The Boy, the Wolf, and the Stars

by Shivaun Plozza

  The Korahku clicked her beak. “After the noble Korahku relieved your royal family of their heads, no one wanted to take their place because Irin are a superstitious people. So they decide it is safest to be ruled by a king who isn’t a king—no crown, no throne, no glittering gold. The Un-King. Very silly business.”

  Bo frowned at the map. So much he did not know. He pointed to a cluster of squiggly lines in the middle of the Forest of Tid. “And that?”

  The Korahku shook her head. “You don’t want to end up there. Myling Mist—very bad place. We must walk around it.”

  Bo stared at the map. How had he spent twelve years in such a tiny corner of this land? Why hadn’t Mads told him any of this?

  “It’s so . . . big,” he said.

  The Korahku laughed, deep and from the belly. “You are small, so everything looks big to you. Ulv is not big. Only a week’s walk to cross from one side to the other. To fly is even quicker.”

  Bo scowled. “I’m normal-sized. You’re abnormally tall.” He huffed. Why isn’t there a flutter of wind in this silly forest? he wondered. It was like being smothered in an icy cold blanket. “What I was trying to say,” he continued, “was that this land is much bigger than I thought, bigger than my forest anyway. So how on Ulv did Mads think I’d be able to find the Stars among all this?” He waved a hand at the Korahku’s drawing.

  The Korahku grew stiff, pulling her shoulders back and cocking her head to the side. “Stars?”

  Bo launched into his tale of Mads’s death, the giant wolf chasing him, and his guardian’s last words: for Bo to find and release the Stars. He shifted under the weight of the Korahku’s narrow-eyed stare. “It’s not as if I want to find them but now that I have nowhere else to go, perhaps it’s—”

  “A load of cluckity muck. Stars! Tsk!” The Korahku jabbed the feather into the dirt, at the base of a mountain west of a large inland sea. “Here is the Temple of the Silent Sisters, carved into the face of Lunaris Mountain, on the shores of the Sea of Widow’s Tears. That is where we shall go. They will take you in and look after you, and I can return to my flock.”

  Suddenly it was hard for Bo to breathe—the knot in his chest constricted, a gnarled tangle of anxiety, hurt, grief. The Korahku was just going to dump him? On the doorstep of some temple? With people he did not know and who might be just as hateful as the villagers? He gripped the hem of his shirt until his knuckles were white.

  “But—”

  “Pish! We go this way.” The Korahku raked the feather through the dirt, from the Forest of Tid to the Temple of the Silent Sisters. “Only three days’ walk.”

  Bo couldn’t believe his ears. He wanted to protest but all his words were suddenly too slippery to catch.

  “I am sorry, child,” said the Korahku, “but I cannot take you with me. If an Irin was caught on Korahku land, you would be fed to the kroklops, where you would slowly rot in the acid of its stomach. A more honorable death than the Fuglebur but unpleasant all the same.”

  Bo folded his arms across his chest, a stinging heat bubbling in his veins. It wasn’t that he wanted to go to Korak, but to be cast aside yet again, like the runt of the litter that nobody wanted, was . . .

  But what choice did he have? It was that or chase the Stars, which sounded impossible and dangerous.

  Bo swallowed the lump in his throat. “If you think it’s best,” he mumbled. His shoulders slumped under the weight of all his troubles. “I’ll go.”

  The Korahku nodded sharply before turning away. “It is for the best,” she said.

  Nix burst into the clearing and skidded to a halt, dumping a mouthful of leaves at the Korahku’s feet. He waited, tongue flopped out the side of his mouth. But the Korahku said nothing as she wrapped Bo’s calf with the leaves.

  Bo gave Nix a scratch behind the ears.

  “You are fixed, little Irin,” said the Korahku.

  Bo grabbed his bag and cloak and stood, easily putting weight on his injured leg. He looked up at the Korahku—strange how his “enemy” was the one saving him. Even if she was going to dump him the first chance she got.

  “My name is Bo,” he said, holding out his hand. “And he’s Nix.”

  “I am named Tamira but you may call me Tam,” said the Korahku, frowning at Bo’s outstretched hand. “Do you have something for me?”

  “What? No. You shake it. It’s how you greet people.”

