Rise of the Ragged Clover

by Paul Durham

  But Rye’s sense of relief didn’t last long. She carefully craned her neck and peered around the ash tree. The Hollow and the oak were not far away, and she could still hear the chattering teeth of the stag-skulled monsters as they destroyed what was left of the tree house. Once finished, they would surely head back this way.

  Rye put her hands on Lottie’s shoulder. “Lottie, you stay here. Don’t move, understand?”

  Lottie looked at her in disbelief. Rye reached into her coat and dug out Mona, pressing her into Lottie’s trembling hands.

  “I’ll be right back. Be brave for Mona.”

  Lottie embraced Mona and nodded. Rye took a deep breath and hurried cautiously toward the Rill. She hoped the Shriek Reavers would still be too busy hunting through the tree house to notice her coming. Her plan seemed to work as she neared the edge of the Rill, but then there was a sharp crack at her feet. She sucked in her breath and looked down. She’d stepped on a fallen branch. Her eyes jumped to the tree house. The Shriek Reavers seemed to hang there for a moment, cocking their eyeless sockets toward her. Then suddenly they sprang to life, weaving their way down and around the spiral staircase.

  Rye considered turning and running but realized it would be hopeless. Her only chance was to beat them to the Rill. She barreled forward, leaves and pine needles crunching under her boots. The three beasts were on the ground of the Hollow, dragging themselves on their spidery arms at a remarkable speed. Rye headed straight for them and reached the rowan bridge first. With all her strength she pulled it up in her arms just as the monsters reached the waterline. They flailed their sharp antlers and snapped their teeth a mere arm’s length from her face, the smell of rot and mold on their breath. She fell backward toward the forest, the platform coming to rest on her chest.

  When she pushed it off, she saw the Reavers circling the Rill frantically. Their nubby tongues warbled in their throats. Angry and agitated, they slunk around searching for a way over the water. Like every other nonhuman inhabitant of Beyond the Shale, they were unable to traverse the tiny streamlet without the rowan bridge.

  The Shriek Reavers clacked their teeth in furious protest. They were now prisoners of the Hollow.

  Whether or not the Shriek Reavers would find their way up the oak to the overgrown limbs was another matter altogether, and Rye didn’t intend to linger to find out. She hurried back to the ash tree where she’d left Lottie, and slumped down to huddle with her sister in the dark. They might be safe from the trapped monsters for the moment, but they now found themselves on the outside of the Hollow looking in, along with all the other creatures of Beyond the Shale. It seemed that their long-term prospects had not greatly improved.

  A nearby rustling of dried leaves startled Rye. She didn’t have time to react before a body threw itself upon them. She shoved away its stocky form and raised her cudgel, but stopped when she felt the curved horns of a goat against her outstretched palm.

  “Mr. Nettle?” she gasped in relief.

  “Children! I was just heading back into the Hollow to find you. I’m not exactly sure what I would have done once I got there, but then I caught the scent of . . . your feet.” He pushed his horned cap back up over his eyes, glanced at Rye’s boots, then at the dark, sinister shapes circling the interior banks of the Rill. “I’m grateful for my sensitive nose . . . and your pungent toes,” he added.

  “What were those things?” Rye whispered. “You call them Shriek Reavers?”

  Mr. Nettle nodded grimly. “Ancient guardians of Beyond the Shale. They are extremely rare, and normally only stalk the northernmost reaches of the forest. I’ve never seen them this far south.”

  “Monsters,” Lottie huffed, and furrowed her brow. “Not nice ones,” she clarified, patting Mona apologetically.

  “There’s no easy way to label the Shriek Reavers, Miss Lottie. They are neither good nor evil, just . . . single-minded,” Mr. Nettle explained, chewing his beard. “The forest does not welcome outsiders. Feralings believe that when the balance shifts—when too many human outsiders penetrate the confines of these trees—the Shriek Reavers awaken from their slumber and take up their hunt. They don’t stop until the balance tips back in the forest’s favor.” Mr. Nettle seemed to shiver at a memory. “It was a Shriek Reaver that destroyed the other hollow where you found me.”

  For a moment, Rye found herself hoping that the Fork-Tongue Charmers had indeed found Harmless. At least that meant a Shriek Reaver hadn’t beaten them to it. As for her mother, Rye could only hope she was already well on her way down the Wend.

