Mulrox and the Malcognitos

by Kerelyn Smith

  But Groxor wasn’t paying attention to Mulrox—he was staring at Yahgurkin. She was standing at the edge of the Woods Mercurial, and in her hands, she held a small pumpkin and a fistful of moss.

  “What is this? What are you doing?” Groxor strode over to her.

  “Well, first I was harvesting herbs, but I saw these pumpkins had sprung up on their own. Can you imagine? They call them volunteers when they do that. They planted themselves! Isn’t that amazing?”

  This was his chance to escape. Groxor would probably forget all about him. Mulrox took a few steps backward.

  “I’ll let the others grow, but I thought one might be nice back home, so I grabbed it.”

  “They planted themselves?” Groxor leaned over the plants, glaring at the curly vines. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “Nonsense. There’s no garden here. This is the practice grounds. It’s abandoned.”

  “Sure, it’s not much of a garden, but it’s a start. I add a little more each week.”

  Mulrox stared at Yahgurkin, his mouth hanging open. This definitely didn’t fall under standard ogre behavior.

  Sure enough, at Yahgurkin’s feet was the beginnings of a small garden: a patch of leafy vines with brilliant orange flowers running along the base of the trees. In front of this were several fresh mounds of dirt, out of which poked the round, little arms of seedlings.

  “You made this?” The words tumbled out of Mulrox’s mouth.

  Groxor glared back at Mulrox, freezing Mulrox in place.

  “Sometimes I bring a few seeds—other times I find stuff. I had just found this tree moss when I heard Mulrox talking to himself.”

  “This is highly irregular,” Groxor said, waving at the garden.

  “Not really.” Yahgurkin stuffed the moss into a pouch on her right. “But I’ll bring one home to make sure. They seem like especially good pumpkins.”

  “You can’t plant a garden here!”

  “It’s easy, actually. I’m always on cleanup, so I’m here a lot. Plus, plants are much hardier than most ogres suspect. They grow fine in the wild.”

  “You’re an ogre! This is a raid! You’re not supposed to be making anything. Give me that!”

  Groxor rushed at her and tried to snatch the pumpkin, but Yahgurkin was taller than him and lifted the gourd above her head, out of his grasp.

  The others had noticed this interchange and stopped their smashing to come watch. Mulrox was shorter than the others, and they elbowed in front of him, blocking his view. The others gasped. Mulrox cursed and darted around behind them.

  Yahgurkin stood with the pumpkin held above her head. Groxor lunged for it and missed.

  Mulrox smiled.

  “Yahgurkin, as captain of the Raid Brigade, I must—”

  “Junior captain,” Yahgurkin said. “There aren’t any real captains until you’re no longer in training, and you’re still only two badges in.”

  Mulrox was shaking with silent laughter.

  “They’ve promised me my third! End of the month, they said. It’s a sure thing. Besides, I’m the youngest raid leader they’ve ever had, you know that.”

  “Junior raid leader.”

  Mulrox couldn’t stifle it any longer—he burst into giggles.

  Groxor spun to face him. The glare was enough to make Mulrox’s knees weak. He knew what it meant.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Mulrox said.

  Groxor strode toward him. Mulrox backpedaled until he felt his arms scratch against something. There was a thick, musty smell. Oh no.

  Mulrox risked a glance behind him. He was standing right at the edge of the Woods Mercurial. He couldn’t go any farther. When he turned back, one of Groxor’s massive green fingers was an inch from Mulrox’s face.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Not you,” Mulrox stammered. “I… I was… Yahgurkin…”

  “Get out of here,” Groxor bellowed and shoved Mulrox with both hands.

  Mulrox tried to catch himself, but as he wound his arms backward, his ankle twisted out from under him and he went down. Tree branches battered against him and his feet flew over his head. He was rolling, tumbling through the trees, directly into the Woods Mercurial.

  4

  Mulrox rolled a long way, sliding through piles of moss and pine needles, an avalanche of small stones and branches cascading around him. He scrambled for tree roots, shrubs, anything to slow his descent, but the roots broke off, the bushes uprooted, and he only tumbled faster. He tried not to panic, but it was no use. With each scrape and scratch, he was tumbling deeper and deeper into the woods.