  Tam picked up Bo’s hand by the wrist and jiggled it. “Like this?”

  “Ah no. I mean, sort of.”

  Tam dropped Bo’s hand. “Such peculiar habits you Irin have.”

  They set off through the forest. Shadows rippled and soft slivers of Light bounced off the metallic tree trunks, stinging Bo’s eyes. He rapped his knuckles against one of the trunks—ping! Bo jerked back. “Are you sure this place isn’t haunted?”

  The Korahku chuckled. “You Irin. You think everything is haunted. When I was locked in that Fuglebur, I overheard a group of villagers discussing whether or not a goat was cursed because it had eaten the Innkeeper’s rosebush. It took them three hours of argument to decide it was cursed. Poor goat.”

  “But there are witches,” said Bo, thinking back to what Mads had said to the wolf, and what Galvin had said too. “I heard something about a Shadow Witch. Maybe she lives here.” Bo kept his eyes low, stepping only in patches of Light. Just in case.

  The Korahku clicked her beak. “So you know some things about the world, then.”

  “Do you know any witches?” asked Bo. “Why were you in the Fuglebur? How come your flock didn’t rescue you? What do you know about Stars?”

  Tam looked over her shoulder, large beady eyes narrowed. “I promised to take you to safety, not to answer one hundred and one questions.”

  As Bo passed a tree, it let out a long, low ping. He hadn’t touched it! “Did you hear that?”

  “I heard you asking more questions.”

  Bo scowled at the tree, daring it to make another noise. “I know what I heard.”

  Tam hurried on. “Typical Irin. Always with ghosts and ghouls.”

  But the ping rang out again, louder now; this time more trees joined in, creating a chorus. The Korahku swung around.

  “See?” said Bo.

  Tam and Bo stared at each other. Nix pricked his ears and whined.

  “Perhaps,” said Tam, “we should—”

  The forest burst into a cacophony of earsplitting noise. Ping, ping, pong, PING!

  The noise came from every corner of the forest, rattling Bo to his core. He covered his ears and crouched, Nix trembling by his feet.

  Just when Bo could stand no more, the tree trunks split open and out flew hundreds—thousands—of tiny metallic creatures. Bo ducked and the creatures whooshed past his head, screeching and trilling as they swooped through the air.

  “What is this?” he shouted.

  Tam was huddled too, swatting at the sea of flying creatures buzzing by her. Birds, butterflies, dragonflies, moths, and bats—gold, silver, and bronze—all of them glinting and shining in the Light.

  As the flurry finally began to settle, a small golden bird landed on Bo’s leg. It hopped across the round of his knee, its little wings fluttering as it chirruped. It was made of gold, with tiny cogs and wheels whirring as it moved. Tick, tick, clickety, click, the bird whirred as it hopped along Bo’s thigh, cocking its head inquisitively. Bo spluttered with wild, unexpected laughter. “They’re . . . they’re beautiful!”

  “They are pests,” said Tam, swatting a dragonfly buzzing by her face.

  “They’re amazing,” whispered Bo. The little bird playfully nipped the back of his hand. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here.” Why hadn’t Mads taken him to this place? It was merely on the other side of the village! His shoulders curled forward—he felt small, head full of fuzzy gray nothingness where things like golden birds and Un-Kings and temples and mists should be.

  Tam scowled. “It should not be like this,” she said. Her face was lik
e thunder but her voice cracked with unease. “It should be dormant.”

  “Why?”

  “Stop asking questions,” grumbled Tam. She batted away a silver bird and stood. “We must keep walking. We need to find shelter before Dark.” She turned and marched off.

  Bo sighed and stood too. The little bird took flight, and he watched it flap, flap, flap high into the canopy, sending a scattering of leaves falling, bouncing off Bo’s face and into his outstretched hand. He laughed until he noticed that several of the captured leaves were black and curled at the edges. Bo poked one lightly and gasped as it disintegrated into ash and slipped between his fingers, floating to the ground.

  He brushed his hands and looked around. It didn’t appear as if many other leaves had turned black. Perhaps this forest was just like that; perhaps some of its leaves often turned to ash. It didn’t have to be the same thing as the gnarled old tree from his forest . . .

