by Paul Durham
“What are you doing, Miss Riley? Have you gone mad?”
“What if he knows something about Harmless?” she said. “Maybe he’s trying to show me.”
Mr. Nettle sputtered his lips in protest.
“If he meant to hurt us, he would have done it already,” Rye said. She sparked the flint and the torch flared, and she peered into the darkening woods. “Besides, I’ll have Shady with me.”
Shady narrowed his yellow eyes at Leatherleaf. Rye knew it was taking every bit of his willpower to refrain from bolting after the Bog Noblin.
“Take Lottie to the Wend,” she added quickly, before Mr. Nettle could protest further. “I’ll hurry back as soon as I see where Leatherleaf leads me. If you find Mama, tell her which way I went. I’ll catch her fury for this—but if Harmless is out there, we can’t take the chance of missing him again.”
Rye’s boots sank into the swampy ground beneath her. Here the wetlands had broken the grip of the forest, the terrain around her filled with rotted stumps and the trunks of splintered pines felled by the water of the bogs. As fearsome as he could be when motivated, Shady was fussy when it came to wet paws. He trailed behind like some princess’s lap cat as he carefully navigated the higher ground.
Darkness fell quickly that evening. Either that or Rye had been following Leatherleaf through the moors for far longer than she’d realized. She finally came to a halt when he did, keeping a healthy distance between herself and the Bog Noblin. He had crouched knee-deep in the shallow muck. His eyes reflected red in her torchlight as they glanced toward a clearing in the distance. Rye followed his gaze. A ring of lights—dozens of them—penetrated the darkness up ahead. She squinted to make out their source.
Rye turned back toward Leatherleaf in search of an explanation, but the Bog Noblin was now gone, the sound of his feet churning the swamp somewhere in the distance.
It seemed Leatherleaf had taken her as far as he intended.
A flicker caught the corner of Rye’s eye. A light broke away from the others and approached with haste. Rye hurried to duck behind a stump covered in moss and blackened toadstools. She quickly snuffed out her dim torch.
The circular glow of a tallow candle spread out over the ground. The man who carried it scanned the bogs with probing eyes from under his cowl. Rye saw that his face was ghoulish white—covered in the traditional corpse paint of a Fork-Tongue Charmer. He paused just two short strides from her hiding place. Rye held her breath and hoped the sour smell of his candle would mask the smoke of her own smoldering torch. Not finding what he was looking for, the Fork-Tongue Charmer returned to the others, sloshing across the damp turf with his heavy boots.
Rye exhaled in relief then hurried after him as quietly as she could, this time disappearing behind the splintered trunk of a fallen tree. She pressed her back against it and waited, making sure no one had heard her, then peeked over the top of the split bark.
An assembly of hooded figures had congregated in a crescent line on a mound of earth rising from the bogs. Each held a thick, bare candle, flames barely flickering in the still air and yellow wax drippings covering their fingers. If the wax burned them, they didn’t flinch. A man was led to the center of the mound, the jagged point of an impish beak penetrating the dark folds of his hood.
Rye watched as one of the other figures stepped forward to meet him. This man was masked as well, but instead of the fiendish, leathery guise of the Luck Uglies, his mask was lined with scales and bore no nose. A hollow mouth and grotesquely distended jaw stretched down to his chest, a cavern so dark it swallowed the hope from Rye’s heart. She knew of only one Luck Ugly who wore a mask like that. He was the leader of the Fork-Tongue Charmers—and the most dangerous Luck Ugly of all.
Slinister Varlet.
With a nod of Slinister’s distorted chin, the Fork-Tongue Charmers on either side of the man removed his cloak and cowl. He offered no resistance as they shackled his wrists at his waist. Rye felt a lump rise in her throat. She was suddenly very aware of the thick smell of rotted wood and stagnant water around her. A Fork-Tongue Charmer reached up, pulled the mask from the prisoner’s face, and cast it to the ground.
Rye had already guessed who she might see under the mask. Still, her face fell and her head swam—first in relief, but then with dread. She placed both hands on the fallen trunk to keep from losing her balance.
