it had shrunk, leaving Bo vulnerable to every jeer, every stare, every hiss. He did not think there was a cloak big enough to hide him from the villagers and their hate.
Bo dragged his feet after Mads, who had set the cart in their usual spot on the very edge of the market square.
Mads pulled out his sign—WOOD FOR SALE—and leaned it against the wheel of the cart. He pulled down a large stump for a seat, threw his hat on the ground to collect the money, and sat, arms folded, glowering at the villagers, as if daring them to come close.
It was a busy day. Mads unscrewed the cap of his flask and took a swig. Bo leaned against the cart and tried to ignore the stares and whispers. Nix sat beside him, growling at every passerby.
But no one wanted to buy wood. The bad night had everyone spooked; they hurried by Mads’s stall with their eyes averted, their heads lowered. Hours passed. No one came near them.
Eventually, Mads leaned over and pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. “Here.” He tossed the coins to Bo. “Buy yourself some of that apple crackling you like.” He took another swig of his flask.
Bo stared at the coins in his palm. Apple crackling was his favorite: thin slices of tangy apple dipped in honey, deep fried, and then lightly salted. It made his stomach rumble just thinking about it, but it made him ache, too, because Bo understood why he was being sent away and why Mads wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“Come on,” said Bo to Nix, and they took off through the market crowded with locals and traders from all corners of the pr
ovince, and even a handful of Irin soldiers in their green uniforms and brass buttons and swords sheathed at their waists.
“Real Korahku feathers!” cried a seller as Bo passed her stall. “Get your genuine Korahku feathers here!” Bo peered closely at the long, reddish-brown, metal-tipped feathers the seller held high above her head. “Plucked fresh today! Will slice a grown man’s head clean off with a single swipe!” Playfully, the stallholder made to swipe at Bo but stopped when she saw who was peeking out from under the hood. She drew back, fear contorting her face. “Get away from me, Devil-child. You’ll curse my stall!”
Nix barked at her until Bo pulled him away. “Forget it,” he said. “It’s not worth it.”
They continued through the bustling market, slowly this time. Bo kept his hood low and his hands in his pockets. Luckily, he knew the way to the apple crackling stall by heart. Left, right, straight, around, sharp left—
“A spot of rabbit for your little creature, young master?” asked a man on Bo’s right.
Bo ducked his head low, hunching his shoulders. “Keep walking, Nix,” he whispered, but Nix couldn’t resist an offer of food. The little fox trotted toward the man, his tongue flapping out the side of his mouth.
“Traitor,” mumbled Bo. He tugged at the hem of his hood, hovering meters from the stall.
“Here you go, little one.” The strange man offered a strip of dried rabbit meat to the fox.
“Wait, Nix, we haven’t paid for that,” protested Bo, but Nix had already snapped up the meat and was sitting back, waiting for more. There goes my apple crackling, thought Bo. He opened his palm to count his money. “How much?” he said to the man, careful not to meet his eyes.
“No cost, no cost,” said the man. His voice was smooth and gilt-edged. “My name is Galvin. And you?”
Bo pushed his hood back enough to sneak a glance at the stranger. He was middle-aged and rounded, all curves and lumps and mounds, with a pinkish, grayish pallor to his wrinkly skin. He was short—even for an Irin—and his restless eyes never settled in one place.
“I’m Bo.”
“I like your fancy cloak, young Bo,” said Galvin with a smile. His teeth were made of solid gold, blackened around the edges. “Very courtly.”
Bo dipped his gaze, his cheeks burning hot—no one had ever complimented him before. His eyes flicked nervously over the man’s stall: it was full of things. Boxes and rings and plates and knives and carvings and things Bo did not have names for: rusted things and shiny things and sharp things and oddly shaped things. Bo shifted closer.
“See anything you like?” said Galvin. “All good prices for a fine young gentleman such as yourself.”
Bo’s fingers trembled as they hovered over each strange item. He wanted everything. He wanted it because it was new and strange, and suddenly Bo felt how small his life was, how little he knew of the world.
“Maledian merwolf hair?” suggested Galvin, waving his hand over a clear pouch bulging with coarse blue hair. “Or a necklace of troll’s teeth, perhaps? Perfect for warding off tree sprites. Nasty little critters.” He handed Nix another strip of rabbit.
Bo nudged the fox with his boot. “Don’t be greedy,” he whispered.
Nix barked.
“Are so.”
Bo raised his head to ask Galvin what on Ulv tree sprites were when he noticed the shelf behind him. On it sat a hodgepodge of steaming potions in small glass vials and sparkly rocks and globs of gooey green sludge and brightly colored insects trapped in glass cubes. In the center of the shelf was a jar, and in it was a tiny spark of Light just bobbing in the air; when Bo looked directly at it, a sharp fizzle ran up and down his spine and he had to look away because it hurt his eyes. Bo’s heart hammered in his chest.
“What is that?”
“What good taste you have,” crooned Galvin with a golden smile. He hadn’t even turned to look at what Bo was pointing at. He leaned in close, lowering his voice. “But it’s the only one of its kind and too expensive for you, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve got money,” protested Bo.
