Rise of the Ragged Clover

by Paul Durham

  Harmless cast his eyes out toward the river, as if watching the distant horizon. Rye followed his gaze, but if there was something out there, it was beyond her vision. He seemed content to sit in silence for a long while.

  Rye’s shoulders were heavy, as if bearing a great weight. When she finally spoke, her words came slow and painfully, and she turned her whole body in her chair to face Harmless.

  “I don’t think I can do it,” she said quietly. “I can never be a High Chieftain.”

  “You can do anything you set your mind to, Riley,” Harmless said, his eyes still on the river. “You’ve proven it to me. You’ve proven it to the Luck Uglies. You just need to believe it yourself.”

  “No,” Rye said, and of all the challenges she’d faced since first meeting Harmless, her next words were the hardest. “I don’t want to be High Chieftain. I don’t want to use fear as a weapon and struggle for power. I don’t want to be the one to lead the Luck Uglies out of the dark if it means I must first step into the shadows myself.”

  Harmless took his foot off the railing. His eyelids flickered then fell. His shoulders slumped.

  “You’re certain?” he asked quietly, without meeting her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Rye said quickly. She felt guilty and ashamed. It was as if her words had left her father deflated. “I never wanted to disappoint you. It’s just—”

  His heavy gasp interrupted her. “I’m so relieved,” he said in a whisper, the thought escaping him like an imprisoned ghost suddenly released from its bonds.

  “Relieved?” Rye asked.

  Harmless looked up from his boots, his gray eyes meeting her own. “And proud,” he added. “Of all the choices you’ve made, this one is the bravest.”

  “I don’t understand. You don’t want me to be High Chieftain?”

  Harmless leaned forward. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to follow your own path—the one your heart desires. Do I think you are worthy of the High Chieftain’s Crest? Surely. But I also know you are capable of so much more. All I have sought is to unlock every doorway I could for you, then let you step through the one you see fit.”

  Rye blinked her wide eyes slowly. “But what if I don’t know which one to step through?” she asked.

  Harmless just smiled before answering.

  “Sometimes, discovering the wrong ones is as valuable as finding the right.”

  31

  How It Ends

  The O’Chanters finally returned to their long-neglected cottage on Mud Puddle Lane. Thanks to the peculiar whims of geography, the run-down neighborhood was now the highest patch of ground in all of Village Drowning, its cottages the only ones left unscathed by the flood. From their yard, they could see where the water stretched all the way to the harbor. The Ragged Clover no longer flew over Drowning, and Rye happened to be outside the day the banner had sailed off the bell tower in a sudden gale, like a phantom gathering its cloak. It never did come to rest, and Rye had watched the Ragged Clover dance over the exposed rooftops until it disappeared amid a flock of rooks resting on a gable that once marked the northernmost end of Market Street.

  Soon after, Rye was delighted to discover that her messenger pigeons had also returned home to roost. Her favorite, Molasses, had even brought her a message tied to his foot. She reread it now as she sat inside at the dining table by the fireplace.

  FOX HAS HIS FIRST TOOTH. HE USED IT TO BITE FALLOW. I THINK HE’S GOING TO BE THE BEST BROTHER YET. WE’RE EXPANDING THE INN BIGGER AND BETTER THAN EVER. GET QUINN AND VISIT SOON!

  —FOLLY

  Rye folded the slip of paper and stuffed it into a pocket. Abby busied herself refilling two goblets of cranberry wine while Harmless rested across from Rye, his palm atop a thick book on the table. Rye’s eyes flicked to the copy of Tam’s Tome.

  “Can we read more tonight?” she asked.

  “Your mother still doesn’t think it’s appropriate bedtime reading,” Harmless said, casting a glance toward Abby.

  Abby narrowed an eye in reply, but as soon as she turned her back, Harmless gave Rye an enthusiastic nod of reassurance.

  “Will you write the next volume of Tam’s Tome?” Rye asked.

  Harmless sighed. “I suppose I should get around to that. I’ve been putting it off for quite some time.”

  “You can’t tell a story and leave out the ending.”

