Wundermint

Wundermint A novel by Dan Page

Table of Contents 1. The King 2. Trog’s Tale 3. The Village Beyond 4. Spintoffle’s Tale 5. A Bad Bargin 6. The Journey Begins 7. Disaster Strikes 8. The Kites of Merry 9. Merry’s Tale 10. Wicked Trickery 11. To Catch a Villain 12. Adventure Beckons 13. The Whalebone 14. Hard Traveling 15. A Plan Emerges 16. Gray Whiskers Lair 17. Capture the King 18. A Brief Reunion 19. A Perplexing Puzzle 20. The Crossing 21. Call to Battle 22. The Grundlers Strike Back 23. The Bitter Taste of Revenge 24. The Flight to Danger 25. The Plan Unfolds 26. A Tale from the Campfire

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1. The King

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efore now, but not so very long ago as such things are reckoned, in the land of sand beneath the silver stars and beside a deep and almost magically blue lake, there lived, in a castle on a hill, a king—that is, a sort of a king. Actually, he was more of an ordinary person who just happened to live in the castle because it was old, run down, full of mice and barn swallows, and no one else wanted to live there.

The sort of king was named Wundermint. He was not quite six feet tall—four feet seven and one-quarter inches to be precise—and his hair was the color of ripe cherries still on the tree. He had freckles, blue eyes, a wide grin, and a small yellow dog called Spurt.

Wundermint had moved into the castle on the hill the same year that the evil and warlike Grundlers took over his village of Plethon-Scrum, a place not found on ordinary maps, owing to its small size and out-of-the-way location. The Grundlers were an unpleasant lot, shaggy of hair, sharp of tooth, with small squinty eyes. They spoke a harsh language that had no songs, poems, jokes, or riddles and no words for play, trust, and beauty.

It was in the springtime that the Grundlers swept down from the hard ice mountains of the North and into Wundermint’s little village. In their smelly and disagreeable way, they uprooted gardens, toppled fences, and sent whole families scurrying away in fear for their safety.

Wundermint’s family had been among the scurrying, and they had traveled together as far as the second bridge over Cowpen Creek where an entire band of Grundlers stormed over the greening hills of Parm. In the beauty of a spring afternoon they plundered, robbed, and devastated while the sun smiled and birds tasted the blue tang of a cloud-salted sky. Wundermint escaped by lying ever so still, imagining himself to be a mere blade of grass or 1

grain of sand. The Grundlers rushed past, leaving him covered with yellow dust and the foul smell of their deeds filling him with dread and shivers.

When the Grundlers left, Wundermint was alone. His family was gone, and his village was far away, in what direction he did not know. He picked himself up, brushed himself off as best he could, unable to remove bits of yellow dust turned to mud by his tears, and trudged off into a day that was no less beautiful than before but to his eyes was now as bleak and barren as the far side of the fabled Sea of Skull Eye. Late that night, he fell asleep beneath a curious sky of peeping stars. He awoke next morning, lonely and alone, and traveled for more days than he could remember until at last he found the castle on the hill, where he now made his home. As he neared the crumbling old building, a small yellow dog that looked like a dust mop and barked with a high-pitched yap rushed out to greet him with a welcoming pee on his left ankle. Since Wundermint had no way of knowing what the leaky beast’s name was, he simply called him Spurt.

Together they lived in the castle, which looked oddly like an abandoned barn. Wundermint declared himself a sort of king and made Spurt his assistant king in charge of fetching, barking, and squirrel chasing. The mice and barn swallows were their loyal and true subjects.

The time did not pass in play or idleness. No day went by that Wundermint did not dream of revenge. He longed to reclaim the village that long ago sheltered him and his family. Revenge filled his every waking moment and his dreams. It burned like a fire in his belly, and he tasted it far back in his throat like something he could not clear and spit out.

He waited patiently, knowing his revenge would come. He did not know when, but he knew it would be unexpected, like life itself. And so he spent each day expecting the unexpected, happy in 2

the knowledge that one day his unhappiness would end.

One morning early, Wundermint went out to gather his breakfast of nibbles and greensweets, all the while planning his revenge. Early mornings were best for planning, because his mind was fresh and his spirits were still alive with nightdreams. In his plan, he would swoop down from the north, taking the wicked Grundlers by surprise, screaming at the head of a brave army that brandished broadswords, lances, firepots, sharp sticks, and jaggedy rocks. He could see the look of terror on the faces of his enemy as he bore down upon them and they fled before his army, but not before a goodly few had been knocked on the head, had their shins whacked, and felt the full force of Wundermint’s revenge.

It was a good plan, he knew, but on mornings such as this particular one, when the mists crept up the hill and wrapped the creaky old castle in a gray dampness, he knew the plan had a few problems that needed to be worked out. So he sat on a fallen tree and pondered. Was north really the best direction to swoop out of?

How did you get everyone to swoop all at once? And which way was north after all? It wasn’t easy to plan.

He plucked a greensweet, licked the dew from its pointy tip, and munched thoughtfully, when he was suddenly shivered straight through by a deep growling sound. It seemed to come from behind a stone wall where lizards and chipmunks lived. Wundermint drew himself to his full height and bravely took three steps backward, the better to prepare for his next move. He peered into the grayness and listened. Silence. He picked up a small stick and flung it toward the wall. Nothing. He took three steps forward, made bolder by the quiet. Trees are known to make such noises, he told himself. He flung another stick. Took another step. The slightest hint of a breeze made the fog swirl before him in a defiant little dance.

Wundermint took a deep breath and called out, “Identify yourself.” There was no reply. He picked up another stick and 3

sliced the fog with it in a rapid cutting motion that made a low whistling sound. He did it again, taking courage from the good fortune he had of finding such a fine weapon. The stick whistled and Wundermint strode to the wall. “Identify yourself or face my wrath, you cowardly scoundrel,” cried Wundermint. He didn’t actually cry it out so much as think it, not quite aloud, but nonetheless with great, albeit silent, ferocity. What he actually said was, “Is anyone there?”

He whacked the wall with his stick and the fog swallowed the sound. He kicked at the wall with his bare foot and found it unforgiving. “This is your last chance,” he thought silently but with stern authority. Aloud he said, “Hullo?” No answer.

Wundermint laughed, pleased that whatever it was had been frightened away. He sat upon the low wall and contemplated his victory as he inspected the damage done to his great toe by the alltoo-solid wall. “It is the price of battle,” he said softly.

Too fast for thought, he suddenly found himself clasped by two bony arms as strong as barrel straps. A low growl at his ear made him struggle harder as the grasp grew tighter. He tried to kick and found himself wrapped about by a leg. He screamed once before a crusty hand clamped across his mouth. The monster reeked of old fish. Wundermint tried to bite, but the scaly claw was as bitter as rock salt.

The more he tried to wriggle free, the tighter grew the grip until he could not breathe and he feared his eyes would pop out. The growl sounded again, different this time, but more ferocious.

Wundermint waited to be devoured. When a high screech pierced the air, the monstrous grip relaxed. He was free. He rolled away, tried to scramble to his feet, tripped, and fell.

As he lay helpless and trembling on the ground, the fog, like a curtain before a play, parted to reveal a hideous swamp monster with giant hairy feet. Wundermint shook his head in disbelief and looked again. It was more of a tramp, judging by the holes in his 4

britches and the sorry state of his muddy boots. What had appeared to be a hairy foot was in fact the little yellow dog, Spurt, now attached to the tramp’s ankle, which sent the unfortunate fellow dancing about in pain.

Assuming his most kingly voice, Wundermint commanded the little yellow dog to let go, which Spurt did, just as the old man delivered a mighty shake of his leg. Like a dandelion fluff caught on the wind, Spurt went sailing off into the woods. Wundermint and the old tramp went scurrying into the woods together and were down on their hands and knees looking for the poor little beast under the low green scrubbery and behind fallen logs. Spurt startled them both by sneaking up behind them and issuing a sharp bark. Wundermint and the tramp jumped straight up and momentarily clung to each other before they quickly pushed away to resume their roles of enemies.

“Why did you sail off my wee dog?” asked Wundermint with anger.

“More to the point,” said the tramp, “why did he attach hisself to my poor old ankle what never did him no harm?”

“He was protecting me,” Wundermint explained.

“True,” the tramp said thoughtfully. “But no harm was intended—nor disrespect to be sure.”

“And why had you need of grab-handling me so?”

Wundermint demanded.

“You was trespassing,” said the tramp.

Wundermint eyed him suspiciously. “I believe not,” he said. “I doubt you own this good earth on which we stand.”

“True again,” said the tramp, surprising Wundermint with his agreeable manner, “but that ramshackle of a barn on the hill yonder is likely as much mine as your’n. I doubt you have a fair deed to it yourself, young feller.”

Wundermint did not know what a “fair deed” was nor did he care for being called “young feller.” It wasn’t a proper way to 5

address a king. Not even a sort of king. “You’re lucky the dog didn’t nip off your entire limb,” Wundermint said. “If you meant no harm, what was all that fearsome growling and grabbing behavior about?”

The old tramp opened his mouth as if to reply angrily, then seemed to catch himself. He closed his mouth, gave a puzzled look, and sank down to the ground trembling. Spurt jumped into his raggedy lap and began to lick his face happily. “I s’pose I owe you an apology,” the tramp said. The sound of his voice set Spurt’s tail to wagging so hard that his entire body began to shake.

Wundermint stepped closer and could now see the tiredness in the old gentleman’s eyes. “If I’ve given you cause to apologize,” Wundermint said, “I apologize for that and in so doing accept your apology. What brings you here?”

The tramp stroked Spurt’s yellow fur with his bony fingers and said, “I came here to”—he paused, looked about to see if anyone were listening, then lowered his voice to a whisper—“to fish for the Wrinkies.”

“The what?” Wundermint asked.

“You don’t know ’em?” The old fellow seemed amazed.

“Never heard tell of such,” Wundermint assured him.

“Then my apologies twice over,” said the tramp. “I thought you was here afore me for the purpose of out-fishing me. My mistake, good sir.”

Wundermint liked “good sir” much better than “young feller.”

He asked, “What it is about these Wrinkie fish that would cause you to growl and grab-handle in such an unpleasant manner?”

The tramp smiled, and despite a notable lack of teeth it was a warm and friendly smile. “Ahh, the Wrinkies,” he said. “If you don’t know ’em, it is hard indeed to understand why I would put up a scuffle for them.” He began to laugh, though nothing funny had been said, and Wundermint found himself laughing along 6

with him. It felt quite good. Spurt liked it too and chased his tail in appreciation.

“I’ll take myself off to the stream in a moment or so,” said the old man, “and come nightfall I’ll invite you and your wee dust mop of a dog to be my guests at a feast fit for a king.”

Wundermint liked that part a great deal and nodded agreeably.

“What is your favorite food, lad?”

“Not fish,” said Wundermint.

“No, I expect not,” said the tramp. “And now that you’ve told me what it’s not, perhaps you’ll tell me what it is.”

“I don’t have one favorite,” said Wundermint. “I’m partial to cloud candy, though not as a steady diet.” His mouth watered as he spoke, for he had not tasted cloud candy since the long-ago days in his village when they celebrated holidays with all manner of treats and delights. “And corn on the cob,” he remembered suddenly. “Although I’ve had none for so long my mouth doesn’t even remember the taste. And fresh raspberries, warmed by the sun. That’s nice too. It’s hard to remember. Mostly these days I live on the nibbles and greensweets that grow wild here—filling and most nourishing, as my mother would have liked, but not my favorites to be sure.”

The old man chuckled and squinted at the sky, which was beginning to show its true blue colors through the soggy fog. “It’s not a bit of too late. I can still catch a small feast for the evening time, but I’ll have to be off now. Gather some sticks for a small fire, and before the moon makes its night rounds you’ll hear me halloo off in the distance. When you do, start the fire and set your mouth and mind for a feast.” And with that, he was up and on his way.

Spurt followed a few steps, then stopped and turned around to look back at Wundermint.

“Go with him,” Wundermint said softly. “I’ll be fine. Look after him.” Spurt yipped, lifted his leg quickly, and went scurrying off into the woods where the old man had gone before.

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2. Trog’s Tale

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y late evening, trees were stretching long shadows toward the night and a soft breeze carried bird songs deep into a flaming sunset. Wundermint, his head resting upon a pile of sticks he had gathered earlier, was brought out of his reverie by a distant halloo. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The halloo was still too far away for him to see anything, so he bustled about and started a small fire. A thin wisp of smoke coiled upward, a white spiral against an orange sky.

A second halloo rang out, closer now, and this time he could see the old tramp emerging at the edge of the woods with Spurt trotting at his heels. As he drew nearer, Wundermint could see a stringer of glistening fish slung across his shoulder. The fish seemed to be heavy judging by the old fellow’s unsteady gait.

“By the look of your load, I’d guess you had some luck,” Wundermint called.

“Luck in a pig’s snout,” came the reply. “You surely don’t catch no Wrinkies with luck. Wile and cunning is what it takes. Sneaking and snaking through the brambles with less noise than a passing cloud is what it takes. And precious few were biting today. But I was more cunning than these wee rogues—and so we eat tonight, thanks be.”

The old man slid the load of fish from his shoulder and instructed Wundermint on how to spear them through with a sharp stick and toast them golden brown over the fire. As he spoke, his eyes were strangely alight and his gait grew no more steady even after he had set down his awesome load. “It’s fearsome hard work,” he said. “And to do it proper a fellow must keep his wits oiled.” With that he produced from his ragged britches a small flask that he uncorked and lifted to his lips. He took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Firefly wine,” he explained. “It takes a bit of the creak out of my old bones.”

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Wundermint nodded, not quite understanding.

While the Wrinkies sizzled above the dancing flames, the old man sipped at the small flask, his eyes glowing brighter and his balance less certain. After a while he removed one of the now golden morsels from the fire, tested it with bony finger, and offered the prize to Wundermint.

Wundermint accepted carefully, not wishing to be impolite. He took a bite, paused, and took a second taste not quite believing anything could be so delicious. The fish was as light and tender as cloud candy; it had the rich buttery flavor that he remembered of corn on the cob; and it had the sweetness of raspberries picked on a hot summer’s day. He did not know how many he ate; he simply ate until there were no more. And the old man matched him fish for fish.

When they were done, they watched the fire grow tired and retreat into shimmering coals. Spurt lay in a furry ball and snored softly. Wundermint and the old tramp picked their teeth with fish bones and watched a new moon rise in the sky like a great sickle ready to harvest stars.

“We were so busy scuffling this morning that I never learned your name,” Wundermint said, breaking a long, digestive silence.

“Troglander,” the old man replied. “Finicus Troglander if you want the full helping. But most just call me Trog. Since my years have begun to show themselves it’s become Old Trog to them as care to call me at all. But I’m mostly alone in the world now, and so there are few who have need of calling me one way or t’other.”

“I was a sailor,” Old Trog continued, “and I have had rare adventures upon many a sea. In my day I fought pirates, buried treasures, and laughed in the teeth of the foulest gales that ever weather dared to blow.”

The combination of firefly wine and fish had fueled Old Trog for conversation. He needed no prompting from Wundermint to fill in a few details of his colorful past. “I’ve sailed the rivers, the 9

lakes, and the salty seas,” he said. “Sailed with the best of them, and also the worst. I was with the famed Captain Ahem when he traveled to the Farasan Islands where giant mealy worms attacked him and ate off his good right leg, leaving him to stump the quarterdeck on a limb what he carved himself out of a whale’s jawbone.

Wundermint leaned forward to hear every word. In his mind, he could see the strange Captain Ahem, gray and scary, limping about and making a thumping noise with his peg leg made of whalebone, all white and strange and ever so fierce.

“I was first mate on the ship of the vicious Captain Hiccup, may the powers of darkness singe his wicked soul,” Trog continued. “That was the year the great waterspout swept over the lowlands and it rained sea snails for a week in every port from Lech to Whister. And though you’d not think it to see me now, I had my own ship for a time, a beautiful schooner that moved like one of heaven’s own clouds across the water with her sails unfurled to a fair west wind.

“I was six days out of port with a load of nutmeal and almond tea when my own first mate, chap by the name of Brupt, rose up against me and threw me into irons. He planned to keelhaul me, which is to say tie me to a rope and drag my poor old self through the salty water until I was no more.

“Unbeknownst to this wicked Brupt, I had hid away a bit of sharpened whalebone beneath my tongue, and when they dropped me over the edge, I used that bit of bone to cut loose of the rope.

By the time that rascal realized what had happened, I was half a mile behind of him treading water and watching my beauteous ship grow tiny in the distance. I figured I was done for anyway, but better a quick death at the razor teeth of murderous sharks, than the slow and painful exit old Brupt had planned for me.

“The second day I was afloating and sure enough, along came the sharks. They sniffed me, bumped at me with their great thorny 10

fins, and made chopping sounds with their fearsome teeth. I said my prayers and figured I was done for, when it occurred to me that I needn’t go out without a bit of unpleasantness of my own doing, for you see I had hung on to that same bit of whalebone what had set me free earlier. And so the next time one of the big slippery creatures sidled up to me, licking his chops, why I slashed him with my trusty slasher and laid him open along the side.

“Well, as you might not know, sharks is the nastiest of animals, not caring what they attack. They seen a thin scrim of blood from one of their own fellows and bless me if they didn’t forget all about Old Trog and attack the very shark what was about to make me his dinner. They swarmed and snapped and the water boiled with their frenzy. I heard the screech of sea birds and looked up to see them swooping down out of the sky. And I said to myself, ‘Troglander, it looks as if the sharks don’t want you but the screaming gulls do.’ But no, as I live and breathe before you this very night, they was there to feed on the scraps and morsels that escaped the none-too-tidy jaws of the ugly sharks.

“And here’s the part you may find hard to believe. Not three miles away was a boatload of six fisherwomen who hailed from the Isle of Liberty, where it is the custom that the women put out to sea to fish and their husbands remain behind to cook, clean, and rear the children. These ladies spied the circling gulls and reckoned the birds had spotted themselves a school of fishies.

They came upon me full speed, their nets at the ready to scoop up dinner, and all they found was Old Trog.”

The coals of the fire were dark now. The sleeping Spurt gave a sudden start as a rabbit crossed his doggy dreams. Trog pulled out his flask and drained the last drop, shaking it in the vain hope of finding a little more. Wundermint sat hugging his knees deep in concentration, not wanting the story to end.

“And that,” said Old Trog softly, “is how comes I am here today. No more a sailor to be true, just an old ragged fisherman 11

who goes in search of Wrinkies and enjoys his sip of firefly wine of an evening.”

“The whalebone,” Wundermint said. “Do you have it still?”

Trog reached inside his tattered shirt and pulled out a smooth, gleaming white piece of bone the length of a good knife. It was tied on a strip of leather that hung around his neck. “I’m never without it, lad. Keep it sharp as a winter wind, I do. Not that I hope to ever have need of it again, but more for luck as you might say. And now, if you will be so good, I’ll put my head down and drink from the sweet cup of nightsleep.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Wundermint said. “G’night.”

For a long time, Wundermint did not sleep. He sat and pondered all he had heard. He had much to learn from Old Trog, for he was a good and honest man who had lived a full life.

Wundermint thought about Brupt, the evil first mate, and he wondered what had happened to him. Did Trog seek him out for revenge? Maybe Trog had found him, taken his revenge, and was now hiding. He wanted to ask, but the old man was now sound asleep.

He is a clever, Wundermint thought. He wondered how people became clever.

He tucked away in his memory the lessons of Trog’s story.

Beware of people like Brupt. Never trust them. Keep a secret weapon. And pray for good luck.

He felt he’d had his own bit of good luck that day, although it had not appeared so at first. Perhaps luck wasn’t always easy to spot.

He moved closer to the fire. The snuffly snores of little Spurt and the deep slow breathing of Old Trog mixed with the sounds of crickets and peepers, and Wundermint fell fast asleep.

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3. The Village Beyond

W

undermint awoke with his brains full of dreams and his nostrils filled with the delicious perfume of a breakfast cooking over an open fire. He rolled over, rubbed one eye and then the other, and issued a cheery good morning to Trog, who promptly served up a heaping portion of sizzled Wrinkies topped with a peppery flower jelly that boiled in a small pot on the fire.

“Cherish this bit of breakfast,” Trog said with a wrinkled smile.

“All fresh-caught this very morning. It’s not every day you can expect to be blessed by the Wrinkies biting before sunup.” He helped himself to a small taste of the morning’s fare.

“I have never tasted anything as fine as these Wrinkies,” remarked Wundermint, wiping his chin on his raggedy sleeve.

“How do you catch them?”

“First,” Trog said with a merry laugh, “you have to know where to find them, for they are fiendish at hiding themselves in tall grasses, weedy places, and beneath logs that snag the finest hooks and won’t let go. But once you know where they live, you must learn to sneak up on them without moving a blade of grass or casting a false shadow. You need patience to stand and wait for them to be ahungered for whatever it is you’re offering them, be it crunchy buglets, wee juicy worms, or bits of green scrubbery made to look tasty as cake. And should you at long last pull the creatures from their watery home, it will do you not a speck of good unless you know how to prepare and serve them. Cooked without care or eaten without sharing, they taste no better than tree bark.”

“Could you teach me to do all that?” Wundermint asked his eyes aglow.

“Why I would be honored,” Trog replied.

“I’ve nothing to offer in return,” Wundermint cautioned.

Trog waggled a finger. “The reward for good teaching is having 13

someone who learns well,” he said. “I’ve no doubt that you will be the best of pupils, which is to say you shall offer me the greatest of rewards in return for my teaching.”

All that day and for many to come, Wundermint and Trog fished the streams together for Wrinkies. Wundermint learned to carve strong curved hooks from sharp thorns. Trog taught him to make long, flowing fishing lines from stringy marsh grasses and to turn branches of saplings into stout fishing poles with just the proper spring to them. Wundermint learned to stand still and not cry out or move, even when stinging nettles tore at his hands or wasps buzzed angrily in his face. He watched Old Trog, and he learned to read the ripples of a stream. He learned to think like a cloud and to cast only cloud shadows that were silent and frightened nothing away.

He did not catch Wrinkies at first, but he did catch bony carp and long sinewy slickerals. He threw them back, because they were not good to eat, and he learned from his mistakes. Old Trog praised him when he did well, and it made him feel good deep inside to know he had pleased the old fellow. And when Wundermint was slow to learn, Trog never raised his voice or hand but continued to explain gently and carefully.

For a time, a short time, the hard work of learning to fish for Wrinkies occupied Wundermint so fully that he had little time to think about his kingly plan of revenge on the wicked Grundlers. In fact, some days he almost forgot about it all together, but a tiny voice deep inside him seemed to say, “Learn to fish and learn all of fishing’s lessons—patience, stealth, watchfulness, and cunning.”

One evening as the fire turned dark and glowed like a sunset, and after a particularly fine and filling meal of Wrinkies, Wundermint wondered aloud, “Have you ever in your travels fished the River Scrum?”

Trog delicately picked a lone tooth with a fish bone and pondered. “Scrum?” he said, turning the word over in his mouth as 14

if looking for a familiar sound. “Scrum?” he repeated. “Ahh yes, now I recall. The Scrum flows into the great green river called Phlume, which divides the hills of Parm. The Phlume flows into the Klovil, which after many a twist and watery turn empties itself into the Skull Eye Sea.” Wundermint sat bolt upright. “So you know it?” He could not contain the excitement in his voice.

“I don’t know it firsthanded, as you might say, never having been there,” said Trog, “but I knows it well enough from the maps.”

“Maps?” asked Wundermint. “What are they?”

Trog picked up a stick and began to make marks in the dirt.

“This squiggly line here,” he explained, “is your river.” He scratched out a lopsided circle. “This could be one of your towns”—he paused and made an X in the dirt—“and right here is where we be,” he said, tapping the X three times with his drawing stick.

