Two and Twenty Dark Tales

by Georgia McBride

  The Wolf straightened and wiped his dripping blade on his thigh. Crimson blood stained crimson pants, and Marnum pressed his back even harder into the tree. “Thanks.”

  But suddenly, he was only seeing tree branches and bits of sky from his new position on the ground. The Wolf pushed his helm’s snout into Marnum’s face. “I am of the Waiting Wolves. And you are whom we have waited for.”

  “Nice to meet you?”

  “You must come with me. Now. And quickly.”

  “Am I your prisoner? I just saved your life.”

  “And I yours. Four times now.”

  Marnum sighed. “Yes. I owe you. I understand. But there’s this thing I have to do, and I don’t think being your prisoner will allow me to do it.”

  The Wolf sat on Marnum’s chest, knees resting on either side of him. “Explain your mission. I will wait.”

  “I guess so… being a Waiting Wolf and all.”

  As the guardsman glared into his face—snout to nose with him—Marnum explained his task. But when he began to sing the lullaby, the Wolf slapped a hand across his mouth. “It is forbidden.”

  “It is only music.”

  “You know nothing.” The Wolf rose and extended a hand to help Marnum up. “Music must be controlled—leashed like a dog. Otherwise…” He nudged the dead beast with his boot. “Things go wrong when music is set free. It is a tool for the most highly educated only. Music is not for your sort. Or mine.”

  Marnum blinked.

  “Come, prisoner.” The Wolf grabbed him by the arm. Marnum tried to shake free, but the guardsman’s grip was fierce.

  “To where?”

  “To complete your mission, so I might complete mine.”

  “But the words I am gathering to shake the Dreamland Tree—they seem to be verses of a song.” Hesitantly, he told the guardsman all he knew of his task.

  The guardsman shook his head. “Once you see what music makes of men, you will not be so quick to sing—no matter the cause.”

  When they stopped at the lip of a little valley, the lullaby’s words again sang out of Marnum’s lips. “Our cottage vale is deep…”

  The Wolf grunted. “Do you remember this place, then?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Probably not,” the Wolf muttered, passing him on the steep path down. “You were only born here. You did not stay for long. Your birth was… an anomaly, of sorts.”

  It was pastoral, peaceful—sheep grazing and lambs playing. And then the Wolf strode into their midst. They scattered, bleating over the noise of the burbling stream that cut the vale in half as they crossed the valley’s floor.

  “Not nearly so mild as a lamb, now, are you?” Marnum asked.

  “Meekness gains you nothing.”

  Marnum finally asked the question that had lodged in his throat the moment he caught sight of one of the white fleeces. “Is my father here, then?”

  “Your father guards much different sheep than these,” the Wolf said with a snort. The guardsman paused then, looking Marnum up and down. “You do not know who sired you?”

  “No.” Marnum caught sight of a small cottage not far ahead, nestled amidst wild and roving plant life. “He’s a shepherd, though?”

  “To quite the flock. And he is quite well-versed with time.” They reached the cottage, and the Wolf knocked on the door.

  An old man answered. “Ah. And where, oh where, is your sheep’s clothing, dear Wolf?”

  “Must we always play these same parts?” the Wolf asked with a groan.

  “You are the one who is still in the employ of the palace, so yes, I fear we must. But we have another guest, I see. Welcome. Step inside.”

  Marnum ducked his head to enter. When his eyes adjusted to the small house’s dark interior, he saw he was surrounded by things of all sizes, covered by blankets and threadbare tapestries.

  “The door,” the old man urged. “Close it well and slide the bolt.”

  The Wolf obeyed, casting Marnum a look that might have been synonymous with “crazy.”

  “You have finally come home,” the old man said. “Just in time, just in time.” He clapped his hands together. “You will free the music, and magic will once more be let loose upon the land.”

  The Wolf coughed. “I cannot let him do that. The royals say that words might be weapons.”