  “True,” Harmless said. “But sometimes, when you get to the end, you realize that the journey was the best part.”

  There was a squeak of hinges and the pad of familiar paws across the floor.

  Rye felt a thud on her lap. Two green eyes blinked out from a furry black mane.

  Shady kneaded Rye’s thighs gently, circled twice, and plopped himself in a warm ball on her legs. Harmless had cut a small hinged flap into the cottage door so that Shady could come and go as he pleased, and the Gloaming Beast had taken to checking on them before his nightly prowls.

  “I see someone’s back to say hello,” Abby said cheerfully, setting a goblet in front of Harmless. She greeted Shady with a scratch of his head, careful to keep her wine out of reach of his thirsty pink tongue.

  Abby eased into a chair, trail-weary after spending the day escorting Mr. Nettle back to the Hollow. The Feraling had decided he might try his hand as an innkeeper and promised to visit often—come hives or high water.

  Abby raised her goblet. Testing out his left arm, Harmless lifted his own goblet with a grimace and clinked it against Abby’s.

  “Come spring, I’ll head down to Trowbridge to visit my old friend Blae the Bleeder. If anyone can patch this up, he can.” Harmless set down the wine and rubbed his ailing shoulder. “Of course, you’re welcome to come, Riley. We could make it a little adventure. There’s far more to the Shale than this watery little corner.”

  “I’d like that,” Rye said.

  Harmless cast his eyes at the crackling embers in the fireplace.

  “In the meantime, we will all settle in for a long winter. I, for one, plan to get fat on your mother’s brown-sugar-and-raisin porridge.” Harmless placed his hand on his gut and gave Abby a wink. “With a little luck, I may even be able to convince Good Harper to return to Drowning for Silvermas.”

  Rye looked out the open windows. It was a beautiful late-autumn day, the kind that made winter seem deceptively distant. The neighborhood was quiet. Most of the Puddlers had taken up boats and rowed into the village itself, assisting the now-less-fortunate villagers in Nether Neck and Old Salt Cross who had been hardest hit by the flood. Quinn was with Angus, salvaging what they could from the blacksmith’s shop on Market Street. They planned on reopening Quartermast’s right here on Mud Puddle Lane. Lottie had the street to herself at the moment, and Rye could just make out her sister stalking insects in the weeds where the end of the lane dipped and disappeared into the dark water.

  “Quinn tells me that Malydia has actually rolled up her sleeves,” Rye mentioned, her eyes still on the rooftops in the distance. “She’s been working shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the villagers.”

  “Hmm,” Harmless said. “That must have been an unexpected sight.”

  “Do you think the enlightened Lady Longchance will do a better job than her father?” Abby wondered out loud.

  “I think so,” Harmless replied after a moment.

  “And if she doesn’t?” Abby asked. “Malydia’s very young, and will rule Drowning long after we’re gone. If things take a turn for the worse, who will be left to answer the Call?”

  Rye glanced at Harmless, awaiting his response. But Abby’s question hung in silence.

  “I think the answers to those problems will find us another day,” Harmless said finally, and raised his goblet again. “For now, let’s just welcome what tomorrow brings us.”

  Their toast was interrupted by a loud voice outside. It was Lottie—calling for someone.

  “What has your sister gotten herself into now?” Abby said, craning her neck to see out the window.

 
“I’ll check on her,” Rye said, depositing Shady onto her mother’s lap.

  Rye stepped outside the cottage. Lottie wasn’t at the door but stood at the far edge of Mud Puddle Lane, watching the brackish water lap at her feet. She no longer yelled, but seemed to be speaking softly.

  “Lottie?” Rye called, but received no reply.

  The water rippled in front of Lottie. Rye squinted to get a better look.

  Blue-black scales broke the surface.

  “Lottie!” Rye screamed this time, but her sister didn’t move.

  The River Wyvern dragged itself ashore silently. Its eyes darted and tongue flickered at the sight of the little red-headed morsel before it.

  “Lottie!” she cried again, rushing from their yard. Rye tore down the street, panicked at the scene awaiting her.