  Bo shook his head. No. This forest was beautiful—it was not dying. It was full of life and strange, shiny creatures and trees that pinged. He had never witnessed anything so . . .

  Magical.

  The True Histories of Ulv, Vol. I

  On the Strange Behavior of Magic

  It used to be that magic was everywhere. In the trees, in the wind, in the flapping of a butterfly’s wings. It was even found in bittersprouts, just like the ones you scraped off your plate and into the dog’s bowl last night when your mother wasn’t looking. (She wasn’t looking, but I was—eat your bittersprouts or else.)

  Mostly, however, magic was in the Stars.

  Do you know how this world came to be? First, there was the sky and the Stars and the Moon. The Moon granted each Star a wish. The Stars wanted something interesting to gaze upon, so they wished for mountains and rivers and trees, and then they wished for people and animals and insects. Look around you now—everything you see was wished into existence by a Star! And each wish left behind a little sprinkle of magic.

  But just as magic was found in the wind and the trees and the wings of a butterfly, it was also found in lies and hatred and prejudice and all manner of nasty things. I did say magic was everywhere, didn’t I? But those wonderful, wonderful Stars made sure there was always an abundance of good magic to keep the nasty magic a mere trickle.

  Alas, when the Stars vanished (horrid business involving a wolf and a witch and a lust for revenge—for more, see The True Histories of Ulv, Vol. III, “The Origin of the Dark”), most of the goodness in magic vanished, leaving behind a creeping, malignant, evil kind of magic that knitted together to form violent, monstrous creatures made entirely of shadows and fear. They fed on the Dark, growing stronger and bolder and deadlier until a very smart witch or wizard decided to collect every remaining trace of magic and lock it away—this stopped the Shadow Creatures from growing stronger but did not vanquish them. And of course it meant there was no more magic in the world, not even in your bittersprouts (but they are still frightfully good for you, so eat up!).

  Thus, many Shadow Creatures remained to torment us at nighttime, and all magical places became dormant, such as the Forest of Tid (it’s made of clockwork magic—such fun!). At least the loss of magic meant the ghosts haunting the Myling Mist were suddenly too weak to get up to their old tricks (and by “old tricks” I mean “devouring those unfortunate enough to wander into the mist”).

  So you might wonder: What would happen if magic returned?

  Oh, it would be brilliant! Wonderful! Magnificent!

  Assuming, of course, the lock isn’t broken before the Stars return, releasing mostly evil magic. If that happened . . . well, it’s best not to think about it.

  Chapter Eight

  They walked for miles and all the while Bo could not keep his eyes from wandering to gaze with awe at the creatures fluttering around him. He was so enraptured he hardly noticed that his chest had begun to feel hot. He paused to look down, letting Tam and Nix walk ahead.

  Bo clutched his chest over his shirt and sure enough it was uncomfortably warm. He scrunched up his nose as he stretched out the neck of his shirt, peering down. “What on Ulv?”

  “Keep up,” called Tam, somewhere ahead. Bo could no longer see her, just rows and rows of metallic trees.

  He hurried along, still with his eyes down. It seemed as though Mads’s crystal pendant was the culprit—why would it have begun to burn? And how?

  As Bo reached down his top to grip the pendant for inspection, he was suddenly yanked to the side. He lurched, arms swinging, grasping for something—anything—to hold on to. He steadied himself against a tree and looked down: a small tendril of mist had curled around his calf.

  “What on—”

  A second tendril joined the first, wrapping around Bo’s other calf. He tripped and stumbled toward a steep embankment. His foot caught on the edge, and he rolled his ankle on the uneven ground. He stumbled, unable to right himself before he was falling.

  He tumbled.

  Down and down and down.

  Bo landed, battered and bruised, flat on his back in something wet and sticky, rucksack digging into his spine. He opened his eyes and saw a blinding gray mist swirling around him, thick and impenetrable.

  “Nix?” he called. “Tam?”

  His head spun as he stood—he hardly knew which way was up. He waited for an answer but there was silence. Suffocating silence.

  With arms outstretched, Bo felt his way forward. The pendant around his neck was still burning but he couldn’t focus on that now. The mist licked and suckled on his fingers, and he found no embankment to climb back up. He wondered if he was heading in the right direction; maybe he had been turned around in the fall. So he turned again—it was hard to tell how far—and headed back the way he’d come. The mist grew thicker.