  The old man’s rheumy eyes focused on the Wolf. “And so they might,” he conceded.

  “If words be weapons, what madness might music make?” the Wolf wondered aloud.

  The old man puffed out an exasperated breath. “Take off your mask. In this house, we are all only who we are.”

  “He does not…”

  “Then it is time he does.”

  “Do you know how much harder my job will become once he knows?”

  “Off with your head,” the old man snapped.

  Gloved hands swept beneath the helm’s jointed leather jaw, fingers finding buckles and snaps and deftly undoing them. With one last, hesitant look at Marnum, the Wolf tugged free of his mask, and Marnum gasped.

  Her hair was long, dark as a raven’s wing and bound high on her head, except for a few strands that had slipped free and hung loose around her dark brown eyes. With a grunt, she tucked the helm beneath her arm and gave Marnum a look. Not a smile, but rather a grim glower. She pointed to herself. “Wolf.” Then she pointed to Marnum. “Wolf’s prisoner.”

  But he was too busy recovering from his surprise to care how she referred to either one of them. She was beautiful, with high cheekbones and cutting eyes—as lovely as the soothsayer. Far lovelier than the girls back at the workhouse. Perhaps adventuring was not so bad a decision, after all.

  She snapped her fingers in his face. “Wolf,” she repeated sharply.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Bitc—” But before he finished the word, she had him up against the cottage wall.

  “Do you see?” she said over her shoulder to the old man. “They never have enough sense not to challenge a woman in a position of power.” She mumbled a few choice terms under her breath before releasing him.

  Beautiful and strong, he thought, rubbing the spot on his chest where she’d shoved her arm to pin him.

  “Get it over with, old man,” she demanded. “Tell us what we need to know so I can remind him of his place in the supposed chain of events.”

  The old man opened his mouth, but the Wolf threw a hand up to stop him. “No. I’ll speed up the process. He,” she pointed to their host, “was once a very important man, in the employ of the palace. But he became obsessed. With music, and the idea of freeing magic, and so—” She pulled a blanket off one of the strange shapes.

  “Guitar,” the old man whispered reverently.

  “—he began to try and unlock the secret. To assemble the Pieces of Eight. He collected—” She ripped off another sheet, revealing another stringed instrument.

  “Balalaika,” the old man said.

  “—every instrument he could.” A tapestry was pulled away, another instrument revealed.

  “The armonica—a beautiful device.”

  “Eventually, his obsession turned dangerous, as his need for anything musical grew too great.”

  She yanked another tapestry free. The old man gasped.

  There, in a cage, was a gilt and jewel-encrusted nightingale.

  “They cast him out. He lost everything. His home, his power, his reputation. They sent Huntsmen for both he and his niece, and why?”

  “Because of the legend.”

  “Yes,” she snarled. “Because of the legend. Because of the wild idea that by gathering some bits of a song—what is it? Four couplets?—the right man might unlock something infinite. And everyone wants to connect to the Infinite, even if they can’t define what the Infinite is.”

  “I do not wish to unlock anything,” Marnum protested. “Just shake the Dreamland Tree—end the nightmare creatures’ attacks…”

  “But, dear boy, one undoes the other.” The old man ran a light
and shaking hand across the armonica’s globes. “Sit, sit.”

  They did, and the old man said, “Long ago—”

  “I’ve heard this one before,” the Wolf said. “I’ll return shortly.”

  The old man looked at her briefly, then nodded. He began again when the locks slid into place once more. “There were two gods. Twin boys. The eldest was beautiful and loved, and the youngest was ever in his shadow, gifted with clever talents rather than an undeniably handsome face. They both loved the same woman, and set out to win her devotion. The youngest wrote her a song infused with such magic that hearing it felt like falling in love for the first time. He was a god of music and a master of all things magical, and he understood time like no other. But his brother could not have him win his lady love, so he stole the song and presented it as his own. The lady was so impressed she did not heed the other twin’s claim that he was the song’s author.