Harmless’s wolf-like eyes glared back at Slinister, his jaw knotted behind a beard that was thicker and grayer than when Rye had last seen him. The faded scars on his face were drawn tight with defiance rather than pain. Harmless listened unflinchingly as Slinister recited accusations, the Fork-Tongue Charmer’s words deep and booming from the hollow of his mask, loud enough that Rye could hear them over the stillness of the bogs.
“Gray O’Chanter, you stand accused of failing to answer a Call of the Luck Uglies. A charge you have not denied. You have raised your blade and shed the blood of no less than six of our own brothers since your disappearance, with several more missing and unaccounted for. Another charge you do not deny.”
Harmless listened impassively.
Rye fumed silently. Five months earlier, Slinister had handed Harmless over to the Bog Noblins for that very reason—so Harmless would miss the Call, casting doubt on his commitment to the Luck Uglies. And surely the Charmers who Slinister had sent out in search of him had not brought any peace offering. Of course Harmless had fought them.
Slinister cocked his masked head. “Do you offer no explanation?” he asked.
Harmless’s reply came calmly, but with venom.
“I have nothing to say to this assembly of snakes. Except that you all shame the brotherhood tonight.” Harmless’s fiery eyes moved from one Fork-Tongue Charmer’s darkened face to another as he spoke. “This gathering is a farce. Where are the rest of the Luck Uglies, Slinister? I see only the freshly powdered noses of your allies here.”
“Word was sent regarding the nature of tonight’s meeting,” Slinister replied coolly. “Just because the others were unable to attend in a timely manner, that does not mean justice can be delayed.”
“No justice will be served tonight,” Harmless said slowly. “But rest assured, it will find each of you someday. Justice is a patient huntress . . . and a merciless one.”
Slinister stared back from the red-rimmed eyes of his mask.
“Since you have nothing more to offer, we are left with no choice,” he said, and for a moment Rye recognized the tone of mock sincerity Slinister used when he once wore the guise of a constable. “You have broken our code. Our oaths are sacred and absolute, and the punishment for such transgressions is well known by us all.”
Slinister paused, and the assembled Fork-Tongue Charmers seemed to hang on his next words.
“Tonight, High Chieftain, we gather to see you on your Descent.”
Rye’s heart jumped. His Descent? She’d never heard that term before.
The two nearest Charmers moved closer to Harmless. He flashed his teeth and eyed them with such ferocity that they both hesitated, even though Harmless’s wrists remained shackled.
“Stay your hands,” he spat through his gritted jaw. “While you may dishonor yourselves tonight, I shall descend with the honor of a High Chieftain.”
He stepped away from them, to the edge of the mossy mound where it sloped and disappeared into the brackish darkness of the bog.
Slinister followed behind him, pausing to remove his own mask. His sandy beard, once waxed into elaborate spikes, now hung straight, its end tied into a loose knot. Where his head was not shaved smooth an elaborate plaited braid was pulled back and fell past his neck and down his broad back. In the candlelight, his eyes were splinters of cracked jewels. The other Fork-Tongue Charmers tightened around them.
Harmless stared down to the black water at his feet.
“You show no remorse, Gray,” Slinister said. “But we still afford you a brother’s farewell.”
Rye waited for Harmless’s next move.
What manner of escape did he have planned? Would he run? Or perhaps lull Slinister into a sense of comfort before striking unexpectedly? She readied herself, calculating what she might do to help him when he took action.
But instead, Harmless stepped forward. His body lurched downward as he sank up to his knees into the bog.
The Fork-Tongue Charmers surrounding him began to speak in unison, reciting words that sounded like a scripted chant.
“Once a Luck Ugly, always a Luck Ugly. Until the day you take your last breath. It’s our deepest regret that breath has come so soon.”
Rye’s insides clawed at her. This couldn’t be happening. She watched wide-eyed as Harmless took another step and the marsh rose past his waist. The Charmers’ voices droned on as one.