“What are maps for?” Wundermint asked, fascinated by the strange marks that were now magically rivers and places.

Trog scratched his head and thought for a long moment. “Why maps is for planning, I reckon,” he said. “They tells you how to get from one place to the next—at least for them as knows how to read them.”

“And you know how to read them?” Wundermint asked.

“Why bless me, I suppose I’ve read more than my fair share of maps in my day,” Trog said. His eyes, already alight with firefly wine, took on a still brighter glow as he warmed to the conversation. “I can read maps, navigate by the stars, and find my way through the darkest night by pure dead reckoning.”

“So you could take me to my old village of Pleth on Scrum,” Wundermint cried. He jumped up and began to pace back and forth in his excitement.

“I reckon I could,” Trog said, his voice beginning to grow soft and sleepy.

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“Will you take me there?” asked Wundermint. “Can we start tomorrow at daybreak? No, tonight even.”

Trog yawned and stretched. “As cozy as we be right now,” he said, “with our bellies brim full and a fire to warm our dreams, why ever would we want to leave?”

Wundermint felt his face grow hot red as if someone had slapped his cheek. He had assumed that Trog would wish to take revenge on the Grundlers, just as he did. It made him suddenly angry to see the old fellow sitting there his eyes half closed and a smile of contentment on his face—as though it mattered not one whit that the Grundlers might go unpunished.

The angrier he grew, the more he spewed and sputtered like a teakettle out of control, until at last he clenched his fist, drew a deep breath, and let fly a most ferocious torrent of words. “You’ve let me think you were my good friend, teaching me and talking with me. But when it comes time to leave the cozy fireside, you’ve not got the stomach for fighting. Well, I’ll not be lulled into your dreamy dreams,” Wundermint shouted. “If you’ve anything to add, well, I’m not sure I want to hear it.”

When Trog spoke, his voice was ever so gentle. “I once had a dear friend,” he said, “and he would come to me and say ‘Troggy lad, I’ve a fine story for you.’ Almost never did I ever have any idea of what he was talking about nor why it took so many words to say something that contained so little of anything understandable.

When I asked him questions, it made him angry because he didn’t think I was paying attention. But as he simmered down, it would become clear that he had skipped a page in his story now and again in his haste to do so much telling in such a short time. And when he turned back to the missing pages, so to speak, lo and behold his fine story would take on some shape and I actually understood what he was so all-fired excited about.”

Trog paused and let the smoke whisper to a night sky of listening stars. “I only mention that by way of saying I think we 16

missed a page somewheres.”

Wundermint shivered and looked at the old fellow sitting across from him with firelight smeared like jam across his face. He still felt the anger, but he was no longer sure why. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Perhaps he had indeed skipped a page.

So he began to tell Trog his story. He told of the Grundlers and how they had swept down upon his village that fine spring day.

He spoke about his family, how much he loved and missed them. He described his mother, how she had taught him to dream and care and say thank you and not scratch in public. He spoke lovingly of his father who had a gift of laughter that he shared upon any occasion with friends and strangers alike. And he told of a sister with hair the color of fall pumpkins and a voice that rang like silver rain. He remembered aloud the happy times they shared in the village with other families.

And when he spoke of the Grundlers, the fury in his voice mounted as he told how he would swoop in from the north and take them by surprise, leading an army that brandished broadswords, lances, firepots, sharp sticks, and jaggedy rocks. And triumphantly he announced his intention to devastate the wicked smelly Grundlers.

“I must ask you to forgive me that I didn’t know none of that when you got so flustered with me,” Trog said.

“I should apologize,” Wundermint replied with dignity. “You couldn’t have known how important it is for me to return to my village and take my revenge. I never told you.”

“We’ve no need to speak further of apologizing,” Trog said with a wink. He hoisted himself up on one elbow, unscrewed the cap from him flask, and took a long drink of firefly wine. His cheeks and eyes glowed like coals. “I’ve fought many a good fight in my time, but I reckon there may be just about one more in me—that is if you’d be of a mind to have such as myself join in.”

“Thank you,” Wundermint said, drawing himself to his full 17

height. “Thank you, my good friend.”

“Then it’s done,” cackled Old Trog merrily. “You’ve just recruited your first soldier.”

“You shall always be my most trusted adviser,” Wundermint said.

“The honor is most surely mine,” Trog replied.

They sat for a long while watching embers send their last sparks heavenward and merge with the blackness of the sky. Just before he fell asleep, Wundermint said softly, “Where shall I find others to join us?”

“We’ll begin our journey tomorrow,” Trog said, the wine heavy on his tongue. “We’ll find others along the way.”

“But how can I persuade them to join us?” Wundermint asked.

“Tell ’em your tale,” Trog yawned. “They’ll follow you.”

“And don’t skip any pages,” Wundermint added.

“Don’t skip any pages,” Trog agreed.

An owl hooted far away just as the moon rose above the trees and spread a lustrous patchwork of light and shadows. He fell asleep dreaming of the mighty army he would lead. He could not see the faces of his brave soldiers, but they were close and real in a way they never had been before. It was a marvelous plan, no longer just the dream of a frightened little boy.

18

4. Spintoffle’s Tale

A

late afternoon sun blazed in a hot blue sky when Wundermint and Trog arrived in the village of Middle.

Spurt darted around their ankles as they staggered under the weight of a large catch of Wrinkies. At daybreak, Trog had awakened Wundermint from a sound sleep, saying, “We’ll catch ourselves a fine mess of fishies today and take ’em to town to sell.

Then we’ll have golders aplenty to begin building your army.”

Wundermint did not understand what he meant by golders, and there had been no time to explain because they had been too busy hauling in the fish.

The village of Middle was in the midst of a bustling fair. People filled every street and byway. Children scampered about, their faces full of candy, their voices shrill with excited laughter. Women in bright long dresses sold shiny fruits and vegetables, spicy meats cooked in cabbage leaves, seashells, carved dolls, handkerchiefs, candy on sticks, lacquered boxes, and tiny bottles of enchanting fragrances. They waved to each other, laughed, played, and danced with the men who roamed about sampling the wares.

With fish slung over their shoulders, hanging down their backs, and dangling from stringers around their waists, Wundermint and Trog looked like scaly creatures from deep and secret waters. The people called cheery greetings as they passed, nudged one another, and pointed at the two fish-laden strangers.

“The first thing to remember,” Old Trog whispered into Wundermint’s ear, “is don’t ever take the first offer.”

“Offer of what?” asked Wundermint.

“Watch me and learn,” Trog said.

“Well bless my buttons and shoe buckles,” came a voice from the crowd. Wundermint looked about for either buttons or shoe buckles and found neither. The voice repeated the strange comment and Wundermint discovered that it belonged to a tall thin boy with 19

stringy black hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. The boy’s clothes were worn thin and shiny, long since outgrown, leaving his bony wrists, ankles, and stork-like neck well exposed. “Are you looking to sell those fine fresh fishies?” asked the boy with an engaging smile full of small sharp teeth.

“Yes we are,” replied Wundermint. He then grunted sharply as Trog nudged him in the ribs with a purposeful elbow.

“I s’pose I needn’t tell a gent such as yourself,” the boy said, suddenly switching his intense focus to Trog, “that you must be ever so careful these sly folks hereabouts don’t cheat you—you being strangers and all to these parts.”

“We accept your kind warning,” Trog said without a great deal of warmth The tall boy smiled and sent glints of sunlight flashing from his glasses at the tip end of his beaky nose. Spurt began to yap and raced around the boy’s large feet snapping and growling.

The tall boy bent over, like a great heron about to spear a frog for supper. He held out his hand, palm up. “Nice doggy,” he said.

“My name is Spintoffle; what’s yours?” Spurt growled and nipped at the hand. The smile never left Spintoffle’s face. He jerked his hand away and said, in a voice only slightly strained, “I love little animals.”

“Are you all right?” Wundermint asked. “Let me have a look at your hand.”

“No need,” Spintoffle assured him. “I just stopped by to welcome two such successful fishermen as yourselves.”

Wundermint introduced himself and shook the hand Spintoffle offered. It was soft and slippery, like a too-small fish that needed throwing back. “This is my friend, Trog,” he said.

“My pleasure, Mr. Trog,” Spintoffle said. “It’s not everyday a chap such as myself meets a gent who clearly knows how to sell fish as well as catch them.”

Trog kept his distance as he sized up this strange and overly 20

friendly boy. “Do you know any folks what buys fishies hereabouts?” Trog asked.

“Why no, not many,” Spintoffle replied lightly. “Most people with fish to sell travel to the next town over. The prices are much better there.”

“Then that’s where we’re off to,” Trog said, “Be good enough to point me in the right direction and we’ll be off.”

Spintoffle slid his glasses up his long nose and stroked his pointy chin. “See yonder bell tower? There is a westerly road just behind of it. It will take you there.”

“We’re obliged,” Trog said with a tip of his cap. “How long will it take us to get there?”

“Well,” Spintoffle said, wrinkling his forehead in thought, “if you go at a fair clip, why you can make it in two and a half days.

Three if you stop and rest a bit.”

“Why the fish will spoil by then,” Wundermint exclaimed.

“I’d not thought of that,” Spintoffle said in a shocked voice.

Trog slumped beneath his load of fish and wiped his forehead.

His eyes were sunken and tired. “Well then, there’s naught to do but find the best price we can right here. I’ll drive a hard bargain you can be sure.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Spintoffle agreed. “A business gent such as yourself will do well. I’m sure of it.”

Wundermint’s head was swimming with the talk of buying and selling and bargaining and business. He had no idea what they were talking about. And Spurt continued to whirl around barking and raising a cloud of dust.

“You seems to know a thing or three about selling fishies,” Trog said to Spintoffle. “Perhaps you could direct me to one as might take this weight from my back.”

“I shouldn’t want to do that,” Spintoffle said amiably enough, “for they’d know you to be a stranger and cheat you on account of it.”

21

“Then I must take my chances,” Trog said, “for I surely can’t stand here in the hot sun and let my Wrinkies go to spoil.”

“Wrinkies !” exclaimed Spintoffle. “By my buttons and shoe buckles, I thought that was what you had, but I’ve never seen so many of them all caught up at one time. You are indeed a rare Wrinkie catcher, if I may say so.”

Trog smiled and nodded his head in appreciation of the compliment. “Being that I’ve such fine fish, I expect to command a fair price.”

Spintoffle shook his head. “Worse luck,” he said. “You won’t get a tenth of what they’re worth, you being a stranger and all.”

“And in your good opinion, just what are they worth?” Trog asked with a sly and slightly forced smile.

“Why twenty golders if they’re worth a fig,” Spintoffle replied.

“But I know these village folks. They’ll offer you one single golder and tell you you’re lucky to get that. They’ll lie to your face and tell you that they’ve eat their fill of Wrinkies. Have no hunger for them. But they’ll offer to give you a single golder as if they was doing you a favor.”

“And I’ll tell them I’ll throw these here fishies back in the stream before I’ll part with them for such a meager sum.”

Spintoffle clapped his hands. “Good for you,” he cried.

“Unfortunately,” Spintoffle continued, his voice now low and serious, “they’ll let you start to walk away. Then they’ll call after you. They’ll say, ‘Old man, you drive a hard a bargain. I don’t want the Wrinkies, but seeing as you’re new to town and for no other reason, I’ll give you two golders.’ And that will be the end of it. They won’t go up one bit from there. And you’ll have been cheated, I’m sorry to say.”

Trog’s shoulders slumped, and Wundermint was afraid he might have to help the old fellow before he collapsed. Even Spurt stopped whirling long enough to make sure his good friend was all right.

“I’ve a thought,” Spintoffle said. “Perhaps I could ...” His voice 22

trailed off and he shook his head. “No I won’t say it.”

“Please tell us,” Wundermint insisted.

“You’ll think I’m trying to take advantage,” Spintoffle said with a shrug. “I’m not even sure it would work.”

“Tell us what’s on your mind,” Trog urged, “and we’ll be the judge of what might work.”

“I know the fish buyer,” Spintoffle explained. “He’s a mean chap name of Gritz. If I were to take the fishies to him, he’d dare not cheat me, because I’m well known in these parts.”

“Then show us the way to him,” Trog said, his spirits rising once again. “You can do the bargaining for us.”

“That’s the tricky part,” Spintoffle said. “Old Gritz will see the two of you and know it’s not me he’s really dealing with. He’ll refuse to buy at a fair price. You’ll still get cheated.”

“So why don’t you take the fish to him and we’ll wait for you here,” Wundermint said. He was so pleased at his flash of brilliance that he couldn’t understand why Trog should have once again nudged his ribs with such a vigorous elbow.

“Wait,” Spintoffle seemed suddenly elated. “Look,” he said digging deep into his pockets and producing two shiny gold coins.

“I’ve given you no good reason to trust me,” he continued, “but I’ll leave these coins with you as a show of faith. When I return in less than an hour, I’ll give you twenty golders and you give me back my two ...”

Old Trog squinched up his eyes and studied Spintoffle for a long moment. “So what’s in all this for you?”

“Why if you wish,” Spintoffle said airily, “you can give me an additional golder for my trouble. I’d not say no to such a generous offer.”

Trog looked at Wundermint, who returned the look with an innocent expression that seemed to say, “What is there to lose?”

“Done,” Trog said with a decisive nod. They shook hands all around, wished each other well, and Spintoffle set off, bent down 23

under the weight of Wrinkies that glistened all about him like fine jewelry.

“Enjoy the fair,” Spintoffle called out. “We’ll all meet back here in the cool shade of yonder friendly oak tree.” Trog and Wundermint waved back and smiled. Spurt growled. The hair on his neck bristled.

“We’re lucky to have found him,” Wundermint said with satisfaction.

“It’s a good sign,” Trog agreed. He pulled out his flask and took a long swig of his firefly wine. “It shows that our adventure is off to a splendid start.”

24

5. A Bad Bargin

W

hile Trog snoozed under a tree, Wundermint set off to explore the fair that spread before him in a dazzling blur of color filled with laughter, shouts, and the hum and bustle of activity. Trog had given him one of the golders, a shiny round coin that gleamed in the sun. Safe in his pocket, the coin gave Wundermint a sense of power. He liked the kingly feeling, and he smiled pleasantly at the people he passed.

Everywhere about him, people were exchanging golders for other things—food, finery, flimflam, and fun. They haggled over each exchange. He observed the intensity they brought to the solemn process of bargaining, and he resolved that when the time came to exchange his golder, it would be for something very valuable indeed.

His deep thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a roar of laughter that seemed to issue from a thousand happy throats. He looked up and saw an amazingly tall blond boy with the happiest, most comical smile he had ever seen. The boy towered above the crowd, his head bobbing like a cork on water, and his arms flailing wildly as if he were ready at any moment to come tumbling down from that great height. The boy smiled and joked with the happy people.

Wundermint made himself small and wriggled through the crowd, right up to the very front where he found yet another blond boy, this one of average height only, who danced about juggling four cabbages and singing to his tall friend who teetered on great stilts high above the crowd: Do the stars buzz around you like mosquitoes?

Do you fear bumping up against the moon?

Does such a lofty height Cause you any fright?

Well don’t worry friend for you’ll be down here soon.

25

As the smaller blond boy sang these words, he kept all four cabbages whirling about in the air, his hands moving so swiftly they were almost invisible. Then from high upon his stilts the other boy sang back in a fine tenor voice: The stars are more like diamonds than mosquitoes.

The moon’s my friend and would not bump my head.

I’ve a rainbow for a crown, So I’m never coming down, I’ll just live here with birds and clouds instead.

The crowd cheered, and the stilt walker performed a little jig.

The juggler laid his cabbages aside with a flourish, and while the crowd applauded him he whipped out a small hatchet and began to chop away at the stilts, all the while singing merrily: It’s time to say good-bye to all the heavens.

And join us poor mortals down below.

For with just a few more whacks, From my trusty little ax, Like a mighty fir tree, brother, down you’ll go.

As he chopped, the crowd began to chant in unison, counting with each mighty swing, “One ... two ... three ...”

All at once, the stilt buckled and broke. The crowd screamed.

People hid their eyes. But when they looked up, the stilt walker was now miraculously balancing on a single stilt. He swayed this way and that, waving and smiling and teasing his brother who was now busily juggling an ax, a handsaw, and ice pick. The crowd roared its approval, and the boy slid down the single stilt and landed on his two feet with his hand out in a gesture of triumph. His blue eyes filled with such laughter that the crowd could not help but laugh with him.

Wundermint applauded until his hands hurt. One of the boys began to play a small banjo while the other danced and turned backflips. They performed wondrous feats of magic, causing a cat 26

to disappear, producing golders out of thin air, and making a goat recite a bit of poetry: Billy was a wise old goat Munched a lady’s overcoat.

Silly Billy then did choose, To gobble down her hat and shoes.

Next he ate her blouse and skirt With underwear for his dessert.

His innards thus in style arrayed He bade farewell this bare fair maid.

The two boys jumped down from the stage and walked through the crowd, holding out their hats and asking for coins. The crowd cheered and whistled, and Wundermint wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. He handed over his golder to one of the smiling blond boys without a second thought. The boy smiled, bowed, and said, “Ten thousand thanks, your lordship,” and he vanished into the crowd.

As people began to mill about and leave, Wundermint was struck with inspiration. He leapt to the stage, knees like jelly and hardly able to draw a breath, as he cried out, “Who will join with me to destroy the evil Grundlers?” One or two people looked up, but most simply continued to walk away.

“I stand before you this day to ask you to join me in a noble cause,” Wundermint called out, his shaky voice taking on a husky tone. A handful of people stopped, drew nearer, and eyed him curiously. “If you will come with me to fight the Grundlers, I will reward you handsomely.” The crowd became more attentive.

Wundermint sensed he had found the key to their hearts and minds.

“There will be golders aplenty for those who come with me,” he cried, shaking his fist for emphasis. He spoke clearly now, his voice rising with enthusiasm and passion as he told his story, making sure to skip no pages, and yet keeping it short so as to hold their attention. And when he was done he exclaimed, “Let all who would go with me step forward now.”

27

A voice from the crowd called out, “First show us your golders, young feller.” The crowd took up the phrase and began to chant, “Show us your golders. Show us your golders.”

Wundermint lifted his hands high above his head and commanded silence. “I have no golders on me just now,” he explained. “But very shortly my friend Spintoffle will arrive and you will see that I am as good as my word.”

“Spintoffle,” someone exclaimed. “So this is another of his tricks.” The crowd began to hoot and yell, making rude noises and pointing.

“Give me your attention, kind people,” Wundermint called loudly.

“I hain’t got no attention,” yelled a fellow from the crowd, “but I’ll give you this instead.” And with that he heaved a large tomato that splattered against Wundermint’s chest. Cabbages, potatoes, rotten eggs, and a half-eaten sausage sandwich followed in rapid succession as the crowd hissed and vented their ridicule.

Wundermint retreated quickly from the stage and ran off down an alleyway where he hid until the unruly mob at last disbanded.

Sneaking through the deepening shadows, Wundermint returned to the oak tree where he hoped Spintoffle and Trog would be waiting, their britches bursting with golders. By the time he arrived, the great oak was almost in darkness. Trog hunkered at the base of the tree, with gloom settled upon his wrinkled old face like a rain cloud. He hardly had to speak, because Wundermint read the whole story in his weary face. “He runned off with our hard-earned fish money,” Trog said, his voice a million years old. “Never should have trusted him.”

Wundermint’s eyes burned with anger, and he shook his head in confusion. “I trusted you, and it worked fine,” he said. “I trusted Spintoffle, and he stole from me. How do you ever get it straight who to trust?”

“When I find that one out,” Trog replied, “be most certain I 28

will tell you. I can’t say as how I’ve got a handle on that one myself. Maybe you don’t trust anyone.” Seeing the hurt creep into Wundermint’s eyes, Trog quickly softened his statement.

“More likely, you try to trust everyone, and just keep a lookout on some more than others.” They sat quietly and watched the sky hurl orange spears at pink and purple clouds.

“Well,” said Wundermint at last, “at least we’ve a bit of money left. We can buy ourselves some supper.”

Trog brightened ever so slightly. “You’re a good lad,” he said.

“A tasty bite would lift our low spirits.”

“Give me your golder and I’ll fetch us some baked bread and jam,” Wundermint offered. “I’d use my own but I gave it away.”

“You didn’t!” Trog exclaimed. “Tell me you didn’t,” he pleaded.

Wundermint lowered his head and said softly, “I’m afraid I did. I gave it to some magic boys.”

“The whole thing?” Trog demanded.

Wundermint nodded.

“There’ll be no supper this night,” Trog said sadly. He shook his head and seemed about to cry. “You see, I gave my coin away to the very same magic boys—just as you did.”

Wundermint didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I’ll make you a deal,” said Trog. “You forgive me, and I’ll do the same for you.” With that they laughed and hugged each other.

“You mark my words,” Wundermint said. “I’ll hunt that Spintoffle down and make him pay us every golder he owes us.”

“Best let it go,” Trog advised. “There’s no point in letting it eat at you. Angry just uses up your good juices.”

“I’m hungry,” said Wundermint.

“I’m tired,” said Trog.

“I’m Mike,” said a cheery voice.

“And I’m Spike,” said another voice.

Wundermint and Trog looked up and saw the two blond boys, 29

who had appeared as if by magic, and standing there with broad happy smiles.

“G’d evening,” said Mike, the taller of the two. “We’ve been looking high and low for you.”

“Mike was looking high,” Spike explained. “I was looking low, because I’m shorter.”

“That was our problem,” Mike said pleasantly. “We should have been looking in between—for here you are before our very eyes.”

Wundermint and Trog were speechless, but it hardly mattered because Mike and Spike seemed to have speech enough for all of them.

“If you’re still looking for soldiers to join your army, we’ve come to volunteer,” Spike said. “You’ll find us willing soldiers.”

“Or maybe you won’t find us,” Mike mused aloud.

“If he looks in the right place, he’ll find us,” Spike said.

“And where might the right place be?” asked Mike.

“Why before his very eyes,” said Spike, and with that they laughed merrily, linked arms, and began to skip in a circle.

“When do we set out?” asked Mike.

“Do you truly want to join us?” Wundermint asked solemnly.

“Not unless you’ve become unjoined,” Spike said, turning to Mike for an approving chuckle, which he got.

“Yes, indeed,” Mike said emphatically. “We want to be soldiers with you.”

“Can you fight?” Wundermint asked.

Mike held up his fists, boxing style. Spike swung at him with such force that he spun all the way around and delivered a kick that sent Mike flipping head over heels three times. Mike jumped up, brushed himself off, and grinned to show that it was all part of the act.

“I’m afraid I can’t pay you anything,” Wundermint apologized.

“A fellow named Spintoffle stole our money.”

30

“Oh yes, we know him,” Mike said. “Bad fellow that Spintoffle. If we come across him we can box his ears. But don’t worry about the money. We aren’t doing it for that.”

“We’re looking for adventure,” said Spike.

“We’re also looking for our sister,” Mike added. “She’s been stolen away by a wicked old codger name of Gray Whiskers.

We’re going to rescue her.”

“We have lots of money,” Spike said. “He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.” See,” he said. “That’s just what we earned today. We’ll gladly share it with you, and we can earn more whenever we need it.”

“Besides,” said Spike, “there were very generous folks in the crowd today. Two different people gave us an entire golder each.”

Wundermint started to speak, but Trog cut him off with a shake of his head. “Yes, indeed,” Trog said, his voice happier now. “They must have been generous indeed.”

“We’ll buy you supper,” said Mike. “Let’s go to the tavern.”

They walked through the village, Mike and Spike skipping, laughing, and making jokes all the while. They made hoops with their arms and had little Spurt jump through them. Wundermint and Trog walked behind them, dazed, tired, and hungry.

Wundermint felt his head whirling. It had been a long and strange day. He was mightily hungry.