  “The youngest left, distraught and filled with worry. He picked up a stone with two pricking ends into which he rubbed all his worries, and when he realized that by forcing them into the stone he could be free of his troubles—of his pain—he withdrew all his worry and angst, his heartache—and some say his conscience—and, placing it all in the glittering, double-terminated stone, set it at the base of the Dreamland Tree. He himself became stone-faced and set. The tree absorbed the worry stone and with it, the young god’s trepidation and tribulations. The balance between dream and nightmare shifted, and nightmares seeped out of the stone, poisoning the tree. The young god wandered the lands for many a year, creating things that could either help or harm mankind, depending on how they were treated. He met with his brother once more. They fought. The sky bled at sunrise and sunset for the first time. Mountains were moved and valleys were carved, and to our west are lakes gouged by the fingers of the youngest when his brother threw him down, just before imprisoning him.”

  Marnum watched him, waiting.

  “He’s there still, imprisoned in a great lake, master of magic and music, and a tempest of time. If you shake the Dreamland Tree, he will be free again. He is music. And music is magic. He is, therefore, what unites us with the Infinite—with true power—and if good music is all about keeping time—well, time has been kept long enough. Look to the stars and the waters to find your way to the tree. You must see things differently now.”

  The Wolf was at the door again. “We must go.”

  “So you don’t have any of the Pieces of Eight for me?” Marnum asked.

  “No, but the song is as old as time, and as powerful as a true heart. You will find the last pieces. In time.” He hurried them to the door, and nearly shoved Marnum out.

  They followed the stream in silence for a while. “So,” Marnum said to the Wolf, who had once again donned her intimidating helm. “You’re a girl.”

  “Woman. And gender makes no difference in this.”

  “Gender always…”

  She stopped on the path and turned to face him. “I am a warrior first and foremost. The rest is secondary.”

  Marnum put his hands up between them. “I am a prisoner. First and foremost.”

  She snorted.

  “What’s your real name, Wolf?”

  “Cyrelle.”

  “I’m Marnum.”

  “No, you aren’t.”

  He stared at her.

  “That isn’t the name your father gave you. I remember.”

  “What?”

  “I was five when you were presented and named. It was the first—and the last—court ceremony I attended.”

  Now Marnum stopped their progress. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were born a prince, Marnum. Prince Garendell.”

  “And you?”

  “A common cur.” The laugh that followed her description was as sharp as a dog’s bark. “But my uncle, he was a powerful man. Once.”

  “The old man?”

  Cyrelle nodded. “Who but a relative would listen to his tales of mad gods?”

  “You do not believe in the Dreamland Tree?”

  “I believe I have orders to follow. I believe what any good soldier does—I believe my commanding officer. And he said to find you and bring you in.”

  “Yet you will let me complete my task first.”

  “I will still obey my orders. We are merely taking the long way back.”

  “Wait. If you were cast out of the court all those years ago, how are you in the palace’s employ now?”

  “Given the right papers, anyone can become anything.”

  “Wait,” Marnum said again. “I’m a prince?”

  She shrugged. “You are commonly known as the Lost Prince. Your mother stole you and…” her eyes focused on his scar as they never had before, “… made sure you’d be overlooked. Safe. She learned too late what your father was planning in making you.”

  “Thy father guards the sheep…”

  “Baaaa. What else are citizens of our kingdom but sheep?”

  “Unreal. This is totally unreal…”

  That was when they were attacked by more Huntsmen.

  Cyrelle dispatched them neatly, adjusted her helm, and encouraged Marnum forward.

  “Those men were sent by—”

  “—your father. The king. You are to be sacrificed.”

  “What if I’m to make a sacrifice of some sort, not be sacrificed?” he asked.