  “What happened to the other men—the Fork-Tongue Charmers?” she asked. “Did they get away too?”

  “One clearly did. I heard other footsteps as I ran.” He glanced toward the Hollow. “At least one other surely didn’t.”

  Rye had seen all too clearly how quickly the Shriek Reaver seemed to squeeze the breath out of the Fork-Tongue Charmer named Gibbet.

  “The Shriek Reavers aren’t the only dangers out here.” Mr. Nettle squinted at the shadows around them. “We need to find shelter until morning. Come on.”

  Mr. Nettle led Rye and Lottie away from the Hollow, carefully searching the gloomy terrain until he found what he was looking for. A fallen tree stretched far into the darkness in front of them. Its enormous root system had been torn from the earth and fanned out like jagged tentacles. Mr. Nettle helped Rye and Lottie duck into a gap in the broken limbs. The tree’s knotted roots jutted around them like protective spines, but its pulpy core was soft against Rye’s back.

  Tomorrow they would set out at first light in hopes of meeting Abby along the Wend. So for now there was nothing Rye could do but try to rest. She pulled Lottie close against her, and was eventually able to drift to sleep, comfortable in the knowledge that Mr. Nettle slept with one watchful eye open.

  5

  The Wend

  The Wend resembled a tunnel more than a footpath. A menacing canopy of finger-like branches curled over the trail, as if ready to reach down and pluck any traveler who displeased the forest. Creeping roots bulged across the overgrown ground, seeking to reclaim the narrow corridor that had been forged through the trees.

  Rye, Lottie, and Mr. Nettle bounced along the unforgiving trail, the clop of hooves thumping the ground beneath them. They had woken to find the Fork-Tongue Charmers’ skittish mare drinking from a puddle not far from the Hollow. After some soothing words from Mr. Nettle, the horse had permitted them to mount it, making for an easier trip now that they didn’t have to wait for Lottie’s short but eager legs to keep up.

  Rye watched the sharp branches pass around them as she bobbed in the saddle. The path’s jagged canopy thinned the farther south they rode, eventually giving way to an overcast afternoon sky. The Wend ran north and south, twisting like a looming snake hole in each direction, and travelers hoping to cover any real distance had no choice but to traverse it. The Hollow sat along its more southern stretch. Village Drowning, the closest settlement, was still a two-day journey. But Rye’s village might as well have been a mythical city in a book of fairy tales. Neither the House of Longchance nor any other noble family in all the Shale held sway over the inhabitants of these ancient trees.

  There was a familiar odor in the air, and she had the unnerving feeling that something had been following them quietly through the brush. She quickly glanced at her choker. Fortunately, the runestones around her neck remained dull.

  “My nose isn’t nearly as good as yours,” she said to Mr. Nettle, looking back over her shoulder. “But I can’t get the smell of the bogs out of it.”

  Mr. Nettle grunted affirmatively from behind her. “We’re in the southern reaches of the forest. The bogs aren’t far now, and beyond them . . . villages.” He seemed to shudder at the thought.

  “You don’t like villages?” Rye asked.

  Mr. Nettle shook his head adamantly. “Never been to one, luckily. But I’ve heard all about them from travelers. Trapped in dwellings, deafened by noise, and crawling with
. . . people.” He scratched his neck furiously like a hound fighting fleas. “Just the thought of it makes me itch.”

  “It’s not all bad,” Rye said with a nostalgic shrug, and watched the muted light filter through the treetops overhead. They hadn’t come across Abby, and Rye’s mind wrestled with a dozen unpleasant possibilities as the afternoon wore on. The obscured sun hung low behind the clouds by the time they stopped to rest. They dismounted and shared some of the skimpy provisions they’d found in the horse’s saddlebags. Rye sat on the ground at the edge of the trail and wrapped her arms around her knees. The mare scuffed the dirt anxiously and tugged at her reins.

  “We should have crossed paths with your mother by now,” Mr. Nettle said as he tried to settle the nervous animal. Then he forced a smile and changed his tone in a manner that Rye knew was for her and Lottie’s benefit.