31

6. The Journey Begins

T

hey had been on the road since sunup, though in truth there was no sun that day. It had dawned gray and heavy with the smell of rain thick in the air. Mike and Spike grumbled and begged to sleep longer, but Wundermint was having none of it.

He was up and about, pacing, telling anyone who would listen, “We’ve mountains to cross, rivers to ford. Let’s get a move on.”

Trog creaked about slowly, complaining that he needed time to get sleep’s cobwebs disentangled from his poor tired brain. Even little Spurt’s tail was at half-mast as he trotted along trying to keep up.

Wundermint marched ahead of everyone, carrying a large tree limb. It made him feel taller and more kingly. “If we keep up a good pace until sundown and don’t waste time stopping for lunch, we can travel far today,” he reasoned aloud.

“I’m already hungry for breakfast, and he’s talking about skipping lunch,” Spike groused.

“I’ve got a headache,” Trog said, “and my belly feels like it’s got mice in it.”

“Who knows,” Wundermint bubbled on. “We might even get to the next town and find Spintoffle. We’re bound to catch up with him, and when we do, I’ll hang him by his ankles from the nearest tree and shake the golders out of his thieving pockets, and thrash him until he begs for mercy. He can beg all he wants, and he’ll not get a drop of mercy from me.” Wundermint waved his tree limb and enjoyed his own sense of fierceness.

The rain began slowly and grew heavier through the morning.

Mike and Spike struggled along, their blond hair now slicked down and their faces dripping. The happy grins of the day before were all washed away.

The path grew slippery and the pace slowed, much to Wundermint’s dismay. They passed a white farmhouse with red 32

barn, snug amid a cluster of sheltering trees. Gray smoke made a corkscrew curl out of the brick chimney, promising a warm, cheery fire within. Mike and Spike pleaded to go over and beg for shelter and food.

“We could hole up in the barn ’til it’s proper weather for an adventure,” Mike offered.

“We could buy some eggs,” Spike mused.

“And hot biscuits,” Mike added.

“And honey and butter,” they said together.

“Please,” they pleaded together.

“Don’t be such babies,” Wundermint scolded. “You asked to come along. Remember?”

“Yes,” Mike said, and Spike nodded in agreement, “but we hadn’t bargained on being quite so uncomfortable while we ...” He seemed to choke on the words.

“While we follow your dream,” Spike finished for him.

“It’s your dream, as well—isn’t it?” Wundermint shot back.

“Well, yes,” Mike agreed, “but ...”

“But we’re also looking for our sister at the same time,” Spike said.

“So we’re kind of following two dreams along the same road,” Mike offered, “and right now we’re cold and wet and hungry.”

Wundermint was so angry he wanted to whack them both with his kingly staff. He whirled and stamped off, feeling most unkingly.

The rain hid his burning tears. He was glad of that. He sloshed ahead, afraid to look back, afraid his new friends would not be with him. Perhaps not even Spurt. Or Trog. Wrapped deep inside a gloomy cloak of his own foul-weather thoughts, Wundermint jumped when Trog spoke, his voice rusty and hoarse.

“A time long ago,” Trog said softly, “I was much like you, my young friend. I had me a crew of sailors that wanted to follow me upon an adventure.”

33

Wundermint listened with only half an ear, resenting the intrusion of Trog’s story on his own private hurt and anger.

“I look back now,” Trog said, gasping for breath and struggling to keep pace, “and I was partly to blame. I was too hard on them.

That’s why my old enemy, Brupt, wanted to feed me to the sharks.

The others? Well, they just did what Brupt told them. You see, he gave them a dream of their own to latch onto. All I gave them was my own star to follow. That’s not enough. Chaps need their own dreams. Or at least dreams what they can rightly call their own.”

Wundermint’s feet slipped and he sloshed facedown in the greasy mud. He struggled up only to slip again. He lay there burning with rage and embarrassment. “Here’s a hand for you,” Trog said softly.

Wundermint grasped the wrinkled old hand, rough as tree bark, and pulled himself up. He peered into the soggy grayness, and neither Mike nor Spike was anywhere to be seen. Not even Spurt.

So the grand adventure had come down to this: an old man full of stories and a boy covered with mud and shame. The rain slanted from a hard dark sky and pierced his skin like tiny arrows, each drop a hateful reminder of his failure. Wundermint trudged ahead, no longer quite sure why.

“I swear I’ll not leave you as long as I can draw breath,” Trog said presently, “but I must sit myself down a bit or my next breath may be my last.” And with that he collapsed in the mud, his chest heaving.

Wundermint rushed to his side and flung his arms around him, his own misery suddenly forgotten. “I’ve made a mess of it all, haven’t I?” he whispered. “What can I do to make it right?”

Trog tried to lift his head but was too weak. Wundermint held him tightly—and jumped as if stuck with a pin when a voice sounded behind him.

“Hi-ho,” came Mike’s cheery greeting. He sat atop a great brown mule with the world’s longest ears and saddest eyes. Behind him sat brother Spike wearing a water-soaked grin. Spurt trotted 34

beside the mule’s huge shaggy hooves, caked with mud from nose to tail. Trog gave a gasping wheezy laugh.

“Isn’t this a fine mule?” Mike said.

“We bought him from a farmer,” Spike explained.

“And his name is Smithfield,” they said together. They slid off the mule’s back, and Mike, with a flourish, pulled a potato from behind Spike’s ear. “Look here,” he said proudly. “Still warm and ready to be shared.”

“Where did that come from?” asked Spike.

“Why from behind your ear, dear brother,” Mike replied.

“That’s a silly place to keep a potato,” said Spike, “but everything I know I learned from you, dear brother.” And with that, Spike reached behind Mike’s ear and drew forth another potato. Wundermint gasped. The blond boys then produced four hard-boiled eggs, one by one, from beneath Smithfield’s whiskery chin. For a time they made their own blue sky and sunshine as Trog brought out his sharpened bit of whalebone and used it to carve up the steaming potatoes into a royal feast.

At the end of the meal, they caught handfuls of rain and drank it down as though it were the finest of wines. Then they were once again on their way. Trog rode Smithfield, while Mike, Spike, and Wundermint walked ahead talking, laughing, and ignoring the rain that continued to fall in torrents.

Wundermint was filled with questions about Mike and Spike.

Where was their home? Where were their parents? How had they learned to do magic and acrobatic tricks? What had happened to their sister? In answer to his questions, sometimes Mike spoke and sometimes Spike, but they always answered with a single mind, finishing each other’s sentences or speaking at the same time, their rushing words in perfect unison.

“Our parents were circus folk,” said Mike.

“They traveled from town to town,” Spike continued, “so we grew up learning to do tricks.”

“Magic,” Mike corrected, somewhat sternly.

35

“Magic tricks,” Spike said with a sly wink.

“Our home was whatever town we happened to find ourselves in,” Mike said. “Our father called himself Grimaldo the Great, but his real name was Herbert. He had large black moustaches and he trained animals.”

Spike jumped in, “He taught horses to prance through flaming hoops on their hind legs. He trained a dog to turn backflips from a high diving board. He had a pig that played the accordion.”

“Our mother was beautiful,” Mike cut in.

“Very beautiful,” they said together.

“She wore seashells in her hair and had a dress made of silver and sunbeams,” Spike said. “And she could balance on the tip of a single toe on the back of a snow-white horse in full gallop. Green and red birds perched on her shoulders and made rude noises at the crowd.”

Mike made a rude noise be way of explanation. “When we were small,” Mike said, “we would come out and do somersaults or jump off a chair or fall on our faces chasing the dogs.”

“Stupid stuff,” Spike observed.

“But cute,” they said in unison.

“The greatest moment in the show came at the very end,” Mike continued. “Father would call for absolute silence. And when the crowd was so still you could hear a feather fall, Mother would play a soft drum roll, low and far away like the first faint stirrings of distant thunder. Father in a fine black cape would then conjure a small white dove out of thin air as colored smoke rose behind him—orange, red, and purple plumes rising into the air. Mother’s drumming would grow steadily louder until you could feel it like the pounding of your own heart. The dove would soar up and the crowd would hold its breath not knowing what was coming next.”

“Then,” said Spike, his voice filled with suspense, “Father would wave his swirling black cape, and point to the very top of the rising wall of brightly colored smoke—where suddenly, as if 36

stepping out of a rainbow, our sister would appear ...”

“Kyra!” They said her name together as if it were a magic word.

“She always wore a white dress,” said Mike. “She had golden hair that fell across her shoulders and made you think of summer wheat. She carried a bouquet of flowers, and her smile was like a spring sunrise as she descended to the stage delicately balanced on a wire as thin as spider webbing.”

“Oh, the crowd loved it,” they said together.

“How they would applaud,” said Mike.

“And give us their golders,” said Spike.

“It was a happy life,” Mike said. “But then father decided it was time to seek his fortune.”

“So he went across the sea in search of an albino Thizbidus,” Spike continued. “It’s a huge beast, four times the size of a horse, with four horns growing out of its forehead.”

“Very rare,” added Mike. “People would pay golders aplenty just for a glimpse of one.”

“Mother went with him,” Spike said sadly.

“And Kyra was left to care for us,” they said together. The thought left them momentarily silent. The stream beside them rushed down a rocky gorge and danced itself into white foam.

“And when our parents didn’t return,” Mike said, “Kyra had to go to work to take care of us.”

“She minded small children,” Spike said, “orphans like us, who had no fathers or mothers. Then one day a wicked man with fearful gray chin whiskers came to town and took them all away, and Kyra with them.”

“What happened then?” asked Wundermint.

“Nothing,” said Mike.

“Gray Whiskers left a note saying he’d adopted them,” Spike explained. “And since they were orphans, no one really cared. It was less for them to be concerned with.”

“He didn’t take us because we had run away from home,” Mike 37

said, quickly adding, “just for the day, of course.”

“And when we came back at night, expecting to be forgiven and taken back in, as always, our sister was gone,” Spike said.

“We later learned that Old Gray Whiskers went about the countryside finding children he could put to work in his fields,” Mike said.

“And ever since that day,” Spike said, “we have been traveling from town to town looking for our sister. We thought it would make sense if we teamed up with you.”

A sudden peal of thunder rolled off the mountains behind them and shook the ground. Smithfield stopped so abruptly that Trog almost slid off between the mule’s huge floppy ears. Spurt quivered and sniffed the air.

Trog’s face was ashen as he looked over his shoulder and squinted at black storm clouds that covered the hills behind them like a dark shroud. “If I don’t miss my guess,” he said, “we’re in for a right bit of trouble. We must get ourselves gone right now.”

“It’s all right,” Wundermint reassured him. “The rain has stopped. It’s just thunder back on the hills.”

Trog shook his head. “It’s more than just a powerful storm behind of us. We best look to higher ground in a hurry.” A deep rolling sound shook the ground again. It did not stop this time, but it grew louder. The dark musty stench of river mud filled the air.

“Look there!” cried Mike, pointing at the stream. The waters that had been running fast and clear moments earlier were now brown and sluggish. The ground trembled.

With a scream of terror, Spike pointed to a black wall of mud, higher than house and racing down upon them, uprooting huge trees and flinging them like flimsy twigs toward the sky.

“Head for that rock ledge yonder,” Trog called. Wundermint tried to scramble up the steep slope, but the stones slipped beneath his feet. He tumbled backward yelping like a frightened puppy.

Trog dug his heels into Smithfield’s bony ribs and urged him over 38

to the rocky ledge. On tiptoes, the old man strained to reach for the top but was still a hand shy of grabbing hold.

Mike gave a sharp piercing whistle and cupped his hands in front of him. Without a pause, Spike skipped toward him, placed his right foot in Mike’s hands and, with a bounding hop and a heave-ho from his brother, landed on Smithfield’s back. He scrambled onto Trog’s frail shoulders and leapt to the top of the ledge. From there, he reached down to Trog who gratefully allowed himself to be lifted up to safety. Mike took two steps backward, and then with a running jump did a forward flip that landed him atop the mule. “Grab my hand,” he called reaching down to Wundermint, who was still on the ground.

Wundermint tossed little Spurt onto Smithfield’s backside. Then he grabbed Mike’s hand and was hoisted onto the mule’s broad back. Above them on the ledge, Trog dangled Spike by the heels and over the edge so Mike could reach his hand. Together they pulled Mike to safety and pleaded for Wundermint to join them.

“Grab my hand,” screamed Spike.

“What about Smithfield?” Wundermint called back. “He can’t get up there.”

“Quick, now,” pleaded Spike.

Wundermint glanced over his shoulder. The wall of mud and slime was almost on top of him. Trees flew through the air, their dark roots clawing at the sky. There was no time to think.

Wundermint dug his heels into the mule’s ribs. “Move you great hulking bag of bones,” he screamed.

With the roaring mud about to swallow them all, Smithfield broke into a half-hearted trot. “I’ll meet you farther up,” Wundermint yelled back to his friends. His voice was lost in an explosion of tree trunks, the crashing of branches about his head, and the hideous gurgle of hungry black mud that spattered all about him.

39

7. Disaster Strikes

S

mithfield seemed scarcely bothered by the roaring mud that threatened to swallow him. Despite Wundermint’s urgent pleadings, he refused to move faster than his gentle clippetyclop of a trot.

“Giddyup!” screamed Wundermint, his arms and legs flailing away at the mule’s ribs and backside. Smithfield answered with a loud snort. The air was filled with leaves and branches swirling like frightened birds. “Faster!” Wundermint pleaded. His hands stung from slapping the mule’s bony rump. Smithfield bowed his neck and angrily tried to sink his great yellow teeth into Wundermint’s ankle.

The wall of mud towered to the sky, rolling forward as the earth groaned and shook. Trees, thick as a house, snapped in two and were swallowed up. The advancing wall crested in a gigantic wave and broke, flinging a spray of frothy slime that spattered Wundermint’s face and stung his eyes. The world grew dark as the wave loomed overhead and hung huge and trembling against the sky. Wundermint took a last deep breath and waited for the end to come. When Smithfield lurched forward, the jolt was so unexpected that Wundermint had to cling to the mule’s scruffy mane to keep from sliding off.

He was suddenly bouncing along having the breath knocked from him with each jarring step. They were galloping—not merely galloping but flying like snow before the wind.

Smithfield’s long floppy ears were laid flat along his neck. His head, the size of a ripe watermelon, bobbed up and down like a huge yo-yo. Above the roar of the onrushing mud, there sounded a high-pitched yap yap yap.

Wundermint wiped mud specks from his eyes and saw beneath him a whirling ball of yellow fur with two tiny rows of razor teeth that snapped at Smithfield’s shaggy hooves, which, fly as they 40

might, could not escape the painful and purposeful nips of little Spurt. Thus propelled, they sped along. Wundermint whooped.

Spurt yapped and snapped. And Smithfield galloped like a racehorse as he tried to outrun the small furry devil at his heels.

But even as they began to pull ahead of the hungry mud, Wundermint knew the danger was not yet over. Spurt was beginning to tire, his stubby legs taking a dozen paces for every one of Smithfield’s strides. “Jump!” Wundermint screamed to the little dog. He patted Smithfield’s backside to show Spurt what a safe haven it would be. “Jump!” he cried again. Spurt made the effort and fell short, tumbling ears over tail, a tiny tumbling ball of mud.

“You can do it!” Wundermint cried out. “You can!”

Spurt stretched his tiny legs as far as they would go, sailed into the air, and missed completely. He landed amid the mule’s galloping hooves and narrowly escaped being trampled. He scrambled up once more and began to run, but he was losing ground fast. A tree branch crashed in front of him, and he bounded over it, becoming momentarily entangled.

Terrified, Smithfield was now outrunning Spurt, who fell farther behind and was about to disappear into the mud that he so closely resembled. Wundermint had no choice. He let go of the mule’s mane, slipped along the bony back and over the pumping haunches, and fell toward the ground into a clatter of pounding hooves. At the last possible moment, he grabbed Smithfield’s tail and clung to it for life itself. “Now!” he screamed. “Now, now, now!”

With the last of his failing strength, Spurt jumped forward and sunk his teeth into the tattered cuff of Wundermint’s britches. In this manner, with Smithfield at full gallop, Wundermint clinging to his tail, and Spurt hanging on by his teeth to a scrap of ragged trousers, they slowly distanced themselves from the rush of mud.

The roar died away. The trees creaked in terror but no longer popped before the onslaught. Then the loudest sound was Smithfield’s pounding hooves against the solid earth and his 41

agonized wheezes as he fought for each breath. At last they stopped. Smithfield took three limping steps and refused to move.

Spurt shivered and with a whimper sat back on his filthy little haunches and blinked in bewilderment.

Wundermint lay upon the ground, exhausted and frightened.

His eyes stung, his throat was raw, and his hands were torn and bleeding. He said softly, “Don’t worry, the others will be along soon. We’ve nothing to fear.” Spurt cocked his head and wrinkled his muddy brow. Smithfield wheezed, and Wundermint patted his great wet nose. “Thank you, dear friend,” he said hoarsely. “You have behaved most heroically.”

They sat quietly for a long time, Wundermint with his knees tucked up under his chin as he waited and thought. “We’ll give them a bit more time,” he said sternly. “After all, they were not traveling at such a furious clip as we were. But I assure you they will be here soon.” Spurt seemed little concerned as his pink tongue flicked mud from the sore pads of his paws. Smithfield had found a patch of grass and was munching contentedly.

Pleased that he had reassured his companions, Wundermint resumed his vigil until he fell asleep. He dreamed of a time long ago when he had escaped the devastation of the evil Grundlers only to find himself utterly alone in the world. In his dream, he wanted to cry, but dared not for fear of appearing unkingly. Then his mother appeared and gave him such a hug that he could scarcely draw breath. She looked lovely, and he was so happy to see her that tears of joy ran down his face. It was fine for a king to cry for joy. With hands as gentle as birdflight, she swept away the tears and kissed him on the forehead.

Wundermint awoke from his dream with Smithfield nuzzling his face. The air was soft and still. He rubbed his eyes and looked about, emptiness filling his stomach like a deep hunger. Far in the distance behind him, the once green and peaceful valley was now a desolate plain of mud. On either side and as far as he could see 42

before him, rolling hills appeared caught up in a misty web of low evening clouds. The failing sunlight dodged between and behind the patches of low fog, dappling the earth in a crazy quilt of thin moving shadows.

Wundermint tried to start a fire, but the air was too damp and all the wood was wet, so he at last gave up. “I could go fishing,” he said. Smithfield munched away on his grass, caring nothing for fish. Spurt expressed his interest with an enthusiastic wag of his tail. “But the nearest stream is now clogged with mud,” Wundermint continued.

“We could spend the night here, but Trog and the boys could go right past us in the dark. Besides, if there is a village nearby, it might be less damp and befogged than what we have here. At least there would be other people around. I suggest we strike out for a village,” Wundermint said, rising to his feet, pleased with his decision. “And once there, we will no doubt meet up with the others. No doubt whatsoever.”

Smithfield was still limping, so Wundermint walked, leading the way, his head at a jaunty angle in an effort to lift everyone’s spirits.

He pretended that he was leading a triumphant parade, clapping his hands for a bass drum, making crashing cymbal noises with his mouth, and doing his best to whistle up a brave band of shiny brass horns. But try as he might, his thin little whistling could not conjure up the trumpets, trombones, and tubas—and so he gave it up as a bad effort, and they trudged along in silence.

Without fanfare, the sun slipped behind a hill, turning the evening gray and cold. Then even the grayness was gone and only a bone-chilling blackness was left.

“I quite expected this,” Wundermint said, feeling that some explanation was called for. “Striking out on a quest is no easy matter. So you must understand that I am in no way discouraged nor even much surprised by this turn of events.”

The sound of Smithfield’s steady clippety-clop behind him and 43

Spurt’s scurrying steps gave him scant comfort. “It is true we have met with our fair share of misfortune—perhaps a bit more than our share, if one is honest. But look how far we’ve come. I have begun to build a most excellent army; we have made even better progress than I anticipated, and, all in all, my friends”— Wundermint paused, looked about in the dark having no idea where he was, or worse yet, where anything else was; still, he was their leader, and he had to press on—“all in all,” he repeated, wishing that being lost, alone, and frightened did not make his voice crack so, “we are doing splendidly.”

In the distance, a lone nightbird gave mournful song to the vanished day. A pale half-moon rose, trailing a veil of flimsy clouds that cast dim shadows and menaced the earth like crawly creatures.

Wundermint slouched onward wrapped in thoughts forlorn until at last he heard within himself a tiny voice that would not be stilled: “You’d have been better off if you’d stayed back at the castle, foolish boy.”

Wundermint did not answer, for he knew the voice well. It was his oldest enemy, Dread. And on such a night as this when moonshades walked the land, Wundermint did not need another enemy. And yet, unbidden, here was Dread, a voice that whispered in his ear and mocked him, saying, “At least at the castle you had a dry place to sleep.”

“Get away, Dread,” Wundermint thought with all his might.

Dread only laughed, sending shivery waves through Wundermint’s body.

“I am stronger now,” Wundermint thought. “You can’t hurt me.”

“No matter how strong you become,” Dread replied, not listening, “I will always be stronger. You cannot escape me. I am a part of you, like weariness, like hunger itself.”

“I can catch fish,” Wundermint thought. “I never have to be hungry again.”

44

“You can catch fish only if there are fish to be caught,” Dread insisted. “Only if fish are biting. Only if mud does not foul the rivers and streams. You may yet be hungry. For that is part of you, just as I am part of you.”

“I have begun to build my army,” Wundermint said silently to his wily foe. “It will be a grand army. It will be a force so powerful that nothing can stop me. Nothing.”

Dread laughed again, and Wundermint quaked. “An old man full of stories and two boys who rhyme and play tricks—you call that an army?”

“It’s a start,” Wundermint shot back. “There will be others.”

“Will there?” Dread demanded. “Will there really? How can you be sure?”

“I want there to be others,” Wundermint said.

Dread heard and answered, “What you want has nothing to do with it. Besides, even the paltry threesome you’ve found is now gone. You may never even see them again.”

“Then there will be others,” Wundermint replied in thought.

“I doubt it,” Dread said. “And because I am part of you, you doubt it as well. You are just a little boy, after all. What can you do? You’ve a sad-eyed mule, lame in one foot, and a bit of a dog that would not frighten a timid flea—what can you do, boy?”

Wundermint stopped to catch his breath. Shaking and exhausted, he sank to the ground and closed his eyes. Dread no longer spoke, but simply nestled deep inside him and lay there, an undigested lump. A faint breeze set nervous trees to chattering, and as their whispers chased each other through the night, a clanking, groaning sound emerged.

Wundermint stifled a cry, and Spurt drew near. Then Smithfield edged closer until his breath stirred the hairs on Wundermint’s neck.

“It’s the wind,” Wundermint whispered. He tried to say it louder and more convincingly, but his voice refused to cooperate. A 45

second puff of wind scattered the clouds and set the shadows a dance until the moon itself took refuge behind a towering oak and cast the world into blackness. “See?” Wundermint said softly. “The wind, just as I said. Nothing to fear if you but listen to your king.”

But just then, a screeching groan ripped the night, and Wundermint began to shake uncontrollably. He dropped to his knees, his trembling fingers searching the ground for a satisfactory weapon. What he found instead was a rock the size of a blighted potato and a small stick. Thus armed, feeling equally foolish and frightened, he stood and waited. A huge shadow, darker than the darkness, hove into sight and loomed before him swaying back and forth like some ravenous night beast.

Wundermint drew himself to his full height, his arm drawn back to fling the meager rock, and called out, “Identify yourself or prepare for battle.”

The curious moon peeped above the oak and illuminated the hulking shadow, now larger than before. The groaning and clanking stopped. Still as death the night air hung in chilling silence.

“Who goes there?” Wundermint demanded.

“Who wants to know?” a voice demanded back.

46

8. The Kites of Merry

S

tate forthwith your very name and business,” Wundermint announced, “and it will go easier with you.” His knees quivered, and his voice quavered. The shadowy mass groaned and leaned to one side. Another shadow, smaller than the first but still frighteningly large, stepped to the gloomy earth and waited.