  “Interesting thought.” She shrugged. “Either way, what’s life without a little father-son tension? Those men were paid for by our tax dollars, and I dealt with them so harshly. That was less than fiscally prudent of me.” She clapped her hands together and cleared her throat. “This,” she said, spreading her arms wide, “this is where we will find passage to this tree of yours.”

  Below them, the stream dumped and merged with others to create one wide river to the greatest of lakes, a river filled with boats flying the flags of a hundred different places. It was as if the entire world spread wide below them. Marnum, before little more than a slave, then a hunted sacrifice and lost prince, now felt like something so small there was no word tiny enough to fit the thing he’d become, standing before so grand a place.

  ***

  Cyrelle led the way down into the tangle of drifting and tilting docks as the sun shrugged behind a mountain, and the stars crawled into the indigo sky. “Have a care,” she warned, leaping from one wobbling wooden island to another.

  “Where are we going?” Marnum asked, trying not to wave his arms to maintain his balance. “Ughh—”

  She grabbed his wrist, slipped her hand down to take his, and pulled him across onto the next dock. She dropped his hand and shook her head. “We’re there. Now, choose which river rats we ride with.”

  He blinked. Three broad-bellied ships swayed at the edge of the dock, square sails hoisted to reveal their ship’s emblems. One tree, one eagle, and one springing hart. Marnum moved toward the one with the tree’s insignia—until he heard a voice say, “This crew is a nightmare! I dream of a better ship, a better crew…”

  Nightmare. Dream.

  He swung around to find the voice. On the ship decorated with the eagle stood a man with a mop, swabbing as he grumbled. At the same ship’s bow stood a man only a few years Marnum’s senior, a telescope in his hands. He addressed the complainer, saying, “Step to me, Tyrell. See things differently.” He—the captain, according to his clothing—exchanged the telescope for the mop and took over for the other man. “Aim high… there,” the captain said, watching his crewman. “That one not far from the moon—she’s a beauty. Brightest star in the heavens.”

  See things differently…

  “That one,” Marnum said, remembering the old man’s words.

  After a brief discussion regarding the price of passage and the captain’s ignored insistence that Marnum and Cyrelle did not want to accompany them on their mission, they were given the right to board.

  “And what is this most dangerous mission of yours?” Marnum asked as the boat
left the dock.

  “We go to destroy the Drowsing Tree. To cut it down and burn out its roots.”

  “You mean the Dreamland Tree? You can’t destroy it…”

  The captain cocked his head, his eyes narrowing to glimmering slits. “That damnable tree endangers our entire world. It must be rooted out.”

  “It can be shaken…”

  Although Marnum couldn’t fathom how the captain’s eyes could narrow more, they did, and his gaze fell on the scar on Marnum’s cheek, and Cyrelle in her wolf’s helm. “Take them!” he shouted, and the crew pounced on them, wrapping them with ropes tied in a half dozen different knots and hitches. To her credit, Cyrelle required four men to drag her down. Marnum rolled his eyes. He had fallen beneath one, but he was large. And quite hairy. That had to count for something.

  Watching the land pass by and the men scramble about their duties as they passed into deeper and wider waters, Marnum wondered how he could shake the tree with only four lines of an eight-line song.

  “It will never work,” Marnum muttered.

  “Of course not. One dare not destroy the Dreamland Tree.” Cyrelle snorted through her helm. “I might yet believe the tree—all of it—is real…”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  The Wolf’s head faced him, and although he couldn’t see her eyebrows, he got the distinct impression one of them was raised. “Is that not the doubter calling the cynic skeptical,” she mused. “It sounds a bit crazy,” she said, “and you know it.”

  “You can be quite critical, I think,” he pouted. “And for all that, here I am, trying to figure out how to serenade a tree. I don’t have all the words. I’m missing lines. No one has given me any new ones.”

  She blinked at him. “You may be a prince quite removed, but that is most certainly something a prince would say. No one has given me any new ones. What if you are only given the beginning and the rest is built from you? What if the missing lines are verses you know somehow—words carved into your soul?”