  Mulrox slammed against something hard and bounced, rolling once more before he found himself lying facedown in a thick pile of moss. A tumult of needles and pine cones plunked around him. Once the barrage stopped, he lifted his head.

  He was lying in the middle of a ring of six trees that stood in an almost-perfect circle. The trunks were so close together that the fuzzy red bark resembled walls around a forested room. The ground was covered in a thick layer of pine needles, and poking up through this was the wildest collection of fungus Mulrox had ever seen. Bright blue and orange and white. There were round puffballs and leafy growths and tall stalks with tiny caps. Shelf fungus ran up the side of the trees like spiral staircases. Above him, the branches of overlapping needles blocked out the sky.

  He had only fallen for a few seconds, but he had never felt farther away from home in his life.

  This was not good. Ogres who strayed into the woods were always being turned into stone or cursed by some do-gooder. And fairy rings—they were even more dangerous.

  He pushed to his feet.

  “Ow!!” a high voice squealed.

  Mulrox swiveled, looking for his would-be attacker.

  “Get off!” the voice said again. “Get OFF! GET OFF!”

  But Mulrox didn’t see anyone; it was just him and the trees.

  “You great pile of stank rot!” The voice was panting now. “Move… your… foot!”

  Though Mulrox still couldn’t find the speaker, he obeyed, taking two careful steps to the side. In answer, he heard a deep exhalation and then a gasp.

  “No, no, no! Not my tail! YOU—”

  Sharp pain rushed through his legs.

  “Hey!”

  Below him was an animal, six inches tall, shrouded in a hooded cloak. It was balanced on its hind legs and slashing away at Mulrox’s shins with its front paws.

  A cold sweat trickled down Mulrox’s back. The creature was unmistakable. They were in a fairy ring of ancient redwoods that marked its home. It was as the stories had said. He would surely be cursed now.

  “This is an outrage!” the little creature continued. “You smashed all the way here, no consideration of how things are done, knocking everything over, and then, and then… BREAKING someone’s tail!” The animal let out a miserable moan. Its front paws trembled and it fell over flat on its side. “Gah! It hurts,” it said.

  Its striped head popped out of the hooded cloak, and the creature glared at Mulrox, giving him a clear view of the animal’s enormous cheeks, wriggling nose, and pair of inch-long, yellowish teeth. Two tiny, fuzzy ears poked up through little holes cut in the hood’s top. Mulrox had rolled down the hill right onto a squirrelmonk. He was a goner.

  “Never in my entire life—of all the indignities—I, Lady Rodenia Marmotti the Eighth, a squirrelmonk, the highest order of rodent––”

  Mulrox swallowed. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I’ll just be leaving.”

  “You certainly will not.” The little animal was back on her feet now, waving her arms about. “Just as I had spotted the most perfect acorn hanging helpless in the branches over there,” she pointed to a nearby tree, “you come avalanching down that hillside, smack into my tree, and knock me from the branches. Bad enough, but then you go and trample my tail! Now look at it!”

  Mulrox peered around the little creature. A thin and very battered tail stuck out below the cloak, be
nt at an angle that didn’t look right.

  He grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “I should hope so!” Rodenia said. “But what am I going to do with your lousy apology? It’s not going to bring that acorn back or fix my tail.”

  “I can grab you acorns.” He searched for a sign of encouragement, but the squirrelmonk was glaring at him.

  Mulrox decided to try anyway. He slipped through the ring of trees in the direction the creature had pointed and spotted a large oak tree only a few feet away. He plucked several handfuls of acorns from the tree before returning and placing the nuts at the hooded figure’s feet.

  “Here,” he said.

  “Well,” she huffed, her paws grabbing at one another under her chin. “You, um…” She licked her lips. Without warning, the squirrelmonk reached out and snatched three of the acorns and shoved them into her mouth. Her cheeks ballooned out like a parachute unfurling, doubling the width of her little face.