  Lottie was staring up at the reptilian eyes. The Wyvern examined her hungrily, its maw gaping. Lottie blinked and slowly reached into her pocket.

  The River Wyvern tilted its scaled head. The sharp, ridged sail fin atop its back flared and pointed to the sky.

  Lottie extended a hand and Rye’s heart raced.

  The River Wyvern recoiled slightly at first but didn’t attack. Lottie whispered something, opened her palm, and a handful of crawly insects scuttled over her fingers. Rye’s jaw dropped and she jolted to a stop.

  The reptile cracked its mouth, extended the tip of its thick pink tongue, and shut its eyes.

  “Lottie?” Rye tried one last time, confusion creeping into her voice.

  The River Wyvern’s eyes snapped open, and it narrowed them at Rye warily. Lottie looked back with an irritated glare.

  “Is that—” Rye began, in disbelief. “Have you been—”

  “Shhh, Rye,” Lottie scolded. “Don’t be a beeswacker.”

  The River Wyvern blinked at Lottie, then slowly sank beneath the water, disappearing with a silent flick of its long tail.

  Before Rye could speak, Lottie marched back and pointed a finger.

  “You no tell anyone about Newtie,” she commanded. “He came home, and he’s mine.”

  Rye just nodded, speechless.

  Lottie huffed with finality, then stomped back toward the cottage, where Harmless and Abby had appeared in the doorway. She glowered back over her shoulder at Rye one last time, and thrust her finger to her lips, as if to say Shush.

  Rye took another look at the water, but its glassy surface betrayed no secrets. The slightest smile cracked the corner of her lips.

  Perhaps there’d been a High Chieftess among them all along.

  After all, even the fiercest dragons had to start out as the tiniest of newts.

  Rye did her best to wipe her smirk away, and hurried to rejoin her family.

  EPILOGUE

  R Is for Rye

  It’s become a rite of passage for the brave and foolhardy children of Village Drowning to row out to the tallest bell tower on the night of a full moon. They climb to the top, their path lit only by the flicker of moonlight on the winding canals. Once there, they carve their own initials under the old symbol left in the wood.

  A capital letter R with a circle around it.

  R as in Rye.

  The girl who drowned a village in order to save it.

  Of course, this is not to say that Rye didn’t accomplish other extraordinary feats over her many years. It’s just that, thankfully, most were not the type to attract the attention of Tam or his quill, and such stories are probably best left for a quieter kind of tome.

  As for stumbles, there would still be plenty. But Rye had lots of practice falling down.

  And she always got back up.

  The End

  Banter like a Local:

  A Tourist’s Field Guide to Shale

  Lingo and Lore

  Beeswacker: An eavesdropper, as in someone who can’t mind her own beeswax. Originally coined by Lottie O’Chanter. Be careful where you stick your nose in Village Drowning, where both unpleasant odors and fiercely guarded secrets remain plentiful.

  Bog Hoppers: It’s been said that nothing good ever came from a bog, but these migrant workers once harvested the wild marshberries favored for fermenting and baking. With the return of the Bog Noblins, hoppers found themselves to be part of the marsh’s food chain, and the profession dried up faster than a Dead Fish Inn cask during a Black Moon Party.

  Brindleback: These large, squirrel-like rodents aren’t indigenous to the forest Beyond the Shale. Rather, a cage full of the furry nuisances escaped from an ill-fated gypsy circus generations ago and they’ve since made themselves at home in the forest’s trees. Brindlebacks have been known to pilfer rations, eat the lining of trousers, and soil fresh water supplies. However, the critters possess one redeeming quality: during a particularly long winter, this traveler found that, in a pinch, they do indeed taste like chicken.

  The Descent: Where did you hear about that? I know nothing of it. And you shouldn’t either, beeswacker, unless you’re looking to find yourself ears-deep in a bog.