“I’ll count to the third number,” Wundermint croaked, “and if you’ve not explained yourself and purpose it will go most hard I assure you.” Silence answered.

“One,” Wundermint called out.

A night owl flapped and rose on whispering wings toward the murky sky. The tree limb where it had perched trembled in the cold moonlight and waved a faint farewell.

“Two,” said Wundermint, his voice little better than a mouse squeak.

The moon edged above the tree top as if angling for a better view of the coming battle.

“Three,” Wundermint roared. Actually, the roar stuck in his throat and what emerged was little more than a whisper. In fact, fearing he had made no recognizable sound at all, he tried again so as to give the massive shadow fair warning. But his tongue seemed stuck as if mired in molasses.

“If you have a mind to rob me, you’ve made a poor choice, indeed,” said the lesser of the two shadows in a voice not at all unpleasant. “I’ve naught you can burgle from me except these infernal pots and kettles that make such a clanking ruckus.”

“Wh- wh- whooo are you?” Wundermint stammered, his tongue at last unstuck but working none too well.

“It’s Merry,” the voice answered, sternly but not without a pleasing lilt. “And you needn’t think you can affright me neither.

Glory knows I’ve had thirteen children of my own and every one of them larger and fiercer than you, whoever you may be.” “

47

“I mean you no harm,” Wundermint said softly.

“Nor I, you,” came the reply. “So put down your wee rock and that puny little switch and let’s have a bit of warm fire and a nice cup of tea.”

Wundermint relaxed ever so slightly, and as he did the moon poured a bucket of shimmering light across the land. Before him stood a covered wagon bedecked with shiny pots and kettles of every size and description. The wagon was hitched to a bony speckled mare with a back like a sleeping hammock.

Beside the horse and wagon stood Merry, no longer a shadow, but a large woman made to seem larger still by a great billowing skirt that reached to the ground and an ample blouse full of puffles and pleats and swirling frills. On her head, she wore a bandanna, which neither hid nor tamed an explosion of curls. Hands on hips and feet apart she stood there, studying him intently. Her face was like her voice, kindly but prepared to accept little nonsense from friend or foe.

“So what shall it be?” Merry asked. “A fight or a cup of tea ’round a warming fire?”

“I’d much prefer the tea, thank you,” said Wundermint. “Truth to tell I had no wish to fight you, but you came upon me in the darkness with such a clatter that it quite scared me.”

“Well, bless your heart,” Merry said, and with that she stepped up to Wundermint and without warning hugged him with his face buried deep in the puffles and ruffles of her blouse. Wundermint resisted, but she continued to hug as merrily as her name, and by the time it was over he found himself not really minding the warm embrace, enjoying it in fact, all except for the part of not being able to breathe. She released him, patted his cheek with a smile, and began to busy herself preparing a small fire. As she bustled about, Wundermint introduced himself by name; next he introduced Spurt, whom she picked up and welcomed vigorously with a smacking kiss on the nose; and finally he introduced her to 48

Smithfield, who had sidled up to the speckled mare and seemed to be handling his own introductions quite nicely.

Within minutes, Merry had a cheery blaze going and a teakettle bubbling forth a spicy fragrance that lay upon the night air like the scent of fruits and flowers. She poured a large steaming cup and handed it to Wundermint and then fished two cookies from a deep and mysterious pocket in her billowy skirt. What the fire could not warm, the tea did, and between the two Wundermint felt safer and happier than he could remember. Merry waited until he had washed down the last of the cookies and then asked with a pleasant smile, “What brings you out all by your lonesome on such a night, and you no more than a boy?”

“I’ve lost my army,” Wundermint explained.

Merry waited. The fire popped and crackled. “Where did you lose it?” she asked solemnly.

“Back the road a way,” said Wundermint. “I thought perhaps you might have seen them.”

Merry shook her head. “No, I’ve not seen an army. What did it look like?”

Wundermint held his palms to the fire and rubbed in the warmth. “It doesn’t really look like an army,” he said. “But it is the start of an army—my army.” Merry looked at him across the dancing fire, her kind face inviting him to tell her more. “It’s an old fellow name of Finicus Troglander and two magic boys, Mike and Spike.”

“That’s all?” Merry asked.

“Well, there was Spurt and Smithfield and me, but when the mud came upon us we were separated. Together, I assure you, we look much more like an army, which we are.”

“And why does one such as yourself need an army?” Merry inquired.

Wundermint had not meant to tell her the whole story, for now that he was warmed and his hungries were soothed he was ready 49

to be off in search of his friends again, but he felt she deserved a better explanation. He told her of the Grundlers, and she nodded quietly, her kind eyes filling with tears that spilled over and sent tiny reflections of firelight running down her cheeks. He told of the old castle where he had lived and plotted his revenge, and he told of his misty morning meeting with Trog.

As he spoke she bubbled up another pot of tea and poured him a steaming cup. He told of learning to fish for Wrinkies and how he and Trog had been cheated by Spintoffle. Merry vigorously poked up the fire and sent glowing embers to play with the stars.

Wundermint told about Mike and Spike and the great river of mud that had almost been his undoing. Merry gasped and chewed her thumbnail when he told how the thundering ooze had almost swallowed him. And when he was done, Merry sat silently for a time, looking across the fire, her eyes alight with admiration. “You are a very brave young man,” she said at last. Wundermint felt his cheeks glow and burn like the fire before him. He hoped that Merry could not see him blush, for in truth he had not felt very brave.

The first light of morning had begun to paint the sky, covering over the stars with extravagant splashes of pink and purple. A fresh dew moistened the air and turned the first golden trickles of sunlight into rivers of pure sweet honey. “I’m bound for the next town up the road,” Merry said, “and there’s room aplenty aboard my wagon. I’d be more than pleased to have your company.”

The generous offer left Wundermint more than a little perplexed.

“I’m trying to rejoin my friends,” he said. “My army,” he corrected himself, “and I’ve no way of knowing how best to do that. Do I sit here and wait for them to find me ...” He paused.

“Or perhaps have them pass you by in the distance,” Merry completed his thought.

“Exactly,” Wundermint agreed. “And if I go on to the next town, will they find me there, eventually?” He paused again.

50

“Or go on to some other town, and perhaps wait for you there?” Merry again gave voice to his thoughts. “I know your problem well,” she said with a strange sad smile. “Too well, I fear.”

“If I were just a bird,” Wundermint mused, feeling a little foolish, and yet somehow comfortable in knowing that Merry would not begrudge him a little foolishness, “I would wing my way higher and higher, so I could see ever farther and farther. If there were mountains in the way, I would just swoop above them—until I found my friends. And I would call to them, if they were close enough to hear, because of course I shouldn’t have such a loud voice if I were a bird—” “Or be able to speak,” Merry interrupted with a smile.

“Unless I were a magic bird,” Wundermint continued.

“Or a parrot,” Merry suggested.

“No, I think I’d prefer to be magic,” Wundermint said.

“Although parrots are quite lovely,” he added, so as not to risk hurting her feelings. “Yes, magic would be fine. For when I had spotted them I would simply fly to them and then change back into my very own self.”

“And would you ever fly back to Merry?” she asked with a quiet smile.

“Of course I would,” Wundermint said. “Better yet, you could be a magic bird, too, and fly with me. You would like my friends.

My army, I mean.”

“If they are at all like you,” said Merry, “I’m quite sure I would.”

“Just imagine,” Wundermint said. “We could all sit around a fire of an evening, and laugh and sing and tell stories.”

“I’d make ’em a spot of my special tea,” Merry offered. Then suddenly, she clapped her hands and laughed aloud. It was so unexpected that Wundermint jumped with surprise. “Well,” she said, moving briskly toward the rear of her covered wagon with all its pots and kettles, her great billows of clothes rustling and 51

whistling as she bustled about, “I can’t make you into a magic bird, but I can and surely will do something almost as good.”

Wundermint watched in amazement as she hiked up her skirt, beneath which was a ruffled petticoat as white and full as a summer cloud. She then proceeded to tear from her petticoat a large swatch of material, revealing yet another petticoat below, equally white and fulsome as the first. She then smoothed her clothing about her and began to rummage about in the back of the wagon.

She emerged with a large wicker basket from which she produced an enormous pair of scissors and quickly cut the petticoat scrap into an odd shape with a point at the top and a longer point at the bottom. “We’ll save the scraps,” she said aloud, not really addressing anyone.

She then produced several bits of colored cloth and began to cut them into shapes. Her deft fingers fairly flew as she sewed the colored shapes to the white cloth while Wundermint watched in amazement. She hummed and whistled and snipped and stitched and at last stood back and surveyed her handiwork. “Why it’s as fine as frog’s hair,” she said proudly.

“Now,” she said, looking about. “What did you do with that skinny little stick you had earlier, the one you planned to attack me with?”

“I wasn’t so much attacking you as defending me,” Wundermint replied.

Merry laughed and almost smothered him with a hug. “Go on with you,” she said, releasing him at last, “and find me that switch and another just like it.” Mystified, Wundermint did as she asked.

She then took the two sticks he offered her and tied them in the middle so they made a cross. Then, she stretched her sewn concoction over the crossed sticks and held it up for Wundermint to admire.

52

“It’s lovely, I’m sure,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t quite know what it is.”

Merry looked at him in amazement. “You’ve never seen a kite?”

Wundermint shook his head. “What’s it for?” he asked. He quite liked the look of it, but how could it possibly help him find Trog and the boys?

“It’s something I learned long ago,” Merry said. “I told you I had thirteen children, but I’ve only two eyes, as you can plainly see.”

Wundermint nodded, understanding nothing.

“When my children would go off to play for a day, I couldn’t always know where each of them was. So when it came time for dinner or to have them help with the chores, I would send up a kite. Wherever they were, they would see it swooping and sailing and beckoning them back home. And home they would come.”

Wundermint was more puzzled than ever. “Swooping?” he asked. “Sailing?”

Merry just laughed and gathered up the bits of material she had trimmed away and knotted them together. She tied the knotted material to the kite, bustled back to the wagon, and emerged again with a ball of knitting yarn. She tied the yarn to the kite and held it up triumphantly. Wundermint watched dumbstruck as she held the kite over her head and began to run away.

She is mad, he thought. Quite mad. But when the kite soared into the air, he felt his heart leap up with it. The beautiful contraption zigzagged toward the sky, wagging its knotty tail like a happy hound. Merry let out the yarn and the kite rose higher, buoyed up on a faint breeze that made it dip and dive before shooting up higher yet. Merry whooped for sheer joy and Wundermint clapped his hands. So magnificent was the sight of this colorful creation, dancing as if alive against a hard blue morning sky, that he forgot momentarily it was supposed to serve some purpose. How or what he knew not.

53

“Your friends will see this,” Merry called out gaily. “They can’t miss it. And they will come, just as my own children did in the olden days.”

“It’s beautiful,” Wundermint said. “But your children were taught to come when they saw it. I’m afraid my army knows nothing of kites.”

“Use your eyes,” Merry said, her face alight with pleasure. “Tell me what you see up there.”

“The kite,” said Wundermint.

“Look closer,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see a red band across the top,” he said.

“That is for your hair,” Merry laughed, and she rumpled Wundermint’s bright red hair with her free hand. “What else?”

“Two large blue circles,” he said.

Merry winked at him. “Your eyes, my dear.”

“And any number of small spots all scattered about,” Wundermint said.

“Your precious freckles,” said Merry, and she bent over giving him a smacking kiss on his cheek where many of his finest freckles resided. “If your friends have eyes in their head, they will see this wondrous kite all full of life and energy, and they will come straight to you. Trust Merry. She’s learned a thing or three in this life. But come now, it’s late and we must be off for town.” She saw his puzzled look and said softly, “Trust Merry.” Tying the yarn to the back of the wagon, she climbed up to her seat causing the wagon to groan and the pots and kettles to clank. “Come now,” she said.

Wundermint climbed up beside her. She clucked to the swaybacked mare, and they were on their way, creaking and clanking down the road. Wundermint watched the kite floating high above them. That is me, he thought, flying in the air calling to Trog and the boys to join me. It is my flag, he thought. My banner, under which I shall go into battle against the Grundlers. Yes, my army will be along soon.

54

He looked in back of the wagon where Spurt lay curled up fast asleep. Smithfield walked beside the mare, still limping slightly.

Wundermint closed his eyes. Funny, he thought, how the groans and clatters that so frightened him earlier were now pleasant and comforting. He leaned against Merry. She was warm and smelled of trees and brown sugar. The wagon left a trail of dust as it rumbled along. The kite sailed high above them and danced in the sun.

55

9. Merry’s Tale

W

undermint awoke, and Merry popped a cookie into his mouth. She hummed softly as she clucked to the skinny speckled mare, while Wundermint munched silently and allowed the sleepies to fall away gently like drops of water from a duck. When he felt wide-awake and refreshed, he stretched, sat up straight, and smiled.

“Better now?” Merry asked.

“Much better, thank you,” Wundermint said. “This is by far the most agreeable part of my adventure so far.”

“Adventures is not easy,” Merry said. “It’s one thing to tell of them while sitting around a toasty campfire of a night in the company of friends, but it’s another thing to live ’em yourself.”

“You seem to know exactly how it is with adventures,” Wundermint observed. “For my own part, I would never have guessed them to be so filled with things to make a person tired and out of sorts.”

“That is indeed the nature of ’em,” Merry agreed. “For truth to tell, most adventure is misadventure. But then, folks as don’t hanker after a bit of mischief and excitement are best off staying to home and tending their cabbages.”

Wundermint liked that expression, since he had little interest in cabbages or the tending of them. “How is it you know so much about adventure?” he asked.

“I’ve been on an adventure lo these many years,” Merry said.

“Which is how it came to be that I clattered upon you in the dark of the night.”

Wundermint waited, wanting to hear more. Merry jiggled the reins and clucked to the mare, who responded not at all. “You know all about my travels and troubles,” Wundermint said thoughtfully. “And telling you of them last night lifted a load from my shoulders. If you have a like burden, I should be happy to help 56

you as you were kind enough to do for me.”

Merry threw back her head and laughed so hard that the wagon shook, causing the pots and kettles to jangle, which awoke Spurt and inspired Smithfield to twitch one of his long ears. “You are a rare one,” she chuckled. “A rare one indeed. Well, since you’ve been kind enough to offer, I’ll not be so rude as to refuse.” She shifted about to get comfortable, and the wagon swayed and groaned. Then for a time they rode in silence as Merry pursed her lips in thought and at last rewarded Wundermint’s patience with her story.

“The Mister went to his reward a goodly number of years ago— leaving your Merry with thirteen children to raise up all on her own and a farm so poor and tired that it wouldn’t grow dust balls, never mind your cotton, or corn, or peas, or apricots. We had ourselves a teeny house whose roof resembled nothing so much as sky. We also had a rickety old barn which might fall about your very ears come a fair wind from the east, and in this barn there lived an ill-tempered cow with a crooked horn who gave grudgingly of her milk when she was not too busy goring anyone bold enough to milk her.

“We had scrawny chicks and chicklets that laid eggs no larger than peach pits and whose pitiful skinny bones had no more meat to them than a table leg. We had a goat who produced brown cheese as foul smelling as the garbage she ate. And we had a vicious tomcat with no tail and a gotched ear. The tom caught mice, and Lord help me I do believe at times ate better than my own beloved children, who I loved fiercely each and every one.

“What beauties they were, my children. Were and are I should say. Six daughters and seven sons, each more wonderful and beautiful than the other—all in there own special ways, of course.

One by one they grew up and moved on to a life of their own. I number among my brood today Wynne of the golden braids, who is a weaver; keen-eyed Trion, who is a trapper; Shrewd Max, my merchant son; Sara, fleet of hand, who is a seamstress; Wise Tivia, 57

a good and gentle teacher; my muscular young Blendon, a blacksmith; Cara, alight with an inner flame, is a candlemaker; Welles, a wily adventurer, is a wagoneer; Sheera, who is wed only to the hills, tends sheep; and Pleia, her lovely head full of rhymes and pictures, is a poet. They are a fine lot as would warm the secret heart of any mother.”

Here, Merry paused. The slow steady clippety-clop of Smithfield and the swaybacked mare gave rhythm to the tinkling music of pots and kettles. Wundermint waited as Merry gazed into the distance and roamed in silence some unseen back road of her memory. The kite sailed along on a calm ocean of sky, and a flock of birds soared past it. They made him think of a school of fish. At last he could stand it no longer. “Two more,” he blurted, his voice surprisingly louder than he intended.

Startled from her reverie, Merry looked puzzled. “Two more what?” she asked.

“You said you had thirteen children,” Wundermint said, “but you only told me of eleven. There are two more.

Merry sighed so deeply the wagon shook. “Ah, yes,” she said softly. She tried to speak but her voice cracked. She produced a red kerchief from one of her deep and magical pockets and blew her nose with such unexpected vigor that the sound frightened a covey of quail from a nearby gorse bush. They ascended into the air, their wings whirring like the first winds of winter. Merry folded the kerchief, dabbed at her eyes, and continued her story in a voice heavy with sorrow.

“You are right of course. I did say thirteen. Those that I named I visit often. They live in towns from hither to yonder and they ply their trades. Some, Lord bless ’em, have children of their own. The little ones call me Gommy Merry and rush to smother me with hugs and kisses when I come a calling.

“My firstborn was a boy, who we named Jofe after the Mister’s own father. By his fifteenth summer, Jofe could do the work of any 58

three men. He could carry on his broad back as many bales of hay as you could load onto a wagon. He could lift a full-grown boar over his head. When he chopped wood the sky would grow dark and rain splinters for two days afterwards. But for all his strength, he was as gentle a creature as ever was put on earth. If a baby bird fell from its nest in a windstorm, Jofe would climb to the highest, most precarious branch to put the wee thing back. A spider in the house he would gather up the way a fine lady might handle china and deliver the crawly creature outside, setting it down as soft as a falling leaf. He could sing, tell stories, do sums in his head, and make the hurt go out of scrapes and bruises. The other children loved him, for he was their protector and hero.

“Jofe was sixteen years old when my youngest was born. Poor little Ehdrd, he was small and sickly to the point I feared he’d not see a first birthday. But Jofe took a special shine to the pitiful child.

He slept by his cradle at night and patted the tyke back to sleep when he awoke hungry or frightened. Jofe would work all day in the fields, alongside the Mister, and at night he’d work for one of the neighbors to buy a bit of extra milk for puny little Ehdrd. But it wasn’t food nor care that brought Ehdrd around. It was pure love, which Jofe poured over him the way a great river spills itself out at a mighty waterfall.

“The long and short of it was that little Ehdrd made it to his first birthday, and then to a second, and then to a third, and so on. And each year, Jofe’s love for him grew until you did not see how a human heart could swell so large and generous. For you see, little Ehdrd was never like the others. His little neck was so thin and weak he could barely lift his head. At an age where other children ran and played and laughed, Ehdrd could not so much as dress or feed himself. He was a kind boy—you could see it in his eyes, and perhaps it was that which drew Jofe to him. But for myself, I sometimes wondered if we would have all been better off if I had cut short my babying days at an even dozen, as though by the time I 59

got to wee Ehdrd there was not enough left of Merry to make one more proper child, whole and happy. I think on it still, and my heart sobs although you’d not know it to see me, for my eyes, long ago, had no more tears.

“One by one my other children growed up and got about their business. Oh, we’d see them at the celebration days when we’d all gather about the table to give thanks for what little we had. But Jofe stayed on, neither married nor took himself a trade, though goodness knows he could have done whatever he put his mind to.

But what he did was to take care of Ehdrd. He’d lift him up and carry him out to the fields with him, prop him up against a tree where he could watch the world and smell the air. He’d bring him water, fetch him lunch, keep him moved about so he was never out of the shade—and then bring him home at night and feed him supper.

“Many’s the night the three of us would sit about and talk and tell stories of the old days, the Mister having passed on to victory earlier. We’d talk until bedtime, and Jofe would tuck in Ehdrd and say a prayer over him. I thought it would go on that way for many more years. But it was not to be.

“I remember the day as if it were yesterday, though in truth it’s been more years now than I care to recollect. It was a day not at all unlike this one, warm and bright and full of promise. As always, Jofe had gone to the field with Ehdrd cradled in his arms, although mind you he was a child of some ten years at the time. Jofe set him beneath a tree, propped his head up to keep him comfortable, and set about his work.

“Near the middle of the days a crew of rowdies and no-gooders come a mucklin’ down the road. They’d been gaming the night before, and drinking, and carrying on, and they were full of meanness. One of them stepped up to Ehdrd and asked him the time of day, not realizing that he couldn’t so much as tell them his very name. They became angered at his silence, and before Jofe 60

could rush over to save him, they’d picked Ehdrd up and was tossing him to and fro like a rag doll. I can only imagine the look of terror on his pale little face, him who’d never known but kindly gentle treatment from those around him.

“Jofe was there in a moment, and he quickly broke up their villainous misbehavior, flinging them away like the trash they were.

But they had brought with them a great salivating dog with teeth like a boar’s tusks. The vicious brute attacked Ehdrd and near tore his cheek away. And with that, my beloved Jofe, a friend to all that breathed, grabbed the animal and flung it so hard and swift against a tree that it never had time to yelp nor whimper before its angry soul departed.

“The rowdies scattered, fearing for their lives, cursing and angry, though they had no one to blame but themselves. And then they left. Jofe believed he’d seen the end of it, and he certainly had no fears of the likes of them. But that night they came to our house in the dark. There was more of them than before, too many for Jofe to fight off, even for all his strength. So I sent him and Ehdrd to hide beneath a haystack in the barn. I didn’t think they’d harm me, being a woman and all alone.

“The last I saw of my sons, they was together as always. Jofe with his dear Ehdrd flung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes walked toward the barn, disappearing into the everlasting darkness of that hateful night.

“Then they set torch to my little house where I’d raised up thirteen children. I fled for my life and they took out after me, but at least I knew I’d saved my sons. Or so I thought. When I returned the next day the barn was burned to the ground as well as the house. Smoke and vileness filled the air, but my boys were nowhere to be found.”

“They could have escaped,” Wundermint said suddenly. “They may be looking for you right now, just as you’re looking for them.

We could fly a kite for them.” He wanted desperately to find some 61

ray of hope. He didn’t want the story to end there.

“I believe they did escape,” Merry said thoughtfully. “It is that thought has kept me moving from town to town these long and many years. I’ve flown kites enough to cover a thousand skies from morning’s light to the edge of night. I visit each of my children twice a year hoping they’ve heard something. I’ve got my hope— sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker—but always I have it.

Without hope, there would be no Merry. And now you know my story.”

Wundermint felt awash in a sea of feelings that grabbed and tugged at him from every direction. It was confusing and uncomfortable. Part of Merry’s story left him feeling sad and helpless, and yet he dared not show it because he wanted so badly for Merry to feel hopeful. He wanted her story to have a happy ending, but in fact it had no ending at all—which in the most puzzling of ways was almost worse.

“Do you ever wish you could just turn the page and get to the end of the story?” he asked.

“We’ll get there soon enough without skipping any pages,” Merry said with her wise smile. “We’d best take it page for page and love every minute of it, because Glory help us it’s the only story we have, each and every one of us.”

Wundermint pondered her reply. He wanted there to be more.

But Merry was again humming and clucking to the swaybacked mare, her eyes clear and fixed on the road ahead.

Everything had started out so much simpler, Wundermint thought to himself. I was going to go off on an adventure with Trog. I would build my army, catch Wrinkies along the way, and eat them around the campfire at night. We would dream of how one day we should all gather on a hilltop high above the wicked Grundlers, and with me leading the way amid whoops and hollers swoop down from the north, taking them by surprise. And with broadswords, lances, firepots, sharp sticks, and jaggedy rocks we 62

would drive off the invaders, leaving them poked, bruised, bloodied, and devastated.