Galvin laughed; his gold teeth glistened. “Do you?” he said. He sucked on his lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “Very well. Tell me, what do you know about wishes?”
Bo frowned. “When you want something, you say it to yourself and you hope it comes true. That’s a wish, isn’t it?” Bo often wished his mother hadn’t abandoned him and his father hadn’t died, but no matter how many times he wished for such a thing, it never came true. So he didn’t think wishes were real.
Galvin motioned for Bo to lean in. He did and the Irin lowered his voice even more. “That’s part of it, yes,” said Galvin, “but if you want your wish to come true, you need a Star.”
“A Star? No such thing. Everyone knows that.”
Galvin slid his stubby fingers around Bo’s wrist and pulled him in closer. “Not true, young Bo. Not true at all. Long ago, children not much younger than you were sold to ruthless wish-traders, just to extract the wishes from inside fallen Stars. Very dangerous job,” he said. “And now that all the Stars are gone, no more wishes. Except this one.” He jutted his chin at the silvery glass jar behind him.
Bo didn’t believe a word of it and yet . . . how his heart raced when he looked at the little speck of Light in that jar! How it made him think of his mother, why she left him in the forest, where she was now, and if perhaps—perhaps—she missed him. Bo was so intoxicated by these thoughts that he stopped worrying about whether or not Stars were real or if wishes could be trapped in small glass jars. All he could think about was: What if he could wish to meet his mother and what if such a wish could come true? Surely she would tell him it had all been a mistake. How much she regretted leaving him! How happy she was to be reunited with her boy!
Bo licked his dry lips. “How much?” he asked.
Galvin jerked back, releasing his grip on Bo. “How much? How much? You could wish for anything—fame, fortune, love . . . What price would you place on such things?”
“I’ve got . . .” Bo counted. “. . . five Raha.”
Galvin threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Five Raha? For the last wish in the land?” He patted Bo’s hand. “Oh, my lad, you’ve had a treat for your pet. I took pity on you because of the way the villagers stare and whisper and spit at you. But I don’t pity you enough to sell you the last wish in the land for five Raha. On you go.” He waved Bo away. “Shoo! Be off with you and your five Raha.”
Bo licked his lips again, his eyes on the glass jar. “How much do you need?” he asked. “I can get more.”
Galvin’s eyes danced. “Come back when you have a hundred times that amount.”
Bo tried to hide his gasp—a hundred times? How would he get hold of so much money?
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” said Galvin, but he was already waving Bo on again, trying to clear a path for paying customers to approach. “Come back then. I’ll just take two . . . no, three Raha now as compensation for the rabbit your fox ate.” He snapped several coins out of Bo’s hand before Bo could protest.
Bo shook his head as he walked away. “It’s a trick,” he said to Nix. “Has to be. No way that’s a real wish. Stars are made up.”
But still, as he headed back to Mads, looking over his shoulder at the strange Irin and his stall of glittering oddments, Bo couldn’t help but wonder.
Chapter Three
Later that day, once they had returned from market and the Light was hanging low in the sky, Bo hurried to the center of the forest, a mended pouch of stolen powder beating against his thigh as he ran.
“Hurry, Nix,” panted Bo. “We’ve got to get this done before Mads returns from collecting water at the river.”
As he ran, Bo couldn’t stop thinking about the man from the market. On the way home, he’d asked Mads about the Stars. “If they’re real, then where have they vanished to?” he’d said. “Wasn’t really a magic wolf, was it? That’s just a game and I’m too big to play it and I’m def
initely too big to believe it’s true. Right?” His questions had earned him a clip around the ear. “Don’t be asking nonsense,” the old man had snapped. “You’re on slop duty for a month.”
Bo broke through the line of trees and into the clearing, then stopped dead in his tracks and gasped.
No, thought Bo, it couldn’t happen that quickly.
With a hammering heart, Bo inched forward, his wide eyes following the path of crinkled and blackened leaves slowly raining down from the beastly old tree’s branches. The branches themselves were a sickly pale gray, and where once they had spread wide, they now drooped. But the worse part was the black hole in the center of the trunk. Overnight it had grown twice its size.
There was no denying it: the tree was dying.
Bo looked from the pouch grasped in his trembling hand to the tree in the center of the clearing.
He had failed. The most important job Mads had given him and he’d failed. His stomach lurched as he thought of telling Mads what had happened, the sting of the old man’s boot as he would kick Bo out of the hut, telling him never to come back.
And Bo would be alone.
Alone.
Bo paused when he heard a strange whispering, swishing sound coming from inside the Dark hole. “I could throw the powder from here?” he said, a quiver in his voice. “That will fix it, right?”
From the edge of the clearing, Nix whimpered.
“I’ll do it quick,” said Bo. He untied the pouch and dug his hand in, grabbing a fistful. “Please be okay,” he said as he flung the dust toward the base of the tree.
Nothing happened.
Bo frowned at the gaping hole in the center of the tree’s trunk. “I’ll come tomorrow and it will be back to normal,” he said. Despite his confident words, his stomach was twisted in knots, just like the tree trunk.
Again, Nix whimpered.
The Boy, the Wolf, and the Stars Page 2