  “But I’m sure there’s a good reason. She must have decided to camp along the Wend for another night. Miss Lottie, don’t wander too far . . .”

  Lottie had taken Mona for a walk to “stretch her claws” and now took great interest in a small rodent scurrying through the underbrush.

  Mr. Nettle’s eyes followed a sharp turn in the path up ahead. “We may want to find a place to shelter for the night sooner rather than later. Better not to push on and then find ourselves exposed after dark.”

  Rye gnawed at a strip of dried venison with her front teeth and nodded, grateful to have a companion so familiar with the forest.

  The mare jolted and startled her. Mr. Nettle tried to soothe it, but the horse tore off down the Wend with a furious snort, kicking up dirt and pebbles as it bolted away. Rye jumped to her feet as Mr. Nettle called and rushed after it, but she stopped abruptly. A cry caught her attention.

  Lottie’s familiar voice. Yelling. Angry.

  Rye’s mouth fell open, still full of chewed meat. “This way!” she yelled to Mr. Nettle, spitting it out.

  Rye hurried off the Wend and through a thicket.

  “Mean! You a mean monster!” Lottie’s voice screamed.

  Rye’s heart raced at the sound of Lottie’s words. She plunged into a small clearing in the pines, and jolted to a stop. Lottie stood at one end, hands on her hips with Mona Monster tucked under her armpit.

  Just opposite her stood a Bog Noblin—the very one Rye had seen two days before. Its gray skin shimmered damp and clammy, the air around it thick with the smell of the bogs. Rye looked quickly to Lottie’s neck, then her own.

  Their protective runestone chokers did not beam blue.

  Rye tensed and pulled Lottie close to her side. But the Bog Noblin didn’t move. Surrounding it were two other familiar beasts.

  Shady crouched alertly between the Bog Noblin and the O’Chanters, the thick fur on his back standing straight, eyes agleam with mischief. Gristle had positioned herself behind the Bog Noblin, blocking its escape. If the Bog Noblin was indeed following them, at least the Gloaming Beasts had stayed close behind. They looked as if they might pounce at any moment.

  “Mean Gob Boblin did sneaky peek on me,” Lottie huffed. “I think him tried to take Mona.” She wrapped her arms around her doll protectively.

  Shady circled the small clearing menacingly, Gristle working her way around the opposite direction, until the Bog Noblin shifted, its eyes rotating independently so it could keep watch on each of its antagonists.

  Mr. Nettle arrived behind Rye, tugging the terrified horse by its reins.

  “Perhaps we should be going now,” he suggested out of the side of his mouth. “The Gloaming Beasts seem to have this well in hand, and I don’t think we really want to see the results of their dance with this ugly fellow.”

  But Rye found herself studying this Bog Noblin carefully. It was clearly the one she’d seen at the huntsman’s campsite two days before, and yet the familiarity ran deeper than that. She noticed the old bootlace at the end of his plaited, rust-orange beard; the fishhooks adorning his ears and nostrils. She had already seen more Bog Noblins than she cared to remember, and one thing she’d learned was that, like people, each had their own unique traits—after you got past their more common, toothy features.

  The Bog Noblin watched Rye with its bulging, drippy eyes. There was a hint of fear but also an awareness, as if he too was searching Rye’s face for recognition. She knew now that she had looked into those eyes before.

  Leatherleaf?

  The Gloaming Beasts closed in.

  The Bog Noblin extended a veiny arm, its clawed palm open as if ready to defend itself. Around its wrist, she spotted a large decayed tooth strung on a string like a bracelet.

  Shady’s tail twitched, his body tense and ready to strike.

  The Bog Noblin raised its distended jaw to the sky and let out a terrible beast-baby wail. Rye cringed, recognizing it clearly now—the first cry of a Bog Noblin she had ever heard. It was Leatherleaf, the juvenile Bog Noblin who had wandered into Drowning nearly a year ago and turned her life upside down. He had grown since she’d last seen him, but she was now certain of his identity.

  “Wait!” Rye yelled and, inexplicably, found herself rushing to stand between the Gloaming Beasts and Leatherleaf.

  “Miss Riley!” Mr. Nettle called out in alarm.