He still wanted all that, more than ever. But now he also wanted to find Trog and the magic boys. He wanted to track down Spintoffle and punish him for his wickedness. He wanted to comfort Merry and reassure her that she would find her beloved sons. The things he wanted tugged him one way, and yet the very same things at the very same time tugged another. He suddenly knew how poor little Ehdrd must have felt being tossed about by the bullies. And when he thought he would burst apart from all the forces pulling him this way and that, he said softly, “Thank you for my fine kite, Merry. It will lead Trog and the boys to us, I’m sure of it. And if you will honor us by being part of our army I swear to you I will do everything I can to give your story a happy ending.”

Merry looked at him and her eyes burned with a new fire. “Let’s not worry about endings just yet,” she said. “For you are now part of my story, and in that fact alone you have made it a happier story.”

“And you are part of mine,” Wundermint said. With that, the feelings threatening to tug him apart turned him loose and he felt so full of warmth and happiness that he wanted to jump and whoop and turn handsprings. “And will you join with us?” he asked again.

“Let’s just say that I will gladly travel this road with you and follow where it leads us,” Merry said. “We shall see what we shall see.”

Wundermint hugged Merry so hard that it took her breath away.

He hopped down from the wagon and went skipping ahead. He wished Trog and the boys were there so he could give them the wonderful news, but they were still nowhere in sight. He looked into the sky where the kite, his kite, rose high above the trees and the mountains, beckoning his friends to hurry and join them. He had no doubt they would be there soon. Merry’s story, for all its sadness, had made him hopeful, and that felt quite good.

63

10. Wicked Trickery

L

ate in the day, woods and hills began to give way to rolling farmland where corn grew tall as trees and meadows of ripening wheat stretched toward the sky in a blaze of gold.

Small white houses with rooftops of yellow hay dotted the landscape, their sun-drenched windows like watchful eyes. People working in the field paused in their toil to look up and wave to the passing wagon, its arched cover billowing like a thundercloud, its pots and kettles raising a merry ruckus.

Wundermint waved back. He was restless, tired of the long ride, and ready to get on with the business of being a king. Sleep had restored his energies, and cookies had ended his hungries. Gone were the fears and doubts of darkness. Rested, fed, and sitting safely at Merry’s side, he was impatient for adventure. He let his thoughts drift to how he might attack an army of evil Grundlers, easily driving them from the battlefield of his daydreams and sending the smelly little cowards scurrying away before the fierceness and bravery of his imagination.

The farmhouses grew more numerous and closer together. “A sure sign of an approaching town,� Merry explained. They crested a small hill and entered a long, leafy tunnel of trees, at the end of which, framed like a perfect painting in the valley below, lay a town beside a lake. Small houses clustered about a grassy green space where sheep grazed in the dappled shade of huge elm trees. At one end of the green sat a white church with a soaring steeple, topped by a gleaming copper weather vane in the shape of a rooster. At the other end was a lake shaped like a teardrop. Boats with breeze-filled sails skimmed its surface, and on the far shore grassy hills flowed like a river to snow-peaked mountains in the distance.

As they drew nearer, the picture came magically to life. People in bright clothes bustled about, carrying bundles, pushing baby carriages, fetching water, splitting wood, shoeing horses, hitching 64

up buggies, mending wagons, and waving to friends. Children played on the green, tossing balls, chasing one another, and filling the air with squeals and laughter. Wundermint squirmed with excitement until Merry said, “I’ve little taste for towns today. “You jump down and see the sights. And when you’ve had your fill, you’ll find me just at the outskirts—with a boiling kettle and a bit of supper.”

“And, no doubt, my friends,” Wundermint said. “They will have had time to find us by then.”

“No doubt,” Merry agreed. “But hold your horses, my dear, not quite so fast.” She fished about in the storehouse of her pockets and brought forth a handkerchief, which she wet with the tip of her tongue and began to vigorously scrub Wundermint’s face. He protested. She persisted, then presented him with a smacking kiss on his now clean forehead, and held him at arm’s length to admire her handiwork. “You look fine,” she said approvingly.

Wundermint wriggled from her grasp and leapt to the ground.

“One more thing,” Merry called. He paused and looked up at her, head cocked, face full of impatience, hands defiantly on hips. “You may find this comes in handy,” she said, holding out a gleaming golder. Wundermint stared in disbelief, and with a sheepish smile reached for the coin. When she leaned down to hand it to him, he hugged her neck so hard she almost tumbled off her seat. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, dear Merry. I promise to spend it wisely.” And then he was off with a happy parting wave.

His eyes big as oranges, Wundermint walked through the town passing cobblers, tailors, green grocers, bakers, beekeepers, shopkeepers, street sweepers, quilt makers, jam sellers, woodcarvers, saw sharpeners, pot throwers, spinners, weavers, knitters, fitters, carders, curriers, farriers, tarriers, caulkers, canners, coopers, chandlers, and characters of no discernible occupation who nevertheless smiled and greeted him with a friendly nod. He found his way to the water’s edge where gentle waves lapped at the 65

shore like puppies’ tongues.

He watched fishermen craft nets from long ropy strands of woven grass. He saw the nets at work on the lake, hauling up gleaming loads of fish. Along the waterfront, people laughed and talked and traded fish for golders, haggling over the price in loud voices that somehow still sounded friendly and warm. A child with short blond hair grabbed a yellow-and-black fish from a cart and ran off with it, squealing with delight. A nearby fisherman picked up a net, swung it about his head, and with a whoop flung it into the air. The net settled onto the child as gently as a cloud, and everyone cheered as the fisherman took the black-and-yellow fish from the child’s hands and returned it to the cart. Wundermint watched in awe.

When a trumpet sounded, many of the people began to leave the lakeside and hurried toward the grassy green where a crowd was gathering. Wundermint followed, eager to see what fine new adventures lay in store. By the time he arrived, people were dancing about, tapping their feet in lively rhythm, and clapping along with the sprightly tune.

Wundermint tried to draw nearer to the music maker, but the crowd was dancing so hard he drew back for fear of being trampled. A fine way to treat a king, he thought. But not to be denied such a sweet pleasure, he climbed up one of the tall elms, edged out on a limb, and from this vantage beheld the finest wagon he had ever imagined. It was bright yellow with red spoked wheels and swirly green trimming. One entire side folded out from the wagon to form a stage, from which the lone musician served up his brassy melodies. Above the stage, in large letters painted in a fine and flowing script, were the words “Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole, P. H. and D.” When the music stopped, the people cheered and begged for more, but the trumpet player, bowing graciously and blowing kisses at the ladies, silenced them. He wore a red-and-yellow plaid 66

suit, a stovepipe hat with a red scarf tied round it, and an enormous bow tie. As the crowd grew quieter, he announced his name in a booming voice as melodious as the music. He was, in fact, none other than Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole himself, and, as he carefully pointed out, P. H. and D, which seemed to impress the crowd mightily and caused them to mutter among themselves in tones of awe and approval.

“Thank you, my good people,” he said. “I am pleased that you enjoy the music so. It tells me that you are of good character and discerning tastes.” Everyone laughed, and a smatter of applause rippled through. Wundermint leaned forward, the better to hear every word. Clearly, the good doctor knew how to appeal to this crowd.

“You may be surprised to know that I had never played the trumpet before a few weeks ago,” Dr. DiBoole announced. The crowed gasped. “For I had previously been so busy with my studies of natural history, animal magnetism, and gastrological inquiries that I had little time for music and the arts. But I had the opportunity to acquire this trumpet for a modest sum and decided to spend my idle hours upon the road with practice where no ears but mine would take offense. Imagine my surprise, dear friends, when the very first night I picked up this divine instrument and discovered that I could play upon it a passable version of the national anthem of my native country, Confoundlia.” The crowd buzzed, and Wundermint edged farther out on the limb.

“At first, I thought it an accident,” he went on, his grand voice rising above the crowd, all eyes riveted upon him. “But upon reflection, I realized that there was a far greater power at work, friends, than even I knew. Allow me to explain myself.

“You see, whilst carrying out my scientifical inquiries in a distant and terrifying land, I chanced upon a natural spring whose waters I soon learned possessed magical powers. Although of robust health in general, I did at that time suffer from an occasional twinge of spasmoria in my left elbow. Rubbing the 67

afflicted area with the pure liquid from this all-natural spring quickly cured my symptoms. Moreover, that same arm, I could not help but notice, improved in muscle tone and strength.

“Needless to say, dear friends, I filled my trusty canteen with this precious substance and have, over the years, partaken of it from time to time—with results that can only be described as miraculous. This same potion is responsible for my remarkable and recently discovered musical abilities.” With that, he lifted the trumpet to his lips and played a tune so sweet that the ladies wept and men dabbed their eyes with hankies and blew their noses until the crowd sounded like a flock of honking geese.

“Are there any of you who would like to play the trumpet—or some other musical instrument?” the doctor asked with a broad smile. Whistles and applause informed him that there were indeed.

“Well friends, I am pleased to offer—at a ridiculously low price— one of these little bottles of that very liquid that cures aches and pains, strengthens muscles, instills musical abilities, and—” “Fraud!” cried a lone voice from the crowd.

Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole looked out into the sea of faces, searching for his accuser. “He’s full of pig sausage!” shouted the voice again. And the crowd began to buzz. DiBoole held up his hand, a forgiving smile upon his face. “Don’t harm him, friends. I see it’s an old fellow, and he has every right to question what I say.

Could you step up here, sir? Please, friends, let him through.”

The crowd parted and a white-haired man on crutches limped toward the stage. “Now sir,” DiBoole began, but the old chap interrupted him rudely, addressing the crowd in his crackly voice: “Ask him the price of that there stuff.”

“Dear sir, I’m happy to tell you the price,” DiBoole replied.

“This bottle, which will provide many months of curative powers and excellent health, I will part with for a single golder.” Some people in the crowd laughed, and the old man nodded his head sagely as if to say I told you so. Wundermint edged farther out on 68

his limb and felt it bend beneath him. He touched the pocket of his trousers and felt the firm round shape of the golder Merry had given him.

“You tell a fine story,” yelled someone in the crowd, “but your poppycock won’t fetch one of my golders.” Laughter rang out again and the people started to wander away.

“My friends,” shouted DiBoole, “I beg you, not so fast. Alas, what more can I say to convince you. You’ve heard my trumpet. I give you my word as a doctor and a man of science that everything I say is true.”

“Didn’t cost you nothing to take the stuff out of the ground,” said the old white-haired troublemaker in a taunting voice. “Why should we pay for what you get’s for free?”

“Ah, that’s the problem is it? DiBoole cried. “Friends, hear me out. This old geezer says I get it free. Well, let me tell you, not quite.

Not by a long shot, my dear fellow. I must travel far away, at my own expense, to bring back this potion. I must bottle it and label it at my own expense. I must even cart it about the countryside to bring its magical powers to you. Dear friends, believe me when I tell you that I would gladly bear all those expenses were I a wealthy man—just to share this secret of power and happiness with you. But let me assure you this elixir did not come to me free!” DiBoole thundered out the word with such force that Wundermint jumped, causing the branch to shiver beneath him.

“Free?” he roared again. And then his voice dropped to a whisper, and the crowd, which moments before was ready to walk away, now drew toward him in a tight little knot. Wundermint edged out a bit farther until he was hanging above the edge of the stage on the badly drooping limb.

“I dared not tell you my whole story,” DiBoole said, his voice sweeping over the crowd. “I feared you would find it unbelievable and laugh me off the stage. But my very honor has been challenged and I will not stand still for it. Dear friends, it is true that the 69

product I offer you here is naturally occurring and free when it comes from the ground, but let me tell you that I attained it only at considerable cost and personal sacrifice. Hear me out.

“Unknown to myself,” DiBoole continued, his voice a powerful force that drew his audience ever closer, “in this far-off and terrible land where I was conducting my inquiries in the name of truth and science, there lived a wicked giant by the name of Escahar. Shortly after I had helped myself to a canteen full of the magic elixir, this immense giant confronted me in all his enormity and demanded that I give back the precious fluid. When I refused on account of his bad manners, he drew his sword, and before I could arm myself, he had whacked off both my ears.” The crowd gasped in disbelief.

“I sought to defend myself as best I could, but the brute overpowered me and sliced both of my arms off, clean at the shoulders.” Women cried out and men averted their eyes in horror.

“And not satisfied with such monstrosity,” DiBoole intoned, his voice now rising to fever pitch, “the evil Escahar chopped off my legs and booted my poor body like a kickball down the hill.

Then he left me for dead, his laughter ringing like thunder over the countryside.

“Fortunately,” DiBoole continued, “he had actually kicked me just near enough to the magic spring that I could—by a great act of will—incline my head in such a way as to partake of the magic fluid ere the last breath fled my body. So restored was I by this single taste that I found the strength to wiggle in caterpillar fashion back up the hill to where my right arm lay. It took all my strength and I fainted. But when I awoke—a miracle! My arm had grown back in place. While it was stiff and somewhat the worse for wear, it was still usable. Elated, I rolled back down the hill, drank of the waters, and pulled myself back to my other arm. Again the effort proved too much for me and I passed out. But when I awoke”— and here he raised his arms above his head as the crowd ooohed and ahhhed—“you see the results for yourself.

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“And then, friends, I did the same for my legs—this time actually rubbing the liquid onto the affected areas—and the healing took place before my very eyes.” To show the full power of his marvelous recovery, he did a quick little jig and the crowd went wild.

“And last, dear gentlefolk, I went looking for my ears. I found one, I am happy to say. But alas, not the other, it presumably having been consumed by some hungry animal. And so I stand before you today. Offering my balm for a mere single golder, because I am not a wealthy man. But dear friends, I beg of you, please, please as the heavens are my witness, do not think for one second that I got it free.” And with that, he whipped off his stovepipe hat, pulled back his greasy brown hair, and revealed for all to see that indeed his ear was missing, just as he had said. If there had been any in the crowd who doubted up to that very moment, they were now true believers. They roared their approval.

DiBoole begged for silence and then said, “And now, if there be any who still believe I do this for the sake of money, I wish to give away this first bottle as a true sign of my generous nature. You sir,” he pointed to the white-haired gent on crutches who had caused such a stir. “That’s right, you dear chap. Come get your free bottle.”

Applauding in a frenzy, the crowd cheered the old fellow as he struggled upon the stage to claim his reward. With a kindly smile, DiBoole reached out to him, when suddenly the old fellow went glassy-eyed, his crutch dropped, and he crumpled to the floor.

“Stand back!” shouted DiBoole. “Give him air!” He cradled the old gent in his arms, put his single ear to his whiskered lips, and looked up gravely. “I fear the worst,” DiBoole said to the stricken crowd. “He is dead.”

A strangled sob rose up from the crowd as if from a single, sorrowful throat. Almost to himself DiBoole said, “I have never known this to work before, but I must try no matter what the outcome.” He tilted back the frosted head and poured a generous 71

slug of his bottled potion into the gaping mouth. The crowd waited, but there was no response. DiBoole rose, his eyes filled with tears. “I am sorry, friends,” he said. “He is beyond my help. If I could have gotten to him just a bit sooner perhaps—” A woman up close screamed, and the crowd drew back as the old gent twitched so violently that the whole wagon shook. Then he sat up and looked about, dazed. He rose to his feet and with shaking hands adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles. Then he smiled and reached out to shake the hand of Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole, P. H. and D. And then as the crowd roared and stomped and whistled, he did a funny little dance step, the kind one might expect of a much younger man, not one who had lately been on crutches, not to mention departed from this world.

And then the crowd surged forward, their golders in their outstretched hands, their voices crying out, “Me first!” “One for me!” “I’ll take two!”

Wundermint dug into his pocket, calling from his perch high above the stage, “Please sir, may I have one. Please sir, up here—” when to his horror the branch gave way beneath him. He came crashing down, the limb narrowly missing Dr. DiBoole and cracking the old gent on the head so hard that it knocked his hair off. Blinking, dazed, and frightened, Wundermint picked himself up, still clinging for dear life to his golder and reaching out a helping hand to the formerly white-haired fellow who now had straight black hair and was bleeding from his forehead.

Wundermint reached his hand closer, grabbed the white beard of the old fellow, who no longer looked so old, gave it a yank, and found himself holding the beard like a limp squirrel and looking squarely into the terrified face of none other than his hated enemy, Spintoffle.

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11. To Catch a Villain

F

or an instant, the world was frozen. Spintoffle was a statue, his eyes cast in fear behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his lips pulled back in surprise revealing tiny sharp teeth. Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole, P. H. and D., looked on in utter confusion as his performance came to its swift and unexpected conclusion. Not a person in the crowd moved nor spoke. And then the world erupted into hoots of laughter, catcalls, and all manner of rude noises.

Spintoffle leapt to his feet and tried to run away as hundreds of pairs of angry hands grabbed at him. DiBoole pushed Wundermint to the ground, dove headfirst into his brightly colored wagon, and pulled the stage up after him, out of sight of the jeering crowd.

Someone picked up Wundermint and tossed him high into the air.

He zoomed skyward, lingered above the throng for a fleeting, fearful moment, then hurtled back down. He steeled himself for the crash, but instead was caught up roughly by countless hands that flung him about like a tossball. People called to him, waving and reaching out to shake his hand or pound him on the back in a congratulatory and altogether discomforting manner.

They held him aloft and sang: Jolly fellow Raise him high Praise his ways Unto the sky Good chap he, We all proclaim Thrice three cheers For his good name.

They sang the song over and over, pausing at the end to give thrice three cheers that sounded like the baying of a pack of hounds.

They paraded Wundermint about on their shoulders, cheering loudly, tossing him into the air, and showering him with great 73

appreciation for having unmasked the scoundrels in their midst.

So this is how it feels to be a hero, Wundermint thought as he sailed high into the air and came plummeting. He was not sure he cared for it. He began to tire of being tossed and longed to be still and quiet. The more he was tossed about, the less his stomach enjoyed it.

Almost as quickly as it began, the celebration died down and people began to drift away. Some called out a friendly farewell, others announced loudly that it was close to suppertime, and others just wandered off toward the cozy houses of the town. Wundermint was placed on the seat of Dr. DiBoole’s wagon, where he stood up and prepared to address the throng and invite them to join his army.

But as he cleared his throat to request silence, he found that silence was already there without his asking. “My dear friends ...” he began, hoping that some would hear and rejoin him for his kingly message. One or two turned around and waved good-bye, and then the noisy crowd was gone.

A voice behind Wundermint called out, “We’ve got the scoundrel.

What shall we do with him?” He turned and saw Spintoffle standing between two villagers, his arms and legs tightly bound with heavy rope, his head bowed like a whipped dog. One of the men roughly pushed Spintoffle forward, causing him to stumble and fall. “He’s all your’n, young fellow, to do with as you will. We catched him for you.” And then the two men walked away, laughing and joking with each other in the most carefree fashion.

Hopping off the wagon, Wundermint stood over Spintoffle, feeling an enormous sense of power. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again, you rascal,” Wundermint said, “and now here you are.

What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Hullo,” Spintoffle said lamely. “Could you give me a hand up?”

Wundermint helped him get to his feet and eyed him sternly, unsure what to do with this ungainly prisoner now that his wish to capture him had come true. “I demand you return my golders at once,” he said.

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“I can’t reach into my pockets,” Spintoffle said, holding up his bound wrists to emphasize his difficulty, then adding with a smile, “and if I could, there wouldn’t be no golders there, for they got spent.”

“Just as I suspected,” Wundermint said. “Well, come along. You are my prisoner now. You must do whatever I tell you.”

A clatter emerged from within the wagon, and the top of a stovepipe hat appeared, followed by Ferdinand DiBoole, who stuck his head out cautiously and asked in a whisper, “Are they gone?”

“All clear,” Spintoffle replied. “I’m sorry I shan’t be working no more for you, sir. I seem to have been took prisoner.”

DiBoole climbed down off the wagon and acknowledged Wundermint with a ceremonious bow. “You rang the curtain down in grand style, good sir,” he said. “I notice you are now about to fetch away my unfortunate young assistant.”

“He is my prisoner,” Wundermint replied stiffly.

“And where, may one inquire, are you off to now?” DiBoole inquired.

“I expect to find my army waiting for me at the outskirts of town,” Wundermint said. “We will no doubt celebrate my bringing this scoundrel to justice.”

“Just so,” replied DiBoole, rubbing his hands in a lively manner.

“A celebration you say.” His eyes lit up. “With food?” he asked.

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” Wundermint replied.

“I must confess, good sir,” DiBoole said with a theatrical flourish, “that I had not realized just what a villain this fellow was when I hired him. Mayhap I should walk with you a ways in case he should take it into his head to escape.”

“You may walk with us if you wish,” Wundermint said. “But shouldn’t you bring your wagon?”

“Ah, yes,” DiBoole said. “There is only the small matter of the horse.”

“Where is your horse?” Wundermint asked.

“He got stolen,” Spintoffle joined in the conversation. “We was 75

trying to earn ourselves a few golders to buy a new horse and go into an honest line of work, wasn’t we, Doctor?”

“Yes, yes,” DiBoole agreed. “An honest line of work, to be sure.”

“Do you know who stole your horse?” Wundermint asked.

“We think it was the fellow we originally stole him from,” Spintoffle said.

“So it wasn’t even your horse,” Wundermint said.

“It was ’til the chap stole him back,” Spintoffle reasoned.

“It was his horse to begin with,” Wundermint said hotly.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Spintoffle said. “For all we know, the fellow we took it from might have stole it himself. That would make it nobody’s horse. And it wouldn’t do at all to have a horse wandering about belonging to nobody. Who would feed and take care of it?”

As Wundermint tried to sort through this strange logic, DiBoole spoke up: “Might one inquire what young Spintoffle has done to deserve your captivation of him?”

“He stole golders from us,” Wundermint said.

“Didn’t,” Spintoffle argued. “I stole fish.”

“They were our fish,” Wundermint reminded him.

“In any case, you’d not want them back now,” Spintoffle continued with his own peculiar brand of explanation. “They’d all be spoilt by now and stinking to high heaven.”

Thin orange clouds had begun to slice the sun into brilliant strips as they reached the outskirts of town. The smoke of evening fires throughout the village filled the air with a carnival of aromas.

Wundermint looked to the sky and spied his kite—red hair, blue eyes, freckles, and all—bobbing happily upon an invisible breeze too gentle to feel. The thought of Merry and a campfire and supper sent his spirits soaring.

And if the others by chance had caught up with him, how proud they would be at his having taken a prisoner. He imagined his kingly return with Spintoffle tightly bound, and he swelled to his full height, quickening his pace.

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12. Adventure Beckons

S

purt was the first to greet them, with his shrill yapping and tail wagging furiously. He jumped up on Wundermint, licking his face. He danced and growled about Spintoffle’s feet, and on three legs took careful aim and left his mark upon the shoes of Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole, P. H. and D. Merry came running out, her face alight, eager to offer up great hugs. She stopped, flustered and surprised upon seeing that Wundermint was accompanied by two strangers, one of whom had a nasty cut above his eye and was bound hand and foot with heavy, uncomfortable rope; the other was dressed in a red-andyellow plaid suit and was hopping about on one leg trying to dry his shoe with a handkerchief. “My, my,” said Merry, her hands fluttering like startled birds, “more company I see. Well, this is a day for surprises.”

Then Trog and Mike and Spike burst forth from behind the covered wagon. “We found you,” they shouted with one happy voice. They rushed forward with open arms, then stopped in confusion, not sure how to behave in front of these strangers.

Wundermint wanted to hug them all and rejoice with laughter, but that did not seem appropriate in front of his prisoner. He cleared his throat and said stiffly, “How good to see you all.” The words felt dry and uncomfortable in his mouth. “As you can see I have captured this scoundrel.”

“He’s certainly been properly tied up,” Mike observed cheerfully.