  Feraling: These reclusive human denizens of the forest are expert trackers, gatherers, and survivalists. Their numbers are quite sparse as an unfortunate myth circulated that stew rendered from a Feraling’s bones brought the drinker good luck. More often than not, it brought parasites. Feralings tend to be naïve and aren’t terribly fearful, which made the whole bone-boiling business particularly inconvenient for them. But don’t call them goat boys. That’s just offensive, and is likely to get you kicked.

  The Reckoning: La-la-la . . . I can’t hear you . . . These strange terms you keep muttering about are liable to get us both snatched in the middle of the night. Next question.

  The Rill: Numerous wild creatures slither, creep, crawl, and thrash through the forest Beyond the Shale. Yet, the deep woods remain inhospitable to beasts of the two-legged variety. Folklore tells us that the ancient stream known as the Rill and its rivulets are impassable to non-humans. Those men and women who successfully braved the forest learned to build their encampments within these strange boundaries. Whether the Rill’s power is real or imagined, it’s always best to sleep within its confines, lest a toothy forest denizen make you its next meal.

  River Wyvern: In truth, the enormous reptile rumored to have taken up residence in the River Drowning is more cold-water lizard than mythical Wyvern. After all, while it has proven itself to be a voracious eater, nobody claims to have seen it fly or breathe fire. But the town criers have never been ones to let facts get in the way of a catchy name or sensational headline.

  Shriek Reaver: Some cultures tell stories of spriggans—malicious fairies who defend barrows and woodlands from humankind. Beyond the Shale’s ancient and mythical Shriek Reavers are said to rise when humankind creates an imbalance in the forest, and these single-minded guardians won’t rest until the scales are tipped back in the forest’s favor.

  Snarklefish: These blind cave fish are known to inhabit the sewers of Village Drowning and other subterranean waterways. While the largest don’t grow much bigger than a trout, their small size belies an enormous—and indiscriminate—appetite. Many an unwary angler has lost a finger to a snarklefish bite, and if you’re foolish enough to scrub your dirty bits in a snarkle pool you just might find yourself picked clean to the bone.

  Tam’s Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs: A multivolume history text with editions curiously numbered in descending order. Copies of the oldest volumes are exceedingly rare, as the controversial tome has been banned, burned, and relegated to the rubbish bin at various times since its first publication. To date, no one has come across a copy of the long-awaited finale, Volume I, and it is widely suspected that the reclusive, ageless author has either lost interest or finally grown jaded with the publishing industry.

  Treasure Hole: While you might hide your valuables under the rug or in a sock, there’s not enough hosiery in all the Shale to stash a self-respecting noble’s trove of accumulated goodies. Instead, it’s customary among the upper class to build elaborately hidde
n treasure holes in their castles and keeps. The bigger the treasure hole, the more tightly guarded its secrets. And someone who stumbles across an unguarded treasure hole may find themselves, quite literally, with the keys to the kingdom.

  Who-Could-Stay-Quiet-the-Longest Game: A game played by children of Village Drowning, often at the urging of their parents. Rye O’Chanter has many talents, but her proficiency at this game isn’t one of them. To date, her sister, Lottie, is the only player known to be worse.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village. . . .

  Writing may be a solitary endeavor, but it takes a small army to bring a series like the Luck Uglies to life. So many talented people have helped me along the way that I can hardly do them all justice. But here are just a few who deserve enormous thanks:

  Michelle Andelman, who plucked this unknown author’s manuscript from her slush pile, and Markus Hoffmann, Lauren Pearson, and all the other fine agents at Regal Hoffmann, past and present.

  Harriet Wilson, my wonderful editor who saw fit to introduce the Luck Uglies to the world, and whose vision for the series has always been so closely aligned with my own.

  Phoebe Yeh, whose footprints will always be part of Village Drowning’s cobblestones.

  Christopher Hernandez, Tara Weikum, Gina Rizzo, Amy Ryan, Sarah Dotts Barley, and everyone at HarperCollins who rolled up their sleeves and played in the bogs.

  Illustrator Pétur Antonsson, who paid attention to every detail and made each book a beautiful sight to behold.

  And above all, Wendy, Caterina, and Charlotte. You are my muses, tireless cheerleaders, and best friends. None of this would have happened without you.

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