  Rye raised her hands, gesturing to Shady and Gristle as if to hold them back. Gristle returned an indignant glare, and skulked off into the trees. Shady’s eyes narrowed, more pensive. She doubted she could keep him at bay for long.

  Rye looked to Leatherleaf. One of his strange, bulging eyes rotated from Shady to her. It was joined by the other. He fixed his gaze on Rye, and she could tell that he was examining the choker around her neck. He seemed as surprised as Rye that her runestones no longer glowed in his presence.

  Shady let out a low rumble from his throat.

  “Please, Shady. Wait,” Rye urged.

  Her hand went to her throat. The runestones were cool to the touch and dim—no different from ordinary stones. Why hadn’t they warned her of Leatherleaf’s arrival?

  “Why are you here?” she called to him.

  He extended a large fist, his gray skin bulging with knots and blue veins. Rye tensed.

  “What do you want?” she tried.

  He gestured his outstretched arm in reply. She didn’t expect that he understood her words, but perhaps the confusion in her tone had resonated.

  Summoning her courage, Rye took a step forward. Leatherleaf watched her approach intently. He didn’t move to meet her, nor did he retreat.

  “Miss Riley!” Mr. Nettle gasped from behind her, and held Lottie back.

  Rye trembled but forced herself closer, close enough that she could smell the stench of the bogs on Leatherleaf’s breath. She extended an open palm under the enormous fist that dwarfed her own. The Bog Noblin unfurled his long, clawed fingers as if he would snatch her, but before Rye could flinch, something fell from his grasp into her hand.

  Leatherleaf quickly retreated several paces to a deeper gap in the trees. Rye backpedaled into the clearing before looking at what he’d offered.

  She opened her hand, cupping it with her other palm as several hard objects spilled between her fingers. Runestones. In her hands was a broken leather necklace, similar to hers, Abby’s, and Lottie’s, but larger. She knew exactly whose it was.

  The necklace belonged to Harmless.

  6

  The Descent

  Rye stared blankly at the remains of Harmless’s necklace in her palm. One of the House Rules she had been raised with, all long since broken, related to their chokers. Worn under sun and under moon, never remove the O’Chanters’ rune. Had Harmless taken his off? The alternative churned her stomach. She wondered if this was why their own chokers hadn’t glowed in Leatherleaf’s presence.

  Rye cast her gaze at Leatherleaf in shock. Her ears always grew hot when she was angry, and now they burned as if singed by a torch.

  “Where did you get this?” she yelled, thrusting her hands outward. She marched forward, blind to the da
nger. “Did you hurt him?”

  Shady followed eagerly at the sound of Rye’s furious voice. He readied himself at her side, furry ears pinned back and chin on his front paws, eager to charge.

  Leatherleaf didn’t flee, but his watery eyes fixed themselves on Shady uneasily.

  Rye stuffed the loose runestones into her coat pocket and then gently put a hand on the bristled fur of Shady’s back.

  “Easy, Shady, don’t move,” she whispered to him. “For now.”

  Rye tried to settle herself. Had Leatherleaf sunk his claws into Harmless then tracked her down to show her the evidence out of spite? That made little sense. It was the Dreadwater clan of Bog Noblins who had pursued Harmless Beyond the Shale. Leatherleaf was from the Clugburrow, and an outcast even among his own kind. Although he had grown larger and more imposing than when she had first encountered him last year, she doubted that Leatherleaf had the temperament to risk challenging Harmless alone.

  “Why did you give me these?” Rye called. She tightened her grip on her cudgel and stepped toward him.

  Leatherleaf rose from his crouch and Rye’s body tensed. But instead of moving toward her, he took several strides deeper into the forest, stopped, and crouched again.

  “Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to leave?” Mr. Nettle suggested urgently.

  Rye waved a hand behind her back and shushed him.

  She approached the spot where Leatherleaf had just been, Shady padding softly beside her. When she paused, Leatherleaf loped farther away, crouched once more, and looked back at her.

  “I think he wants me to follow him,” Rye said looking back over her shoulder at Mr. Nettle and Lottie.

  “He probably has a nice picnic blanket set up back there and is waiting for the main course,” Mr. Nettle said.

  Rye hurried back to the frightened horse and pulled a torch and some flint from its saddlebags. Mr. Nettle’s eyes went wide.