“Those are most excellent knots,” Spike added pleasantly.

Spintoffle stared miserably at the ground, and DiBoole made a clumsy bow introducing himself with a flourish of his stovepipe hat.

Trog drew close to Spintoffle, a look of puzzlement adding wrinkles around his eyes. “Do I know this lad?” he asked.

“He cheated us out of our fish,” Wundermint said hotly, feeling 77

strangely deprived of his moment of glory. “Don’t you remember him?”

“He’s got a familiar look,” Trog admitted. “I blush to say it, but if I stored up all the faces of all the scoundrels that have wronged me during this life, there would be little room left in my poor brain for other matters.”

“He’s got a bad cut over his eye,” Merry said. “We can’t have him going about like that. The rest of you sit down and start your supper. I’ll tend to this.” She led Spintoffle away, and the others took their place around a little fire that warmed a bubbling pot.

“Bit of stew?” Trog asked simply. “We would have been here sooner, but I stopped to catch a few fishlets. Hardly enough to go around, but when stewed up most agreeably certainly more than enough to cure a bad case of the hungries.”

They ate in awkward silence, except for DiBoole who noisily slurped his food and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Merry returned with Spintoffle hobbling before her, a neat plaster patch above his eye. She served him a generous helping of stew, which he gobbled straight from the bowl in a single wolfish gulp. Merry took what little was left for herself. Wundermint wished he could offer Merry some of his own stew, but he had already eaten it all.

Having Spintoffle tied up in their midst seemed to have made them all somehow less free to enjoy the food and companionship around a warm fire. After dinner, Trog produced his flask and took a sip, licked the taste from his lips with serene pleasure, then asked, “Anyone care to join me in a healthful drop?”

Before he could withdraw the offer, DiBoole snatched the flask from his grasp, announcing loudly, “My dear fellow, I knew the moment I laid eyes upon you that you were a gentleman to the core.” And with that he took a long, gurgling swig while Trog watched in dismay as his precious firefly wine disappeared down Ferdinand DiBoole’s thirsty gullet.

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They sat without speaking for a time, silence hanging heavy like wet laundry on a line. “Perhaps someone has a story to tell,” Merry ventured.

“Tell us how you lost your ear,” Wundermint suggested to DiBoole. “That’s a rousing tale.”

“Umm, yes, that,” DiBoole said, squirming uncomfortably.

“Well, the truth is that a horse bit it off as I was assisting the poor beast away from its unworthy owner.”

“He was stealing the horse,” Spintoffle explained.

“My dear friends,” DiBoole burst forth, trying to escape the moment, “allow me to offer something by way of thanks for this splendid meal.” With that he drew his trumpet from his baggy plaid coat and played several lively solos that lifted everyone’s spirits and helped to patch over the earlier discomfort.

When he was done, Mike and Spike performed a magic trick, taking one of Merry’s deepest kettles and after clearly showing its emptiness pulled from it a marble, a length of string, an old shoe, a wing feather from a blue jay, three walnuts, a pair of earmuffs, a handful of farkleberries, and a large zucchini squash that bore a striking resemblance to Trog’s nose—which they carefully pointed out to everyone’s amusement. Even Trog smiled faintly after awhile.

For his part, Trog contributed a short version of his trial at sea at the hands of his old enemy, Brupt, and his rescue by the fisherwomen from the Isle of Liberty.

As the evening drew to a close, the fire died and the coals glowed softly in the dark. Speaking to no one in particular, Spintoffle said in a wistful voice, “I’ve always wished I had fine tales such as these to tell. Where I came from, no one had adventures, and each day was like the one before it. So no one had stories.”

Wundermint felt a twinge deep down inside himself, for much the same thought had been going through his own mind. “Where did you come from?” he asked.

“Not quite sure,” Spintoffle said. When he spoke again after a 79

long pause, his voice was distant and sad. “Not far from here is a great green river that runs to the sea. If you follow that river up into the hills and the mountains beyond, it turns small and narrow and all twisty, until at last you come upon a farm that is like no farm you’ve ever seen. All around it is a high fence where nothing can get out or over, and all about it’s guarded by dogs so fierce and hungry that they’d sooner eat you than bark. And the farmers ride about on horses all the day long, with whips and arrows to chase off anyone or anything that comes near. You might think they grow something special on this farm, to guard it so—but I can tell you it’s like any other farm, with oats, peas, beans, barley, and such like. No, the reason why they protects it so fiercely is to make sure none of the children that work there from dawn to dark should ever escape. Oh my, but they work those children hard—and feed them poor.

“I know, I was one such, myself, until I said I’d rather be eat alive by wild dogs than spend another day there. That’s when I took myself down the river.”

“How do they come to have so many children?” asked Merry, her brow furrowed with concern.

“Why they adopts them, pure and simple,” Spintoffle said. “Not that the parents know nothing about it, mind you. But they adopts them nonetheless, and put them to work plowing, planting, hoeing, and harvesting—without giving them so much as a golder or a word of thanks, only just enough food to keep the poor creatures going one day to the next.”

Mike and Spike were leaning forward, the firelight reddening their faces, their ears aquiver. “If the parents don’t know …” began Mike. “… how can the children be adopted?” Spike finished the question.

“It’s, as you might say, forcible adoption,” Spintoffle explained.

“Why that’s nothing but stealing,” Wundermint said.

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Spintoffle shrugged. “Stealing is against the law,” he said reasonably, “so they call it adoption instead.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Wundermint argued, “anymore than stealing our fish was right.”

“I paid you two golders for them, if you’ll recall,” Spintoffle said.

“Our sister was forcibly adopted,” Mike said, his voice rising in excitement.

“Is it possible you knew her?” asked Spike. “She always wore a white dress.”

“And she had blonde hair …” Mike began. “… that made you think of summer wheat,” Spike finished.

“And she loved flowers,” they said in unison. “And her name was—” “Kyra,” Spintoffle said casually. “Yes, I know her. Old Gray Whiskers made her look after the youngest ones.”

Mike and Spike jumped to their feet and began dancing about the fire, whooping and shouting. “Take us there!” they cried. “We can leave tonight.”

“Not me,” Spintoffle said. “It was all I could do to escape from there once. You won’t catch me going back.”

“Make him go with us,” Mike said turning to Wundermint.

“He’s your prisoner,” Spike said. “Tell him he has to go with us.”

Wundermint sensed he was about to lose the little army he had worked so hard to build—and just as he had found them again.

Taking Spintoffle as his prisoner had so far meant nothing but trouble—and not enough food to go around at dinner. He looked across the fire to Trog for help, but the old man was sipping from his flask and had a faraway look in his eyes. “I’m not sure,” Wundermint stammered. “After all, he is my prisoner to order about. Not yours.”

“Then we’ll go on our own,” Mike said.

“Right now,” Spike added hotly. “Tonight.”

“You’ll never find it by yourself,” Spintoffle warned.

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“Stay with us,” Wundermint begged. I’ll help you find your sister later on, after we’ve defeated the Grundlers and made them pay for their wickedness.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “We have to go.”

“What about my army?” Wundermint insisted.

“We’ll come back if we can,” Spike said. “Thanks for everything.”

“Who knows where we’ll be by then,” Wundermint said sadly.

“We can’t just stay here and wait.”

“Then you come with us,” Mike suggested.

“We’ll bring Kyra back,” said Spike, “and then we’ll follow you to the end of the earth if we have to. We’ll be the best soldiers in your whole army. You’ll see.”

“And what about you,” Wundermint asked Trog. “Will you come with us?”

“I’d but slow you down, truth to tell,” Trog said.

“And you, Merry?” Wundermint said. “What will become of you?”

“I’ve my own stars to follow,” she said. “But I’ll wait as long as I can. If Mr. Troglander would care to come with me, we could travel as far as the wide river, and wait for you there. We could wait beside the river and I would fly your kite every day to bring you back. Go if you must. I’ll wait as long as I can.”

“As will I,” said Trog. “I shall wait with Merry. But pray don’t set out tonight. Let us be together for these few hours and you can be away at first light.”

“I don’t want to go,” Spintoffle pleaded. “Please don’t make me go back there.”

“You have no choice,” Wundermint said sternly. “Remember, you are my prisoner. It is your own fault for being such a wretch.”

“My dear friends,” boomed Ferdinand DiBoole. “The food and friendship have warmed my heart, and the fire now warms my toes. Sleep beckons, and I must heed her somber call.” And with 82

that he tilted his top hat over his eyes and was soon snoring loudly.

Merry said goodnight and retired to her wagon. Her eyes held the same deep well of sadness that appeared when she spoke of her children. Something must have reminded her of Jofe and Ehdrd, Wundermint thought, for what else could make her so unhappy.

Mike and Spike made pillows of their backpacks and fell asleep next to the fire. Spintoffle nodded off, sitting with his hands and feet still bound, his head bobbing from time to time as waves of weary sleep washed over him.

The day had left Wundermint too full of thought to sleep. He sorted through the pieces, put them together in different ways, but found no satisfactory solution to his puzzle. “Trog,” he whispered, “are you awake?”

Trog stirred and rolled on his side, squinting through one eye.

“Awake?” he asked softly. “No, not so’s you’d notice.”

“I’ve got a question,” Wundermint said. Trog offered no encouragement, but Wundermint needed none. “If you ever ran into your old enemy Brupt, the one as threw you to the sharks, what would you do?”

Trog was quiet for so long that Wundermint feared sleep had gone back to sleep, but at last the old man spoke in a voice so soft that Wundermint had to strain to hear him.

“I’ve never told anyone this story,” Trog said, “fearing it would reflect badly upon me. But as you ask, I’ve a duty to answer straight. As things turned out, I did see old Brupt, years after he tossed me. He was by then an old man, broken in body and spirit.

He was begging in the street.”

“What did you do?” Wundermint asked.

“I swelled up with pride to see him brought so low, and walked right past him with my nose in the air,” Trog said. He paused, then continued, “And then I covered my face so he’d not recognize me, and I went back and put a golder into his cup.”

“Why?” asked Wundermint. “After all he did to you, why?”

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“I’ve often asked myself that very question,” Trog said. “The only answer I can come up with is that I’ve had a full and happy life. I’ve had countless fine adventures and tasted life’s finest treasures and pleasures. I’ve had the fair fortune to meet up with you and the magic lads”—he paused, deep in thought—“and with Merry,” he said at last. “Old Brupt, without knowing it and with no good intentions on his part, set me free to find the rest of my life. For that I must be grateful. And so I am. So I am.” He fell silent and after a time his deep rhythmic breathing turned to snuffly little snores.

Wundermint lay awake and stared into the sky. A shooting star blazed brightly for a moment, lighting up the night and causing the world to freeze for an instant in a glow of green and orange. Why, he thought, is everything so much more complicated than I ever supposed? He lay awake for a long time, gazing up at the sky.

When at last he fell asleep, a razor edge of gray dawn sliced the horizon and cut the bonds of night.

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13. The Whalebone

W

undermint awoke so tired and out of sorts he could scarcely force himself to eat five of Merry’s sweet corn muffins, served with berries and fresh cream and steaming mugs of honeyed tea. Mike and Spike were eager to be off, their backpacks stuffed with extra socks, sweaters, scarves, mittens, and long underwear, all magically and mysteriously produced from the back of Merry’s wagon, because, as she explained, “One never knows.”

“I’ve also put in a big ball of string,” Merry said, “in case you’ve need to fly a kite. And don’t forget, I’ll have your kite flying here every day to guide you back.”

She made Wundermint take an equally large amount of “warms and drys,” as she put it, answering his grumblings with a sad smile and far too many hugs for his grumpy state of mind. As their time to leave drew nearer, Merry grew increasingly busy warning of all sorts of dangers from avalanches, to wild beasts, to changes in the weather, to forgetting to wash their hands before eating.

Trog sat near the fire and dunked a corn muffin in tea. He watched in silent amazement as Merry worked herself into a tizzy trying to pass on to her precious young boys a lifetime of wisdom and experience before they departed. He caught Wundermint’s eye, and with a slow wink motioned him to come closer. Trog rose and furrowed his brow, laying wrinkle upon wrinkle and creating a solemn face indeed. “I’ve not got good feelings about this journey you are off to,” he said softly. Wundermint started to interrupt, but Trog shushed him with a gentle wave. “No fear, I’ll not try to stop you. I full know you must do what you must do. There’s no telling a young man different. But know you well, deep in your very bones and liver, that danger will be all around you.”

“Don’t worry,” Wundermint said. “I’ll be careful.”

“You must keep your wits on straight, every minute, night and 85

day,” Trog said. “And use everything you’ve learned your whole life through in order to come back safely. Do you understand?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Wundermint said, being not the least bit sure at all what the old man was telling him.

Trog worked his mouth, puffing out his cheeks as he thought hard to make himself understood. “If you use all you know, all you’ve ever learned since you were just a slip of a boy, you’ll be fine. You’re a good and courageous lad. Don’t let the courage eat you up. It has a way of doing that. But if you use everything you have—mind, heart, soul, and spirit—that along with your goodness and courage will stand you in fine stead. I can’t say it no clearer.”

Wundermint still did not understand, but Trog’s words unaccountably brought tears to his eyes. He threw his arms around the old man and vowed again to come back safely. Trog hugged back so hard that he wheezed, and when he let go he held out his hand. In it was the bit of gleaming white whalebone he wore about his neck. “Take it,” he said. “It’s been good luck for me. Now it’s yours.”

“I can’t take your good luck,” Wundermint protested. “You need it.”

“I’ve good luck aplenty,” Trog assured him, pressing it into his hand. “Take it, lad.”

Wundermint took the whalebone and turned it over in his hands as gently as if it were fine china. “I will treasure it,” he said. He held it up and let the sunlight reflect from its shiny surface. It was long and thin with a smooth gentle curve that fit into the palm of his hand as if molded there. It felt cool and hard, and its cutting edge was so fine that light shone through with the hard white luster of a winter moon. “Will you put it around my neck?” he asked.

“It would be an honor,” said Trog. He placed the necklace of twine around Wundermint’s neck, and dropped the whalebone down the front of his shirt. “It’s best out of sight,” he said softly.

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“Use it wisely. Hurry back.”

There was great commotion as they set out. Smithfield, overjoyed at being left behind with Merry’s gray mare, gave a resounding bray and stamped the ground. Spurt yapped and ran in circles begging to go until Wundermint sent him away with a loving last scratch of his scruffy little ears. Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole, his chin and lips littered with corn muffin crumblies, interrupted his breakfast long enough to stand and shout, “Brave lads!” Trog looked mournful and complained bitterly about the gnats he claimed were causing his sad old eyes to water so. Merry hugged and cried and waved good-bye and called out advice until they were out of earshot.

The riverbank was thick with thorny bushes and stinging nettles that tore at their clothes and burned their arms and ankles with hot prickly spears. As the day grew hotter, their backpacks became heavier. Mosquitoes the size of horseflies swarmed in black crowds, biting, buzzing, and attacking any bit of unprotected skin.

Spintoffle, his hands and feet bound, shuffled along and shaking his head violently to fend off the bloodthirsty insects.

“Perhaps we should cut his hands loose,” Mike said, “so he can at least swat the flying pests.”

“He’d also be free to untie his feet,” Wundermint said. “And then we’d never see the rascal again.”

“We could untie his feet,” Spike suggested, “so we could move along faster. We’ll never get there at this pace.”

“He’d run away if we untied his feet,” Wundermint said. “As soon as we weren’t paying attention, he’d be gone.”

“At least that way we wouldn’t have to carry his stuff on our backs,” Mike grumbled.

“But then we wouldn’t have him to show us the way,” Spike reminded.

“True,” said Mike. “But why can’t he just tell us the way? Then we’d let him go and be on our way.”

“How would we know if he were telling the truth?” asked 87

Wundermint. “He could tell us whatever he wanted, and then be far away by the time we found out it was just another one of his madeup stories.”

“Doesn’t seem fair,” Mike complained. “We have to carry his stuff, and all he does is slow us down.”

“So we get eaten up by these nasty bugs,” added Spike, whacking his hand against his forehead, leaving a very flat and very still mosquito, which was immediately replaced by three more.

They struggled along in silence, thorny bushes writing fiery lines across their hands and faces. They tripped over roots and sank up to their knees in river bog. Wundermint allowed Mike and Spike to lead the way. He hung back and occasionally waved his hands over Spintoffle’s head to clear away the mosquitoes. “Thank you,” Spintoffle said quietly.

“It’s only to make sure you’re fit to keep on traveling,” Wundermint said gruffly.

“Thank you, anyway,” said Spintoffle. And they trudged on.

Around midday, with the sun high overhead and no breeze brave enough to test the thicket of scrubby brush below, they came to a bend in the river where the green water turned sparkly clear and danced in crystal ripples over glistening stones. “We cross here,” Spintoffle said, his voice crackly with the heat and strain of the journey. “It’s shallow. At least we’ll be out of the devil’s own bramble snare for a time.” Mike and Spike gave a hoarse cheer.

“You’ll find little enough to cheer about as you’ll soon see,” Spintoffle said.

They waded the river, feeling its healing coolness against their torn legs. They splashed water on their faces and washed the dried blood from their hands and arms. They rested on the other side, eating the lunch that Merry had prepared: red berry jam on bread with the crusts cut away, hard-boiled eggs with spicy yellow centers, and raisins coated with dry honey.

“Doesn’t seem right we should have to share our bit of food 88

with wicked Spintoffle,” Mike observed.

Spike, his cheeks fairly bursting with raisins, nodded vigorous agreement and said, “Mmmmppphhh,” for added emphasis.

“We have to feed him something,” Wundermint said, “or he won’t last long enough to show us the way. But I don’t really suppose he deserves honeyed raisins,” he added quickly. That seemed to put the matter to rest for the time.

Later, as they climbed a rocky hillside that grew steeper with every step, Wundermint quietly handed Spintoffle a small handful of raisins.

“Thank you once again,” Spintoffle said, stuffing them into his mouth.

“They were making my hands sticky,” Wundermint replied.

“Please, do try to move faster.”

They climbed higher and higher, and by midafternoon they had reached a bare and rocky plain that stretched toward the horizon.

The sun rained fire upon them, scorching the rock beneath them until their feet burned. They drank all the water they had brought and nibbled up all the snacks Merry had prepared. Evening came as a blessing cloaked in cool shadows. The sky turned dark and the shadows turned into cold black nightwinds that whipped and whistled and pierced to the bone.

By the time they stopped traveling, too tired at last to take another step, a harsh mist was mixing with icy pellets that stung their ears and faces. “One of us will have to stay awake at all times,” Wundermint said. “Otherwise, Spintoffle will escape. Who will keep the first watch?” His answer was two muffled snores.

Mike and Spike were already fast asleep, curled up tightly and snuggled up to each other for whatever bit of warmth was to be found. Wundermint sat hugging his knees and staring off into the night.

With no grass to rustle, no leaves to stir, nor branches to bend and crack, the wind made a pure and cruel sound like pain itself.

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Wrapped in gloom, Wundermint sat and listened. The gale scoured the barren rock and seemed to tear from the very dark of night a desolate sob, lonely, forlorn, and deeper than the ages.

Wundermint peered into the gloom, looking for this well of misery and saw Spintoffle, hands and feet still bound, head bowed, his thin body wracked with shivers.

Embarrassed and uncertain, Wundermint moved to Spintoffle’s side. He sat down and awkwardly placed his arms around the quaking shoulders. He sought for something comforting to say, and all he could find was, “There, there.” He repeated it, again and again, a magic incantation drawn from some long forgotten memory, perhaps of his own mother. The winds howled. The sobs grew softer, low and strangled, and at last silent. Wundermint tightened his grip and said, “There, there.” Then he fetched a handkerchief from his backpack and held it to Spintoffle’s nose, from which there came a mighty honk.

They sat quietly for a time, and when Spintoffle spoke, his voice was not sad, but angry and hard. “When we crossed this cursed rock today, what did you see?”

Wundermint considered the question. “Nothing,” he said.

“There was only rock and sky. Nothing else.”

“No, you wouldn’t see what I do,” Spintoffle said bitterly. “But every step of the way of the way I saw bits and pieces of a little boy that traveled this same wasteland many years ago. He was a wretched little coward, that boy. Frightened and lonely. I had no use for the miserable likes of him, and so I left him here. Tossed him away to shrivel upon this blasted rock. I did not ever intend to think of him again, much less come face to face with him here on this very spot where I banished him forever from my life. And yet here he is once again. Every hobbled step I took today I saw him before me, as weak and helpless and sniveling as ever. How I hate him.”

“Who was the boy?” Wundermint asked.

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A gust of wind sent pellets of sleet skittering across the rock in raucous confusion. The noise rose, then died away to a moment of silence as Spintoffle spoke in a voice choked with rage: “That little boy was me.”

They sat without speaking for a long while. “You’d best get some sleep,” said Wundermint at last. “It will be another difficult day tomorrow.”

Spintoffle lay down and wriggled about trying to find a comfortable position. “Would it help if I loosened the ropes?”

Wundermint asked.

“Do not pity me,” Spintoffle replied. “I would only try to escape.”

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14. Hard Traveling

M

orning broke in a million glistening fragments as first light shattered against a glaze of ice that slicked the rocky landscape. For every two steps the weary travelers took, they slid back one, often losing their footing entirely and winding up face or fanny against the barren slope. Gradually, the sun warmed the rock below, turning ice to icy puddles. The hill became steeper and steeper until at last it was a sheer rock wall that towered to the sky.

They scratched and clawed until their hands bled, finding tiny clefts and fissures where they dug in fingers and toes to pull themselves up inch by inch. Mike, who was strongest and most agile, led the way with Spike close behind. Wundermint followed, farther back, a thick rope knotted about his waist with Spintoffle, securely trussed hand and foot, attached sullenly to the other end.

Mike and Spike fought their way up the cliff and tried to catch their breath as they waited for Wundermint to reach them. All three then clung desperately to their rocky perch and hauled up Spintoffle, who dangled helplessly at the end of the rope and shut his eyes tightly against the empty space that yawned below. They parked Spintoffle on a narrow bit of ledge and began their fight up the sheer wall once more.

They climbed until dark and spent the night on a ledge so narrow that no one dared sleep. There were no arguments about who would stay awake to guard Spintoffle. They all did, huddled together against the night, too hungry and cold to sleep and too exhausted to tell stories or sing songs.

With hands as raw as the morning chill, they set off in the gray dawn of the third day. The higher they climbed, the thinner the air became, causing their heads to pound and their hearts to flutter like caged birds. Struggling for every breath, they grew weaker, while Spintoffle grew stronger and seemed to feed upon their 92

misery and fear. He had a set to his jaw and a glint in his eye.

Wundermint was amazed that Spintoffle had made this same journey years earlier, all alone, and now traveled the same hard road once again under even worse conditions, all without complaint or self-pity.

At the end of the third day, dusk shaded into darkness and they crested a high ridge to find themselves at last on level ground.

Snow-peaked mountains rose on either side of a grassy valley with a rushing stream. Low trees made a lacework of limbs against the fading light.

Mike and Spike made a tiny campfire, while Wundermint selected a tree branch that had just the right amount of reach and spring for a fishing pole. From the tips of greensweets growing on the valley floor, he fashioned a bug-like object with pointy wings and a flowing tale. His hook was a bramble thorn, hidden inside the creature’s wings and tied by means of the kite string Merry had so thoughtfully included.

As a harvest moon rose at the far end of the valley, Wundermint got his first nibble. The pole became alive in his hands, and he held his breath watching the line slice a spreading vee of dark ripples. He waited until he felt the tug, not the first one, but the very beginning of the second one. Then he flicked the pole. A gleaming fish leapt in the moonlight, danced on its tail, and struggled to swim away. Being careful not to dislodge the hook, Wundermint worked the fish toward shore, then landed it with a fast yank. He wrapped it in wet grasses to keep it cool and fresh.