“Sleep well, brother. May the bogs fill your lungs so you never rise. Tonight we will toast you fondly for what you once were, and try to forget what you have become.”
A third step and Harmless’s body fell awkwardly before settling, the mire consuming him up to his shoulders. Rye’s head reeled as the chant continued.
“The blackness of the bog reveals the truth in every man. It is the rare brother who takes the final step unassisted. So we offer our hand this one last time.”
A Fork-Tongue Charmer handed Slinister one end of a thick rope and Slinister stepped into the bog, his open palm raised, as if eager to push Harmless’s head under himself.
“Back,” Harmless growled through gritted teeth. “The last step is mine alone.”
Slinister hesitated and curled his lip, as if disappointed. “As you choose,” he said, and gripping the rope, climbed back to higher ground.
No, Harmless! Rye cried from behind the fallen tree, but not aloud. Her plea was silent and went unheard.
Harmless took the last step without assistance. The black mud of the bogs covered his nose, then his eyes as the ground gave way beneath him, and finally the top of his head disappeared altogether.
Every muscle in Rye’s body strained to rush forward. But she fought back her urge, and instead began to count silently in her head.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
The Fork-Tongue Charmers uttered their final words.
“As the bog fills your eyes and ears, we too blow out our lights, sharing the ultimate darkness with you for but a moment, a reminder of what awaits us all should we forsake our bond.”
They blew out their candles, and all was dark.
Two hundred eighty-nine, two hundred ninety.
Rye counted. One second for every three beats of her racing heart. Her clothes clung to her body from sweat as she waited, her back pressed against the pulpy bark of the split tree. Despite her panic, she forced herself to focus. The count was critical; she couldn’t lose track.
Two hundred ninety-nine. Three hundred. Five minutes now.
It felt like forever. And yet was it long enough for all of the Fork-Tongue Charmers to have left? She peered over her shoulder. The moonless night offered nothing but shadows and silence.
Rye kept up her count. She had seen Harmless hold his breath for six minutes under frigid water. But to wait that long would leave her with no room for error. It was now or never. With a flick of flint, she re-sparked her torch and tore out from her hiding place.
Rye ran as fast as she could, but the wet bog seemed to grip her boots and fight her every step. It was as if she could barely lift her legs. When she did, unseen roots and creepers lurched out to trip her.
Finally she reached the place where she had last seen her father. Dropping her torch, she plunged herself into the bog, clawing and digging at the muck.
“Harmless!” she cried out, this time as loud as she could. “Harmless!”
But the bog guarded its prize jealously as it tightened around her. Soon Rye couldn’t move her legs, and her arms grew heavy. She struggled to free herself but its murky waters held fast. Too many minutes had passed. Rye looked to the darkened sky above, her voice lost.
“Harmless,” she rasped. But there were no answers. She had run out of time, for both Harmless and herself. She felt herself sinking, and could no longer move at all.
There was a loud splash behind her. Rye was pulled up violently, popping from the ooze like a cork as she was hurled backward. She landed hard on moist but unforgiving earth, losing her breath with the impact. Through the light of her torch on the ground she saw a large gray shape plunge into the bog. It buried its head and shoulders beneath the surface, rooting and grunting like a pig in a trough.
Rye blinked her eyes in disbelief. After a moment, Leatherleaf emerged from the water, pulling himself from the bog with one clawed hand.
The other claw dragged Harmless behind him, her father’s lifeless body stained black with mire from head to foot.
7
The Departed
A chill breeze rattled the swamp maples and sent a storm of crimson leaves fluttering down past Rye’s shoulders like hundreds of tiny kites against a gray sky. The leaves joined their fallen companions around Rye’s boots, covering every inch of turf in the tiny graveyard. A dozen or so worn and broken headstones peeked out from the rustling red piles.
Villagers who knew of this place called it Miser’s End Cemetery. But most had long since forgotten it altogether, and didn’t call it anything at all.
Rye examined the thick bouquet of clover in her hand, the long stems tied with simple twine. She trudged through the leaves to the center of the graveyard, where three irregularly shaped stones jutted from the overgrown weeds, their faces covered with ivy that had turned burnt orange with the season. She crouched and pulled aside the leaves from the first. The single carved name was faded but legible, and was unaccompanied by date or detail.