  “Are you going to curse me? If so, please just get it over with? It’s been a rough day and—”

  “Curse you?” the animal sputtered, and two of the nuts shot out of her mouth. “Listen, you great oaf, I’m not going to curse you. A message is all. Some might even consider it a blessing. I was going to come find you, but I suppose you took care of that.”

  “Me? Are you sure? There are lots of ogres up that hill.” Mulrox pointed toward the river of broken branches and uprooted bushes.

  “This message is for you. I only deal with the real wackos, like yourself. Something’s wrong with you, so much so that the universe knows it.”

  “So it is a curse.”

  “Fine, it’s a curse. Life’s a curse! I am cursed to be here and not asleep in my burrow because my wondrous, perfect, enchanting, golden walnut is gone. So let’s get on with this. Now, if you don’t mind.” The squirrelmonk spit out the remaining nuts and pulled the hood lower over her face. She waved her little claws. “Mulrox,” the squirrelmonk said in a voice much slower and deeper than before. “Tonight you will—”

  “No, thank you!” Mulrox shouted, and before he knew what he was doing, he had his hands wrapped around the creature’s mouth. “That’s enough. I’m fine as I am. No messages needed.”

  Pain needled through his hands, and he dropped the animal. Two bite marks stood out on his red skin, welling with blood.

  “No more touching,” Rodenia said.

  Mulrox nodded.

  The creature scampered a few feet away and then sat on her haunches, regarding him. “You really don’t want to be transformed from your current wretched state?” she asked. “I foresee great things for you.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Mulrox said, his hope rising. He was sure this was the right answer; it was asking for wishes, wanting the wrong thing, that got you in trouble.

  “From an outside perspective, you desperately need it.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Rodenia shook her head. “Ogres. Your lack of perspective is incredible.” She clapped her paws together. “Well, that’s too bad. Events are in motion, big forces, dragon poked, that sort of thing. It can’t be helped. You’ll just have to do your best.”

  Mulrox’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Why did you ask then?”

  “Curiosity. Plus, I thought you might feel better if you thought you chose what happens next.”

  “But I didn’t choose.”

  “No, no one ever does. If we left it up to you, no one would ever change.”

  She smoothed back the fur around her face in several quick movements. Then she leaned in toward Mulrox. “Here’s the deal, kid. We squirrelmonks are keepers of the golden walnuts. Mine disappeared, so things are about to get weird. It will be rough for you—I can see that.”

  Mulrox was going to protest, but she cut him off.

  “No,” she said, holding up a paw before Mulrox could speak. “No more details. But you’re lucky—there’s something on its way to help you as we speak.”

  “Is this because of your tail? Because I am sorry about that. I can make you a sling—perhaps out of your cloak?”

  “You stay away from my tail,” Rodenia said, backing up and wrapping her cloak about her. She winced. “Go home. You’ll find out more soon enough.”

  “Do you have any advice for me at least?”

  “Yes,” the squirrelmonk said and puffed up. “Look where you are going next time.”

  Mulrox scowled at the ground. This was happening too fast. It might not be as bad as she was making it seem. She could be exaggerating.

  “Well, good luck with that,” Rodenia said. She had scampered further away and was sitting up in the branches of a nearby tree.

  “You’re leaving?” Mulrox looked around him. He was penned in by enormous trees, deep in the Woods Mercurial. “Wait! Where are we? Please, how do I get home?”

  Rodenia hesitated. “See that?” She pointed behind her. Mulrox saw a lot of trees.

  “Uh…” Mulrox said.

  “The moss, you numbskull.”

  The trees behind her had a coating of emerald moss so thick, it looked as though they were wearing fuzzy green jackets. Mulrox frowned, growing nervous. “I…”

  “It only grows on one side. Keep the mossy forest behind you, and you’ll be heading north. Walk long enough—you’ll find your way out. Get it?”

  Mulrox peered in the direction she had indicated.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “It looks pretty dark.”

  But there was no answer. Rodenia was gone.

  5

  Mulrox followed Rodenia’s directions, but even so, he spent an uncomfortable amount of time stuck beneath the dark branches. He tried to keep his head, avoiding thoughts about what lived in deep hollows and amidst crooked boughs. He passed through trees draped in brilliant green curtains of moss and studded with eerie white and yellow fungi. More than once he had to shake off the grasp of branches as he pushed through the undergrowth.