He quickly caught two more, and then his luck ended. He cast into tall weeds near shore, he slipped the grassy bug past mosscovered logs, and he worked the rocks and pools and eddies where fish hide, all to no avail. He tried every trick Trog had taught him, and a few new ones he dreamed up on the spot. But it was no use.

The fish had stopped biting for the night. At last he gathered up his meager catch and walked back to the campsite.

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Mike and Spike, their spirits raised by the cheery fire, broke into laughter and applause when Wundermint displayed his catch. But their joy subsided almost immediately as the simple truth dawned upon them—three small fish for four large appetites. Wundermint showed them how to spear each fish on a long stick and slowly toast it until the skin was crisp and brown. He showed them how to turn the fish gently so they did not fall into the fire and get covered with ashes.

A brief argument arose when Mike claimed he should have a whole fish because he was the oldest. Spike believed he deserved a complete fish because he had cooked it himself, because he was the smallest, and because he wanted it so badly. Wundermint began to argue that they must share equally, but he met with such criticism that he quickly gave up. Without further words, he broke his fish in two and handed half to Spintoffle, which so shamed both Mike and Spike that they also handed Spintoffle a portion of their fish, although considerably less than half. With the stabbing ache of hungries dulled, everyone seemed in better spirits. Wundermint moved closer to the fire and thought to himself that it was far from easy being the leader. Perhaps being king was not everything it was made out to be.

Morning of the fourth day, Wundermint awoke before the others and gathered nibbles and greensweets for breakfast. It made him think of his days back at the rundown castle where life had been ever so much simpler. He had come a long way since then, he reflected with satisfaction. Then why, he wondered, was he once again picking nibbles and greensweets by himself in a place that he did not know and that did not know him? It made him wonder if he was indeed any closer to his goal.

He returned to find Mike and Spike wide-awake and well rested by a good night’s sleep. They had made their hands into puppets clothed with the extra hats and scarves Merry had tucked into their backpacks. They had made a mud drawing of eyes, nose, and 94

mouth, and by expertly moving thumbs and forefingers they caused their strange little puppets to talk.

“I’m so hungry I could eat a house,” said Mike’s hand with a funny munching motion.

“I could eat a house and a horse,” Spike’s hand replied in a squeaky voice. Spintoffle watched the performance with little amusement.

“I’m hungrier than you,” Mike’s hand insisted. “I could eat a house, a horse, and a ham hock.”

“A house, a horse, a ham hock, and a hammock,” replied Spike’s hand, warming to the task.

The moment they spied Wundermint laden down with breakfast goodies, Mike and Spike forgot their puppets and used their hands to stuff their mouths instead. Hunger, like a magic herb, spiced the sour nibbles and prickly greensweets, making them delicious as hot buttered biscuits.

They had traveled well into the afternoon when Spintoffle, without warning, stopped and refused to take another step. “By the end of the day, you’ll be at Old Gray Whiskers’s farm,” Spintoffle announced. “You just follow this valley. You can’t miss it. You don’t need me anymore, and I refuse to go one step farther.”

“He’s your prisoner,” Mike said to Wundermint. “It’s your job to make him go.”

“He can’t make me,” Spintoffle said. His voice was quiet and reasonable. His determination made Wundermint think of Smithfield, and he realized that in fact he could not make Spintoffle go on if he refused.

“Why won’t you go the rest of the way?” Wundermint asked.

Spintoffle stared at the ground. When he looked up his lips were trembling but his voice was hard and steady. “I’ve no desire to ever see that wretched place again,” he said. “And you may do anything to me you wish and you will never change my mind.”

“We could poke him with sharp sticks,” Mike offered.

“Or threaten to whip his ears with switches,” said Spike.

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“Threats will not budge me,” Spintoffle said.

“In that case,” Mike said, “we could skip the threats and just whip your ears.”

“But we wouldn’t do that,” Spike added hastily. “That hurts awfully.”

“You’re not supposed to tell him that,” Mike objected. “Now he certainly won’t go.”

“I won’t go no matter what,” Spintoffle assured them. “So it doesn’t matter what you say or do. That’s an end to it, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You’ve come this far,” Wundermint observed. “I’ve known that you could have refused at any time, just as you’re doing now. But you didn’t. You’ve helped us and shown us the way. Why are you afraid to go on?”

“I’m not afraid,” Spintoffle growled.

“What it is then?” Wundermint asked. “Why did you wait until now to refuse?”

Spintoffle chewed his lip with his small sharp teeth, his wirerimmed spectacles flamed with sunlight. “I’m not afraid,” he said, “but I’m not stupid either. If Old Gray Whiskers was to catch me, he’d make life hot for me. I escaped his bullying clutches once. But he’ll not have a second chance at me. No matter what.”

“Make him come with us,” Mike and Spike shouted in unison.

“Make him. Make him.”

Wundermint held up his hand to quiet them. Then he squinted at the sun. There was still plenty of daylight for traveling. “I’ve got a thought,” he said. “All of you wait here. I’ll go on ahead to see if Spintoffle is telling the truth. If he is, then I’ll come back and set him loose. We’ll have no need of him after that.”

“How do we know he won’t trick us and go tell Gray Whiskers we’re coming?” Mike demanded.

Wundermint stared hard at Spintoffle, who returned the look 96

with his own steady gaze. “He won’t,” Wundermint said softly.

“I’m quite sure he won’t.”

Wundermint walked as fast as he could. It felt good to be stretching his legs without Spintoffle hobbling behind and slowing him down. By the time shadows had started to grow longer, Wundermint stopped to catch his breath and was struck by an idea. He shinnied up the trunk of a tall oak, and climbed to the top. Supported only by a swaying branch, he parted the wide green leaves and peered off into the distance.

Wundermint saw a huge farm nestled among distant hills that blued in the far-off haze. It spread out in a patchwork quilt of fields where oats, peas, beans, and barley grew in squares of green and gold. A neat white farmhouse with a yellow thatched roof gleamed at the center. A large red barn, made to seem small as a toy by the distance, was dotted around with black-and-white cows, still as a painting. Surrounding it all was a wall higher than four men. Spiky coils of razor wire climbed across the top like an ugly vine. The wall enclosed the farmlands on every side as far as eye could see. In the dying light, the wall cast a shadow as wide and dark as the deepest of rivers.

Even if he could get inside, Wundermint knew he would have no idea where to begin looking for Kyra. What would happen to him if Old Gray Whiskers should find him? And what about the dogs that roamed outside the fence? Spintoffle had said they were vicious and hungry. Wundermint felt a faint stirring, light as a passing breeze. He felt a presence next to him, close as his skin. He did not even have to look. It was, he knew, his worst and oldest enemy, Dread, unbidden as always and at the worst of times.

“You know it’s impossible, don’t you?” Dread whispered.

Wundermint tried to ignore him.

“You don’t even have a plan,” Dread said, snuggling up closer and causing the branch to sway. “No plan to get in, no plan to find Kyra, no plan to get away. Silly little boy.”

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“I shall have a plan,” Wundermint said, “all in good time.”

“What if your plan doesn’t work?” Dread replied. “You’ll look foolish in front of your young friends. Even if you get inside, you might get caught and just make matters worse for the girl. Have you thought of that?”

“Get away,” Wundermint said. “Yes, I’ve worried that everything won’t go right. But at least I’m trying.”

“And the dogs,” Dread continued, as Wundermint squirmed with discomfort. “The dogs have fangs like swords. They’ll tear you apart. And if they don’t, Old Gray Whiskers will.”

“Get away!” Wundermint shouted. “I may fail. But if I do, I will fail while trying my very best. And you can’t stop me.”

“Are you so sure as all that?” Dread demanded.

“I am,” Wundermint replied. He stood up, shaking his fist, and he fell backward as the fragile top branch gave way beneath him.

The limbs clawed his hands and face as he fell. The broad leaves slapped him. The rough bark tore at his clothes. He landed with a thud that knocked the breath from his body.

He lay on the ground until he could breathe once more, then picked himself up ever so carefully and checked for bumps and bruises. He found them wherever he looked, but nothing worse. He moved his right leg, then his left. Twisted his head from side to side, shook his arms. Everything worked. He tried walking, slowly.

Then he broke into a trot. Then he threw back his head with a whoop and began to run as fast as he could.

The first glimmer of a plan was dancing in his head. There was much to be done.

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15. A Plan Emerges

T

he night sky was a meadow of stars by the time Wundermint returned, aching, tired, and hungry. Mike had made a fire, and Spike was boiling a little pot of root tea that smelled of earth and had a bitter, scratchy taste. Wundermint sipped the hot drink gratefully, and Mike and Spike clamored to hear about the adventures. Spintoffle said nothing. He sat quietly with a knowing smirk on his face.

When Wundermint had warmed himself and caught his breath, he said simply, “Spintoffle is telling the truth. The farm is just as he said.”

Mike and Spike jumped up clapping their hands, laughing, and hugging each other as they danced about the fire.

“What are we waiting for?” Mike shouted. “Let’s be off tonight.”

“Tonight is too late,” Spike joined in. “I say we leave now.”

“Now is tonight,” Mike reminded him.

“All right,” Spike agreed, his face glowing with excitement, “we can leave tonight if you prefer.”

“Not so fast,” Wundermint said. “We have much to do first.”

“Then let’s do it now!” Mike said, pounding his hand with his fist. “I’m ready to storm the walls.”

“I’m ready to take on Old Gray Whiskers by myself,” Spike said. He pummeled the night air, fists flying, and made ferocious snorting noises through his nose.

“We have to use our heads,” Wundermint said calmly.

“That’s our specialty,” Spike said. He lowered his head and butted his brother in the stomach to prove his point.

“Sit down,” Wundermint commanded. “You are both very brave, I’ve no doubt. But we can’t just use our courage. All that will do is get us in trouble. We need a plan, or else we’ll just make things worse for Kyra.”

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Mike and Spike sat down obediently, but they were too full of excitement to keep still.

Wundermint turned to Spintoffle, who had been watching quietly, and said, “Tell me how you escaped.”

“Why should I tell you anything?” Spintoffle snarled.

“Because it’s to your advantage,” Wundermint replied. “If we rescue Kyra, you get to see Old Gray Whiskers cut down to size.”

Spintoffle turned away but Wundermint continued. “By helping us, you stand to hurt your old enemy. You’ve nothing to lose and something to gain. Besides, if you tell me what I want to know, I’ll set you free this very night.”

“You can’t do that,” Mike and Spike protested with one voice.

“Yes he can,” Spintoffle said, suddenly interested. “He’s right, you know. I’d certainly enjoy seeing the lot of you lose the seat of your britches to those slobbering dogs that guard the wall. But even more, I’d like to see Old Gray Whiskers get what he deserves. He’s a hardened crust of meanness, that one.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Wundermint. He leaned forward intently.

“Tell me how you escaped.”

“I had rags with me that I’d rubbed with pig lard,” Spintoffle said. “When the dogs came at me, I threw them a rag and they fought over it while I ran away. Now, set me free.”

“Not just yet,” Wundermint said. “Make yourself comfortable.

For we’ve many a question to go before you’re set loose and on your way.”

A chill wind whipped the flames of the little fire, and a cold moon slipped past ice blue stars. The fire flared, flickered low, turned to coals, and then to ashes. Mike and Spike listened as long as they could, but at last fell fast asleep, huddled against each other.

Wundermint’s questions continued, one after another in rapid succession. He wanted to be inside of Spintoffle’s head, to see with Spintoffle’s eyes and hear with his ears—to think just as Spintoffle thought that day long ago when he made his great escape. How 100

many dogs roamed outside the fence? How could someone get inside the gate? What was it like inside? Where did Kyra live? How did she pass her days? How many others were there? Where did Old Gray Whiskers sleep? On and on Wundermint asked, listened, and asked some more.

At last he paused, his mind so full that he wished he could unbutton it like a pair of trousers after far too great a feast. He could not think of one more question. He stood up, took the whalebone from around his neck, and walked to Spintoffle’s side.

Bending over in the pale light of the ice moon, he cut Spintoffle’s ropes with one sure and swift swipe of bone. “I wish you luck,” he said softly.

Spintoffle rose stiffly, rubbing his wrists, testing first one unbound foot and then the other as he adjusted to his new freedom.

“I wish you good riddance,” he said in a voice that hissed like a frightened cat. Then he scurried into the darkness and was gone.

Wundermint poked the coals until he coaxed forth a tiny glow.

He threw on a handful of twigs and watched them smolder then blaze. He gazed at the fire, letting it enter through his eyes and warm him from inside. The glimmer of a plan now had shape and form. It was real. He could feel it in his fingertips and toes and in the pit of his stomach. He could hear the dogs barking and see their frothy teeth. He could feel the cold iron ring of the front gate against his palm, feel the muscles in his shoulder tighten as pulled against it, and hear the creak of hinges as the gate swung open. He sat until morning, wide-awake, letting his imagination guide him through every step. Almost every step. Try as he might, he could not conjure Kyra from his imagination. But he was certain beyond words that he would know her the moment he saw her.

The first gray streak of day had not yet erased the stars when Wundermint shook Mike and Spike awake. They were on their feet at once, too excited to grumble about the cold or complain about the lack of breakfast. They wanted to travel light and leave their 101

backpacks behind, but Wundermint insisted they take them.

They ran until they were out of breath. Then they trotted. Then they walked. Dawn’s frosty sky turned blue and bright. The sun burned away the morning mist and dried the heavy dew.

The morning was half gone when at last, breathless and flushed, hearts pounding and knees trembling, they stood at the edge of the clearing. The farm spread before them like a vast green ocean. The shadow of the huge wall cast a scar so black it seemed to scorch the earth. An unseen dog barked far away. Another answered.

“If we stay in the trees, they can’t see us,” Wundermint whispered. “And now we must be quick.”

They found a stand of tall skinny saplings and Wundermint asked the boys, “Can you make stilts of those?”

“Stilts?” Mike objected. “We haven’t time for games.”

Wundermint shushed him, and without another word he took the whalebone from his neck and began to slice through the spindly trunk. “I haven’t time to explain everything now,” Wundermint said, still sawing away. “You’ll just have to trust me.

Wundermint felled four trees and lopped off some of the lower branches, being careful to leave the tops bushy and full. He carved a foothold from a high limb on each tree and proudly showed his handiwork to Mike and Spike.

“They are stilts, of a sort,” Mike said uncertainly, “but—” “We’ll look like walking trees,” Spike blurted out. “You’ve left too many leaves and branches at the top.” Wundermint smiled and kept working.

They gathered leaves and pine needles and stuffed them into the extra pairs of long underwear that Merry sent to keep them warm.

By late afternoon their backs were sore from bending and their fingers were raw and bleeding. Wundermint called a halt, and as they rested he began to explain his plan.

Dropping to one knee, he cleared a spot of ground with the palm of his hand and drew a large square in the dirt with the tip of 102

his finger, making a map just as he had seen Old Trog do long ago.

“That’s the farm,” he said softly. “We are here,” he said as he made a small circle just outside the square. With short fast jabs of his finger, he dotted the ground to show the trees that would hide them “When I give the signal we’ll put the plan into action.” Mike and Spike nodded solemnly. “As soon as I’m inside,” Wundermint continued, “I’ll find Kyra. She can show me where to find rags and pig lard to distract the dogs on the way out. And then we’ll be on our way.”

“It’s a splendid plan,” Mike said.

“Splendid,” Spike agreed.

“No, it isn’t,” said a scornful voice. Mike and Spike jumped into each other’s arms, and Wundermint whirled about so fast that he lost his balance and tumbled backward. He rolled over and got to his feet, face white and hands shaking.

“Sorry, chaps,” Spintoffle said pleasantly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What are you doing here?” Wundermint demanded angrily.

“I didn’t want to miss the show,” Spintoffle said. He paused, looking down at the ground momentarily at a loss for words.

“Besides,” he said at last, his voice strangely soft, “I can help you.”

“Why would you want to?” Wundermint asked.

“Because I’d like nothing better in this world than to have my revenge on that old man,” Spintoffle said, his face flushing bright red. “And I won’t get my proper revenge unless I help you do the job right. So here I am.”

“So what’s wrong with my plan?” Wundermint demanded.

“It won’t work,” Spintoffle said with a shrug. “You’ll never get away. They’ll chase you until you can’t run anymore. And when they catch you, they’ll tie you to a tree and leave you there for the crows to eat.”

“You got away,” Wundermint said. “If you did it, so can I.” “But I went out the back way,” Spintoffle said. “Look, off in the 103

distance there. See how the mist rolls off that mountain yonder. If you squint you can see a white streak, like a bit of thread hanging there. That, my good fellows, is a mighty waterfall.

“Old Gray Whiskers takes the children there and scares them about how the roaring water will eat them up like a hungry bear.

He scares them so bad they’d never dream of going back there on their own. He’s cunning. What they don’t know is he just doesn’t want anyone coming back and finding his boat in the river below.

There are small boats what the helpers use to take goods into town. And there is his very own boat that he uses to carry off the children in. It’s a whopping long wooden boat with the fearsome likeness of a mean-eyed sea serpent carved into the front—just the thing to scare the very wits out of the young children.”

Wundermint listened intently. Mike and Spike leaned forward to catch every word.

“There’s a path that leads to the river,” Spintoffle went on, “and the river winds all over creation. Gray Whiskers goes down the river in his boat to forcibly adopt little children along the way. And that’s the truth.”

Wundermint watched Spintoffle’s eyes the whole time. They were steady and calm behind the rimless glasses, not at all darting about as they usually did whenever he spoke. Spintoffle seemed to be telling the truth. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Wundermint asked.

“You didn’t ask,” Spintoffle said. “Remember, I only agreed to answer your confounded questions. Anyway, I’m telling you now.”

“And how is it you know about this place if it is such a fearsome secret?” Wundermint demanded.

Spintoffle hung his head. He hunched his shoulders and seemed to be trying to shrink himself and disappear into his ill-fitting clothes. “I was one of Old Gray Whiskers’s favorite boys. He trusted me, don’t you know. He was going to teach me how to adopt children against their will just like him. I made one trip with 104

him, and I vowed I’d never do it no more. Not even if he sliced me thin and fed me to his blasted dogs. That’s how I know about the boats. I took a small one for myself, and that’s how I got away.”

“Then that settles it,” Wundermint said turning to Mike and Spike. “We’ll do as Spintoffle says. Once I’m inside, you’ll go with Spintoffle and wait for us at the boat.”

“You’ll be lucky to get inside at all without being et by dogs,” Spintoffle said. “Anyway, we’ll have to travel hard and fast and give the wall a wide berth. But a night and a day will do it if we keep moving.”

“And how will I know where to find you?” Wundermint asked.

“Go straight to the falls,” Spintoffle said. “Follow the sound.

The chaps here and me will meet you there—that is if you ever get that far.”

“I will be there,” Wundermint said. “And Kyra will be with me.”

“You’re plucky,” Spintoffle said to Wundermint. “I’ll give you that. I’d not like to be in your britches.”

Wundermint did not answer, for inside his own britches he was shaking so badly that he was afraid he might fly into small pieces.

He looked at Mike, Spike, and Spintoffle; each was grim-faced and earnest. Wundermint nodded solemnly, drew himself to his full kingly height, raised his fist into the air, and cried, “On to battle, brave lads.” The words came out muffled and his voice was hoarse and trembling. What he actually said was, “I guess it’s time.”

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16. Gray Whiskers Lair

W

undermint took three faltering steps and emerged at the edge of the clearing, shaded by four tall, spindly trees.

He waited for the trees to join him but they stood, as if rooted to the ground, quaking and swaying, although no breath of breeze stirred. “You’ll have to do better than that if this is going to work,” he said, addressing the leafy green branches above him.

“Mmphh hunnth nee,” one of the trees tree replied.

“I can’t understand you,” Wundermint said in a loud whisper.

“What did you say?”

There was a sputtering from above, and some leaves spewed into the air and drifted down. “I said, ‘I can’t see,’” Mike called from atop his lofty stilts. “I keep getting leaves in my mouth.”

“You don’t really have to see,” Wundermint explained. “Just walk straight ahead and do what I say.”

The skinny trees shivered and shook and at last lurched forward in galumphing steps to Wundermint’s side. “How am I doing?”

Mike called down.

“That’s fine,” Wundermint said. “But you’ll have to keep up with me if this is to work.”

“This would be fun,” Spike called down from his high perch on the tree stilts, “if I didn’t know that I’d be eaten alive if I fall.”

“You can’t fall,” Wundermint said reassuringly.

“How do you know that?” Spike asked.

“Because if you do, I’ll be eaten alive,” Wundermint reasoned, and proceeded to walk boldly ahead.

Trailing long shadows, the four trees and Wundermint cautiously edged farther and into the grassy clearing that led to the high wall. Mike and Spike quickly gained confidence on their tree stilts and began to take such long strides that Wundermint had to trot to keep up.

He was so busy keeping up that he did not see the first dog until 106

the last frightening moment. It was a motley black-and-tan beast running full speed with an awkward, limping gait. Wundermint wanted to turn and run, but he held his ground. The dog snarled, its muscles tensed to leap. It came sailing through the air, dagger teeth unsheathed.

Wundermint could feel the beast’s breath against his face as he jumped behind one of the tree stilts at the last possible instant and shouted, “Now!�

A strange creature suddenly dropped from the branches above and flopped about in a wild little dance, arms flailing, mittened hands waving in the air. Its head was a blue stocking cap, its britches a pair of old overalls that Merry had insisted they bring along. The dog tore into it with a throaty growl, and pine needles sprayed the air as the stuffing spilled from a gaping hole ripped in one of the legs. With a huge shake of his massive head, the dog flung the dummy skyward and leapt after it, drooling jaws catching it in midair. Dog and dummy hit the ground as one, the enraged beast tearing at his helpless prey as Wundermint and the four skinny trees continued toward the wall.

Two more dogs were upon them almost immediately. They were sleek powerful beasts with eyes of yellow fire. Again Wundermint stood his ground, filled with a fear that shook his knees and tasted dark and hateful upon his tongue. He ducked behind the trees and prayed that his frenzied attackers would settle for the stuffed dummy that now dangled on string before them. The snarling dogs made short work of it, and Spike quickly had to drop another dummy and dance it about like a drunken puppet while Wundermint ran ahead.

Mike, huffing and puffing in his leafy perch above, pounded along beside him, with but one dummy left.

An enormous brindle cur roared as it hurtled toward them, its jaws agape and its mouth blood red and frothy. Mike dropped the dummy a moment too soon, and the beast charged right through it, 107

slamming into Mike’s tree stilts with such force that the slender trunks groaned and bent almost double. Wundermint was knocked off his feet. He scrambled up to watch in horror as one of the tree stilts snapped and fell away, leaving Mike teetering on the other, an arm and a leg flapping helplessly in the air. The tree leaned and began to fall.

The brindle roared again and with one shake of its huge head flung the pitiful dummy high into the air where it exploded in a shower of leaves and needles. There was an instant of silence so brief and sudden that it struck like a blow to the ear. Then an unearthly screech stopped the huge cur in its tracks. The brindle slashed the air with teeth like jagged lightning, then veered away from Wundermint.

Spintoffle had come running onto the open field, his ill-fitting black coat pulled over his head and one of his arms jutting out like a great bird’s beak. He attracted the dog’s attention by screeching and hopping about on one leg like some demonic stork. The brindle was almost on top of him, closing with fury on this curious and helpless target.

Wundermint did not know where he had come from. It was not part of the plan. But Spintoffle had given him the time he needed.

He ran as hard as he could and, gasping for breath, reached the high wall. He stood on tiptoes to reach the iron ring on the gate and gave a hard pull. The gate swung open with a loud creak.

Wundermint paused just long enough to look back and see Spintoffle vanishing into the woods with the brindle cur in hot pursuit. And there was Mike, swaying back and forth in his leafy perch, precariously but safely balanced on one stilt, just as Wundermint had seen him do the day they met.

Wundermint took a deep breath and stepped inside. The gate slammed shut behind him.