  Mist . . . The word throbbed in Bo’s head.

  Suddenly, the truth clipped Bo around the ear: he was in the Myling Mist, the place Tam said he definitely did not want to visit. But how? They were supposed to walk around it. And what was this place?

  Bo spun as he heard a giggle behind him.

  “Hello?” he called.

  Silence answered him.

  The mist was so thick that breathing felt like an icy, swollen fist being forced down his throat. He wished he could see something, anything.

  Bo pushed forward until a cold object clipped his arm. Was that another noise? Yes! Laughter. Light, childish . . .

  And close.

  Bo waved his hands, trying to part the mist. “Who’s there?”

  An icy hand clasped his arm, spinning him in a full circle. He fell—thump!

  “Show yourself!” cried Bo, scrambling upright again. The sound of his own rasping breath pounded in his ears as he waved his hands again and again. But the mist was only growing thicker, wrapping around Bo’s skin, damp and suffocating.

  Cold hands closed around his ankles as his feet were swept out from under him, and he fell—splat! He groaned as he lay in the sludge. Peals of laughter tinkled around him.

  “Come play with us,” said a child’s voice, wet against his ear. “You can hide and we’ll seek.”

  Bo stood, his heart beating wildly. “Who’s there?” he called. His voice cracked. He reached into his pocket and drew out the spirit charm Galvin had sold him, squeezing it tightly in his clammy fist.

  The mist swirled. It spiraled, faster and faster, then broke into one, two, four, eight whirlwinds! Each whirlwind settled into the shape of a child, formed entirely of the gray mist. What were they? Ghosts?

  The fog behind them was softer now, see-through like a scrim of gauze behind which loomed hazy, shadowy shapes that could be trees or people or houses or perhaps they could be Shadow Creatures . . . The hair on Bo’s arms stood on end.

  “What—what are you?” he stammered.

  “We’re your friends,” the mist-children chorused.

  He was surrounded. They grabbed his cloak, his hair, his arms, begging him to play. Bo’s knees wobbled.

&nbs
p; “Let’s play Wolf and Stars,” said one mist-child. “You’ll be the wolf and we’ll be the Stars. But you’re not going to eat us. We’re going to eat you.”

  The mist-children opened their mouths, revealing rows of razor-sharp fangs. Bo threw the spirit charm to the ground: the glass broke and a puff of green smoke mushroomed in the air, stinking like old socks and rotted meat. He coughed into his fist, crying out: “Be gone! Be gone! Be gone!”

  Nothing happened.

  The mist-children moved closer, reaching for him. Had he done it wrong? Why wasn’t it working? Bo flung his arms over his head with a sob of fear.

  A deafening whoosh ripped through the mist, and the children were shot screaming through the air, sucked into nothingness. Shivering with fear, Bo lowered his arms and saw the mist had all but vanished and he was ankle-deep in a desolate wasteland. Nothing but swampy mush and blackened, clawlike trees as far as he could see.

  Then in front of him appeared a Light, bobbing in the air. Bo watched, frozen, as the Light transformed into a floating glob of liquid silver, which then slowly poured itself into the shape of a tall man, a familiar tall man . . .

  “Mads?” Bo stumbled backwards. “But you’re . . . ?”

  “Don’t be afraid, little one,” said the silvery apparition in a wispy, floaty voice. The apparition rippled as it drifted toward Bo. “I’m not here to harm you.”

  Every nerve ending in Bo’s body prickled with fear. Because Bo knew Mads was dead; he had seen him die. So this . . . creature . . . couldn’t be his guardian. It looked like Mads—a see-through, silvery, shimmery version of Mads. But it couldn’t be him . . . could it?

  “What are you?” said Bo, inching away. His eyes darted, but every direction looked the same—no embankment, no way out as far as Bo could see. “Are y-y-you . . . a ghost? Is that what those children were?”

  The apparition looked down, inspecting its arms and hands and fingers. “Perhaps,” it said. “I am here, but I am not. Not yet. Not fully.” It radiated so much heat that beads of sweat dribbled between Bo’s shoulder blades. The center of his chest burned—a ball of fire directly over his heart. Was it the pendant still?