GRIMSHAW
It was a name she’d only recently come to know. Grimshaw the Black. Her grandfather . . . and former High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies. The second headstone was just as unremarkable, the ivy less dense as she tore it away.
LOTHAIRE
That was the name of Harmless’s younger brother. Lothaire the Loathsome was an uncle she’d once heard mentioned, but had never actually met. Rye swallowed hard and moved to the last of the three irregular stones. Here she didn’t need to clear any ivy. The markings on this headstone were still crisp, its face unadorned by weeds or growth.
GRAY
Rye breathed deeply and looked around at Miser’s End. She had first met Harmless in this very same burial ground. They’d shared breakfast and stories sitting among these headstones. She’d played here with her friends even before that, and yet she’d never known her very own ancestors had come home to this small, unremarkable place.
There was a metallic creak behind her, and she glanced quickly over her shoulder. It was just the old iron gate swinging gently in the breeze as another round of crimson leaves danced past her boots. She cast her eyes to the path up Troller’s Hill, where its solitary tree cast a skeletal shadow in the afternoon light. She thought she saw another shadow flicker on the hillside, but in an instant it was gone.
Rye turned back to the ground in front of her and resolved herself to the task at hand. She stared at the bouquet of clover one last time, pinched her eyes tight, then set it at the base of the headstone etched with her father’s name.
Rye hurried out of the cemetery and up the path to Troller’s Hill. She was just outside the northernmost fringe of Drowning, and as she climbed the gentle peak, she could see the roof of her cottage and Mud Puddle Lane not far away. She squinted, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Quinn, or the Pendergills, or even crotchety Old Lady Crabtree. But the dirt road seemed strangely deserted for midday. It would have been easy to hurry down and rap on Quinn’s door, to greet her old friend for the briefest of moments, but her instructions had been quite clear. She was to stay out of Drowning and return without delay. Abby would be waiting.
So instead Rye stopped atop Troller’s Hill, where Mr. Nettle waited, leaning against the base of the tree.
“Did you
do what you needed to?” he asked solemnly.
Rye nodded.
“Good,” he said with relief. “Let’s be going, then.”
Mr. Nettle’s uneasy eyes were on Mud Puddle Lane, and the shadows of Village Drowning’s rooftops looming beyond it. He chewed his beard.
“All of those buildings,” he said with a mixture of awe and apprehension. “What are they?”
“Home,” Rye said with a tight smile. “Maybe I’ll get back there one of these days.”
Rye and Mr. Nettle arrived at a small sod house built right in the side of a hillock, on terrain that was neither bog nor forest. Thick marsh grass grew from its turf roof, camouflaging the dwelling into its surroundings. It sat near the southernmost end of the Wend, and was the place Abby had led a shocked and desperate Rye to after finding her huddled in the bogs, still clutching Harmless’s body in her arms. The dilapidated hovel was an abandoned bog hopper’s shack—an artifact from a time when laborers would harvest the bogs for red marshberries and ship them by the cartful to Drowning. That was before the swamps crawled with Bog Noblins again.
Mr. Nettle tended to their mare, and Rye opened the shack’s rounded door and stepped inside.
Her mother stooped over a cook fire, which warmed the earthen walls like a rabbit’s warren in winter. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the door, and offered Rye a smile. Lottie was too preoccupied to acknowledge her with more than a grunt. She was playing with a fuzzy caterpillar that she’d corralled within a tiny fence made from Rye’s hair clips.
Rye turned to the figure in the corner. He rested in a chair with a blanket over his legs, a steaming cup of pungent liquid sitting untouched by his side. The circles under his gray eyes were dark bruises, but the eyes themselves were keen and twinkled at the sight of her.
“Don’t just stand there. Come give your dearly departed a hug,” Harmless said.
Rye hurried forward and threw her arms around him. He let out a little groan, but wrapped an enthusiastic arm around her in return.