  Eventually the trees gave way to open sky, and he stepped back into the fading sunlight of the grassy hills outside Ulgorprog. He shivered. His first trip into the Woods Mercurial hadn’t killed him, but he didn’t want to repeat the experience. Despite what Rodenia had said, he was pretty sure she had cursed him.

  The road was empty, and the sun was setting behind the hills that led to Ulgorprog. They’d probably started the Proggrog without him. At this rate, there’d be no honey butter left, and Griselda—

  Mulrox slapped his forehead. He was supposed to have met Griselda directly after the raid. She would not be pleased. Mulrox sped off toward the Slobber and Snore without a glance back at the woods.

  * * *

  Mulrox pushed through the curtain of bones that hung over the doorway of the Slobber and Snore. The inn was packed full of ogres shouting and roaring with laughter. The smell of ox-bone tea, meat, and sweat was so thick his eyes began to water. Posters announcing the Beatific Behemoth were plastered across nearly every wall. All across the room, ogres were practicing their acts. Oogin squinted as he attempted to juggle a dozen sulfur shakers. “Sorry!” Oogin shouted as a glass shaker smashed against a wall and another bounced off a table. Wertol, an ogre who was always poking into others’ business with his long carrot-like nose, was producing a series of low, flatulent sounds by blowing into a giant conch shell. Broxli had knocked over tables and chairs and was encouraging several ogres to wrestle him at once.

  Behind the bar, Trolzor was a blur of motion as he refilled mugs, cleared plates, and delivered steaming platters from the kitchen. He kept a line of towels draped over his good arm, and after he plunked down the food, he deftly gave the tables a swipe or two. Mulrox tried to catch his eye—he waved and shouted, but nothing cut across the roar of the inn.

  Despite the din, Mulrox distinctly heard Groxor. He was in his usual corner with a throng of ogres gathered around him.

  “There I was,” Groxor was saying, “standing in the middle of the dread ship Billibob surrounded by fierce and terrible-looking huma
ns, every one of them armed, knives and sticks and spears pointed at me. There was no chance of survival, none. But then a wicked plan came to me.”

  He leapt out from behind the table and dropped into the Warrior-Waking pose. “If I took out the ship, they would go down with it.” He moved into the Menacing-Giant position and spun his arms in two fast windmills, knocking the person at the table next to them into a post. Groxor told the same story every Proggrog, and each time there were more men, a bigger ship, and a stronger storm. It wasn’t even his story. Ogres and humans hadn’t fought for centuries. He was stealing from Vroktar’s epic poem about Ikgarax the Insidious. Groxor had never sunk a ship—he’d probably never even seen one.

  “I made a fist, and BAM! I thrust it straight through the ship to the water below. The men dove at me, but I threw them off and punched again, flooding the boat with seawater. The water rose to our ankles, our knees. And then the storm picked up. The storm was so strong that the enormous warship was thrown about like a leaf on the wind.”

  A leaf on the wind. As if Groxor ever spoke like that.

  Groxor arched his chest, moving into Wicked-Bull pose.

  At least he wasn’t telling them about Mulrox falling down the hill. Not yet at least.

  Mulrox spotted an empty chair at one of the tables in the back and picked his way through the overturned stools and puddles of stew that littered the floor. As soon as Mulrox sat, he felt something cold and wet seeping through his clothes and realized why the table was abandoned. There must have been a pitcher of tea spilled over it.

  “I told someone to clean that up!” Trolzor appeared by the table. “Here.” He tossed Mulrox several fresh towels. “Would you wipe that down for me? They’re impossible tonight. Everyone’s worked up over the Behemoth, and apparently Griselda’s got a big announcement; they’ve all gone nuts.”

  Mulrox felt a chill run through him, which had nothing to do with the puddle forming at his feet. “Is she here?”

  “In the back with the old-timers.” Trolzor nodded over his shoulder. “She’s been hitting the mung beans pretty hard.”