Everything was just as Spintoffle had described it. A dirt lane snaked through high weeds to the house where Old Gray Whiskers 108

and his helpers lived. The large white house, grayed with the seasons, had paint that peeled away like scabs. The wide porch sagged, and tangled ivy grew in clots up rotting posts. Dusty windows peered past broken shutters. Bricks were missing from the chimney, which leaned dangerously to one side. Wagon wheels, broken barrels, and piles of rubbish littered the yard.

Black-and-white cows grazed near the faded barn where chickens strutted and pecked dinner from the ground. Behind the barn was a row of log cabins. That was where Kyra and the children lived.

Off in the fields, half a dozen children were finishing up their workday, heads down as they trudged back to the log cabins. A man began to whip one of them with a stick, cursing and screaming. The child cried and covered her head with her arms; the others turned their heads and kept walking. Then it was quiet once again, except for the low buzz of flies and an unseen crow cawing blackly in the distance.

Dropping to hands and knees, Wundermint crawled through the high weeds to the back of the house. He peeked up and saw a tumbledown chicken coop, a tool shed, a smokehouse with a broken door, and a forlorn outhouse. He ran to the back of the chicken coop and stood there catching his breath, panting, hidden from the main house.

He peeked around the corner, saw no one, and raced across the open ground to dive behind the tool shed. He lay there, his heart pounding so loudly he feared it would give him away. Again he peered out. Nothing. In three swift strides he was behind the smokehouse.

Crouching low to the ground, Wundermint scurried over to the little outhouse and stood with his back to the wall. He waited, let his breath out slowly, and began to run. When he came to the first of the small log cabins, he jumped into an empty rain barrel beside the door and sat hunched in a tiny ball trying to catch his breath and stop shaking.

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The barrel was dark and foul, but it felt safe. From inside the cabin came the sound of children talking and laughing. Chairs scraped against the floor, and dishes clinked as if they were being cleared from tables. A door swung open on whining hinges, and small feet filed past the barrel. The door slammed and then it was quiet until a high clear voice began to sing softly: When you wish, don’t waste your wishes, Wish for wondrous things, Like mountains made of marmalade And puppy dogs with wings.

Wish for things too wonderful For ordinary words Like roosters who crow Christmas carols And bears that sing like birds.

Wish for things that make you laugh Like acrobatic mice And pigs who prance with parasols In palaces of ice.

The song was interrupted by the whining hinges on the door, and a man’s voice, coarse and gruff, said, “Well, aren’t you the happy little bird tonight. Where’s our clean clothes?”

From inside his dark smelly barrel, Wundermint strained to hear.

“I’ve not finished folding them,” he heard a voice say. It was the same clear sweet voice that had been singing.

“We needs our clean clothes tonight,” the man said. “We’re off to adopt ourselves a fresh of batch of children this very evening, and we has to look our best when we goes to town.” He laughed, and the harsh sound shivered Wundermint to his toes.

“When I’m done here, you’ll have your clothes,” the other voice replied evenly.

“See that we do,” the man said, “or I’ll make life hard for you.”

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The hinges complained. The door slammed. Heavy footsteps clomped away.

Wundermint pushed with his knees against the sides of the barrel to stop his shaking and rehearsed for the final time the speech he had prepared so carefully. “My name is Wundermint,” he planned to say, standing tall and proud so she would see his kingly bearing.

“I have come to rescue you,” he would continue. “You are to come with me and do exactly as I say. I will return you to your brothers, and you need never again know fear or sadness in your life.” It seemed a good speech. Not too long.

As he was preparing to stand, the door opened again, and before he could pop up, a shower of meat, vegetables, and bread crusts rained down upon him. He looked up to see the face of a young girl, framed in the round opening of the barrel top against a backdrop of evening sky that was the same untamed blue as her eyes. Her hair was the color of late summer. It was Kyra, more lovely than he had ever imagined.

She put her hands to her mouth to muffle a scream and dropped the platter she had been scraping. It fell into the barrel cracking Wundermint across the nose. He rose unsteadily to his feet, wearing a crown of table scraps and fighting back tears. He felt as weak and helpless as a newborn babe.

“What are you doing?” Kyra demanded.

Wundermint tried to introduce himself, but his voice cracked so badly he could not continue the speech beyond his name. His nose had begun to bleed, streaking the front of his already raggedy and now food-stained shirt.

Kyra glanced about nervously, and the same hands that muffled a scream now seemed to hide soft and oddly reassuring laugh. “You’d better come inside quickly,” she whispered. “It won’t do to have them see you.”

The inside of the cabin was plain and rough, but it was also neat and clean. It smelled of dinner, the same dinner that Kyra 111

gently wiped from Wundermint’s face with a warm cloth. She cleaned the cut across his nose, poured out a few remaining drops of cold tea, and gave him the last heel of a freshly baked loaf of bread, still warm.

When Wundermint had stopped shaking, he cleared his throat and tried his speech once more. “I have come to rescue you,” he said, feeling more than a little foolish. Kyra’s face was a puzzled smile. “You are to come with me and do exactly as I say,” Wundermint rushed on.

“Are you completely crazy?” Kyra asked, her soft voice not at all unkind.

“I will return you to your brothers,” Wundermint continued, “and you need never again—” “Where are my brothers?” Kyra’s eyes flashed. “How do you know them?”

Wundermint was about to reply, “They are soldiers in my army,” but he caught himself. He shrugged and said simply, “They’re my friends.”

Kyra’s brow furrowed and Wundermint raced ahead. “They are waiting for us at the waterfall. I’ll take you there tonight, as soon as it’s dark.”

“Are my brothers well?” Kyra asked.

Wundermint nodded.

“Then you must leave at once,” Kyra said. “Right now before anyone finds you. If they find you, they will kill you.”

“I can hide in the barn until dark,” Wundermint said. “Then I will come to your window and knock three times, like this.” He rapped the table by way of explanation.

“I know what knocking three time is,” Kyra said gently. “You must leave now. You’re going to get us all in terrible trouble.”

“Just trust me,” Wundermint pleaded. “I have a plan. It’s a good one. We need some rags soaked in pig lard. That will distract the dogs so we can escape. Then we’ll go straight to the waterfall.

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There is nothing bad or dangerous there—Old Gray Whiskers just says that to keep anyone from finding the boats. Your brothers are waiting there for us—” Kyra gently touched her finger to his lips and held it there to quiet him. Her eyes, as large and fiercely blue as sky itself, looked beyond his words and into his heart. “My brothers are little boys,” she said quietly. “They tell jokes and riddles and do magic tricks.

But they cannot save me.” Wundermint started to protest, but her fingers pressed against his lips again. She shook her head. “You are very brave, and you must be a very loyal friend to help my brothers this way. But you must understand, these children here are like my own babies. I cannot leave them.”

“Then bring them,” Wundermint said. “I will rescue all of you.”

Kyra smiled and shook her head, causing her long hair to fall across her shoulder. “And if you fail?” she asked.

“I won’t fail,” Wundermint said. He said it with such conviction that he truly believed it for the first time.

“I can’t take that chance,” Kyra said. “I have to protect my babies. This is a hard and cruel life we have here. But I give my babies hope, and they give it back to me magnified. That is what keeps us alive. You must understand that. You must go and not risk harming them. Please.”

“Not without you,” Wundermint replied.

“I know you mean to be brave,” Kyra said. “But if they find you here, in this cabin with me, they will take my baby children away. I could not stand that. I would die—and they would die for want of love and warmth. So I am pleading with you, don’t be brave. Go back and tell my little brothers I love them, I always will, and I must stay here.”

“Your brothers need you,” Wundermint insisted.

Kyra smiled sadly. “No,” she said. “My babies need me here.

My brothers have you. They can take care of themselves. And they are very lucky. Go now.”

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“I can’t go back to them without you,” Wundermint said. “They will think I’ve failed.”

Kyra’s eyes filled with tears as she leaned toward Wundermint and ever so gently kissed his forehead. “You have not failed,” she said. “You are far too brave and good for that.”

“We will wait for you,” Wundermint said, struck with sudden inspiration. Kyra did not understand. “We will wait,” he repeated.

“As long as it takes. You know where we are—below the falls at the boats. Now that I’ve told you how to lure the dogs away with pig fat, you can escape whenever the time is right. And we’ll be there waiting for you.”

“You can’t wait,” she said urgently. “This very night they are off to kidnap more children. You must warn my brothers or they will be in great danger. Please, go now. This minute.”

Wundermint stood up, his head in a terrible jumble. When he heard the door open he saw the look of fear that glazed Kyra’s face. There was not even a moment to think. He jumped inside the trunk filled with clothes and slammed the top down.

He heard Kyra say, “Wait. Don’t take the trunk. I haven’t finished the clothes yet.”

“Don’t worry,” said a man’s voice. “If it’s not all here, Old Gray Whiskers will take it out of your hide.” He chortled, then picked up the trunk and lugged it to the main house, grunting and swearing the whole way about how heavy it was.

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17. Capture the King

T

he trunk slammed to the floor so hard Wundermint feared it would burst open. “That there’s a heavy’un,” the man said.

“Reach in there and fetch me my good white shirt,” a second voice called out.

Fingers scrabbled at the catches, and Wundermint lay quivering with his knees tucked up against his chin. One trunk latch snapped open. Then the other. The lid lifted, letting in a sliver of oily lamplight and the musty smell of old cooking grease. Dirty fingers fumbled beneath the lid and grabbed Wundermint’s shirt sleeve. He held his breath and did not move. The fingers gave a yank to pull out the shirt then stopped as the man shouted at someone, “Hey, that’s my beer you’re guzzling! Put it down!”

“Bring me my shirt and you can have what’s left of it,” the second voice taunted. A roar of laughter erupted. The fingers let go the shirt and withdrew. The lid slammed shut.

“I’ll teach you to drink my beer,” the voice said. Wundermint heard shouts and the sounds of scuffling. Men cheered and hooted until a raspy voice cut through the horseplay.

“Simmer down, boys. Finish up your beer and we’ll be on our way quick enough.” Chairs scraped, and feet thumped against the floor. “Fetch me a mug,” the raspy voice ordered. “I’ll wet my guzzle before we go. Not too much foam on top, mind ye.”

The men drank and talked in loud voices, occasionally bursting into mean laughter as they traded insults and boasted about what they would do when they got to town. Someone belched loudly and said in a slurred voice, “Tell us the old story about the kid with the floppy head.” Everyone cheered and pounded the table.

The raspy voice began to speak. Wundermint trembled inside the dark trunk and strained to hear. It had to be Old Gray Whiskers talking.

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“This was a long while back,” the raspy voice said. “Fact of the matter, it was the very first time I’d gone a huntin’ for children in the countryside.”

“You mean adopting,” someone chided, which brought forth whooping and slapping of hands.

“We come upon this farm, y’see,” Gray Whiskers continued, “where this here simpleton was setting in the shade of a tree. I ups to him and demands the time of day. He looks at me like he don’t know time, nor day, nor much of anything else.” A ripple of appreciative laughter greeted this remark. It was an old story they had heard many times and knew well.

“So me and the boys decides we’ll give the simpleton something to remember us by. And we picks him up by his scrawny neck and has ourselves a round of toss-the-ball with him. Oh, it was funny to see.

His head flopped about as comical as you can imagine. Well, up next comes this brute of a chap the size of an ox—and no smarter I daresay. He ups to me and threatens me in my face. What he don’t know is that he don’t scare me a lick. And to show him, we passes old floppy head around the loop once again. Oh how we laughed.”

Gray Whiskers paused and slurped his beer. “I had me a dog back then, name of Growler. Fine animal. Growler was the greatgranddaddy of the best dogs we’ve got now—like Rip and Biter and the brindle—what’s his name?”

“Maul,” someone reminded him.

“That’s the one,” Gray Whiskers said. “Well, Growler got hisself a hold of the floppy head and dragged him about all playful like. The ox of a feller don’t have no sense of humor and gets hisself all angried. He goes for Growler and Growler goes for him. Oh they mixed it up just fine and had a dandy tussle. Although my poor Growler got hisself throwed against a tree and never was the same after that.”

“I thought the dog got kilt,” said a voice.

“Perhaps he did,” Gray Whiskers said. “It was all a long time ago.”

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“Don’t leave out the part about burning the barn,” a voice urged.

“It’s gittin’ late,” Gray Whiskers said slamming his beer mug on the table with a thunk. “Enough stories for now. We best be about our business.”

Wundermint shook until he feared the trunk would start to dance about the room. Surrounded by a dark and terrible meanness, he wished nothing more than to run back to Merry and tell her he had found the man who mistreated poor little Ehdrd so long ago. He longed to bury his head in the ruffles and puffles of her billowy blouse, to have Trog comfort him with a wise story, or even to be back at the run-down castle where he had been king and nothing ever touched him except the distant memory of the Grundlers.

“I’ll just have me a clean shirt,” Old Gray Whiskers said. His voice was so near that Wundermint jumped, bumping his head.

The trunk lid flew open and Wundermint was face to face with Old Gray Whiskers. Black eyebrows sprouted from the old man’s wrinkled forehead like horns on a bull. His eyes were pinpricks of hard gray light, and red veins coursed his nose and cheeks like swollen rivers. His beard, almost white, was sparse and ragged, as though small animals chewed on it. He smelled of sweat and beer.

Wundermint sat straight up as Old Gray Whiskers lunged for him.

Their heads collided with a sound like melons being dropped from a tree. Gray Whiskers stumbled backward, momentarily stunned, and Wundermint leapt from the trunk. He was out the door in three steps, the old man cursing like a demon inside. It was dark, and Wundermint stumbled on the rickety porch steps. He tumbled down and landed nose foremost with a thump that took his breath away. He staggered to his feet and began to run.

He ran to the front gate, flung it open, and tore across the grassy clearing toward the woods. He heard fearful swearing, dogs barking, and in the dim light saw the gate open. Then the clearing was suddenly alive with drunken men and snarling dogs. He ran, 117

banging into trees, tripping over roots, falling, rolling, picking himself up, and running some more. The sound of dogs grew closer.

Loose rocks gave way beneath his feet, and he skidded down a steep bank into a cold swift stream that picked him up like a bobber and scraped him along the bottom as roaring white water filled his mouth and lungs. Trees, stars, and sky swirled about in hopeless confusion, a dizzy, spinning world beyond control.

The current slowed and he sank to the bottom where he sat there too weak and dazed to move, waiting to drown. It took some time for him to realize that the water was only up to his chin. He stood up, sputtering and spewing. He wiped his eyes and listened.

The dogs were farther away now, their barking faint and distant.

He clambered up the rocky bank, slipping backward, tearing skin from his hands and knees. He reached the top and lay on the ground gasping. Only fear was strong enough to move him. He rose unsteadily, stumbled toward the nearest tree, climbed as high as his last bit of strength would take him, and sat shivering in the dark.

“I told you so,” said a tiny voice.

Wundermint shook his head. “Not now. Get away.”

“If you had listened to me,” said the voice, “none of this would have happened.”

“I know,” Wundermint whispered. Hungry, exhausted, and hopelessly lost, he found a strange unexpected comfort in having something familiar close by, even if it was just Dread.

“You know you’ll never see any of your friends again, don’t you?” Dread’s voice was cruel and the words cut deep.

“I know,” Wundermint said.

“Nor Merry, nor Trog,” Dread pushed on. “And if you can believe it, it’s even worse than that.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Wundermint protested.

Dread ignored him. “Once they catch you tonight, and it won’t be long, they’ll go back to the boat at the waterfall. And there they’ll catch the rest of your little friends. Too bad,” Dread said smugly.

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Wundermint began to cry, each hot tear making him hate himself that much more.

“And what if Kyra goes to meet her brothers tonight as you tried to persuade her?” Dread continued. “Then they’ll catch her too. And it will go exceedingly hard for her. And the babies she loves so. What a wicked boy you are.”

“Stop!” Wundermint pleaded.

“What kind of a king do you feel like now?” Dread asked.

Wundermint stared into the darkness. “No king at all,” he said.

“Just a sad and lost little boy who is very scared.”

“Good,” Dread replied smartly. “Now I will be king.”

“You’re welcome to it,” Wundermint said, and he closed his eyes tightly. Still the tears seeped out at the corners. ******** “He’s not far away now,” a voice shouted. “Look at how Biter’s got his fur up.”

Wundermint awoke with a start. He did not know how long he might have slept. Lanterns flashed below him like animal eyes. The dogs rumbled about, growling, sniffing.

“He can’t run much more,” said the raspy voice. It was Old Gray Whiskers. “I say we give ourselves a breather. Come daylight we’ll ketch him good and skin him out.”

“Don’t know ’bout you, but I’m hungry,” someone said.

“Get a fire going and we’ll have ourselves a bite,” Gray Whiskers said. The huge brindle cur named Maul stood on his back legs and clawed at the tree where Wundermint sat. Someone beamed a lantern into the branches. Wundermint closed his eyes tight and willed himself to be a shadow. “And tie up the dogs,” Gray Whiskers snapped, “so they don’t go off chasing squirrels.”

The lantern beam moved away. Some time later, Wundermint allowed himself to breathe again.

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Firelight floated up to dance on leaves and branches. Old Gray Whiskers hunkered by the little blaze muttering to himself and cursing the dogs whenever they whined or barked. One by one the other men returned to fire. They brought two freshly killed squirrels and a small hare, which they cut apart with hunting knives and stewed in a shallow pan made from the metal reflector of a lantern. The aroma filled the night air with a delicious smoky scent. Wundermint’s stomach growled with hungries, but the men thought it was one of the dogs and continued to eat and talk among themselves.

“Don’t feed ’em nothing,” Gray Whiskers said. “I want ’em hungry when they find the boy.”

They finished eating and someone produced a flask that they passed around, each drinking deeply until the next in line snatched it away. “Bit of a snooze won’t do us no harm,” Gray Whiskers announced. “We’ll get the boy tomorrow.”

Old Gray Whiskers began to snore almost immediately. For a time, the dogs whined and strained at their ropes, but eventually they too were silent.

Wundermint stirred from his high perch and began to climb down. He remembered how Trog had taught him to think like a cloud so as not to disturb the Wrinkies. He was quieter than a breeze. “What’s this?” said a voice. Wundermint paused, then continued his way down. It was only Dread speaking. “I command you to stop,” Dread ordered. “I am the king now.”

Wundermint did not even hesitate. “You may be the king if you like,” he said in the silence of his mind, “but I am not your subject.”

Wundermint stepped over a sleeping body and knelt next to the charred remains of the campfire. A small portion of stew was left, and he longed to drink it down. Instead, he picked up the shallow pan, the liquid still warm and fragrant, then ever so gently poured drops onto the pant cuffs of each sleeping man. He felt like the 120

chief elder at High Hoffles, who sprinkled people with the waters of hope and fortune to give thanks for fair harvests. He saved the last drops for Old Gray Whiskers and poured a generous portion onto the cuffs of his britches.

A dog awoke and yelped. A man rolled over. Then it was quiet.

Wundermint climbed back into his tree to wait. “In just a little while, I may be a dog’s breakfast,” he thought, but he was not afraid. “Whatever happens, I’ve used everything I have to make it come out right. Now I just want it to be over.”

Dawn broke gray and still. Old Gray Whiskers was the first awake. He kicked the sleeping men and swore at them. They grumbled and stirred and swore back, being careful nonetheless not to encourage further kicks.

“Can we eat before we’re off?” one of the men asked.

Gray Whiskers shook his head. “I’m sending you boys back to the farm. The children will know we’re gone and have need of being whipped into line.” There were protests, but Gray Whiskers shushed them with a wave of his hand. “Leave the dogs with me.

I’ll take care of the boy and be back in time for supper.”

“You get all the fun,” someone complained, and Gray Whiskers delivered a kick to the man’s britches, the vigor of which would have done credit to a man half his age. The men left together, still complaining and arguing among themselves.

Gray Whiskers relieved himself against a tree, poked the fire, and boiled up a green tea of purselane and worm grass. He drank it slowly, scratching himself and stretching away the night’s sleep on the hard ground. The dogs were wide-awake, yelping, whining, attacking each other with angry snarls. Gray Whiskers spoke soothingly to them. “That’s good,” he said. “Work your mangy selves into a proper lather. You’ll have the boy soon enough.”

He began to untie the skinny black-and-tan dog named Rip, slapping the animal across the muzzle when it charged him. Rip bared his teeth but shrank back. Next he untied Biter, who came at 121

him with a yelp and retreated with a yowl as Gray Whiskers’s boot slammed into her ribs. But when he untied the brindle cur named Maul, the giant beast reared up and knocked him to the ground.

Gray Whiskers’s scream became one with the unearthly howls of the enraged dogs. They swarmed over him, tearing his clothes away, claws and teeth ripping deep furrows along his bony legs. He struggled to his feet and for one fleeting moment looked high up in the tree, straight into the eyes of Wundermint. A gash across his cheek spilled over with blood and turned his ratty beard a grizzly red. The last Wundermint saw of him, he was running and screaming, his clothes in tatters, Rip at one ankle, Biter at the other, and Maul leaping about like a hound of hell answering every fearful cry with a throaty roar and a painful nip to the hateful old man’s arms, ears, and fully exposed backside.

The racket grew distant. Then it was quiet except for bird sounds and a pleasant morning breeze.

Wundermint scrambled down from his tree and looked about.

He was exhausted and hungry, but he felt more than a little pleased with himself even as he realized he was, beyond any question, completely alone and quite lost.

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18. A Brief Reunion “

I

must use everything I have,” Wundermint said aloud as he lengthened his stride and headed confidently in no particular direction that he knew. “Just as Trog advised, I will use everything,” he repeated more forcefully. He tried saying it in rhythm with his steps. That felt especially fine, and he kept it up for quite some time, marching and chanting, until it occurred to him to ask, “What do I have?” That stopped him in his tracks.

He looked down at the sharpened whalebone hanging about his neck. Since nothing appeared to require slicing, hacking, or whittling away, the sharp, slim cutting edge seemed of little use. He inspected his tattered clothes, which were scarcely more than threads, and they seemed no use whatsoever.

I must have something more, he thought. But what? My backpack of surprises is gone. My friends are gone. My prisoner is gone. I don’t even have a plan. “A plan!” he said, struck with sudden inspiration. “That’s what I need.”

He searched about until he found an excellent stick that felt comfortable in his hand. He sharpened the end with the whalebone, tested the point with his finger, and found it to be entirely satisfactory. Dropping to one knee, he said aloud, “I am here.” He made a large X in the ground with the stick and studied it for some time. Then he scuffed the X away with his hand and said, “Or perhaps I’m here.” He drew a slightly larger X and put a circle around it. He drew a wiggly line above the circled X. “I want to go somewhere up here,” he reasoned. Then he drew another squiggly line below and said, “Or perhaps down here.” He studied the ground for a long while, but no matter how hard he concentrated or gestured with his splendidly sharpened stick, nothing became any clearer.

“A map is not a plan,” he mused aloud. “I see that now.” He flung the stick away and pursed his lips in deep and silent thought.

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After some time, he climbed a tree to the very top, all the while saying to himself, “This worked well before. I climbed a tree and caught Spintoffle. I climbed a tree and figured out how to get inside the farm. I climbed a tree and escaped Old Gray Whiskers and his dogs. Yes, this should do the trick.”

He reached the top, slightly out of breath and feeling pleased with his effort. He looked about and waited, gazing off into the distance. All he saw was the tops of other trees. After a while, he climbed back down.

The very things that had been so helpful before now seemed quite useless—even a bit silly. “Just when I thought I had learned all my lessons, I learn my lesson don’t always work. That’s a disturbing lesson!” The thought made him sad. The sadness made him fearful. The fear made him shiver. “Use everything I have,” he repeated. But now the words rang hollow and gave no comfort, so he stopped saying them and sat in silence.

The sun was warm against his face, and he closed his eyes. He saw blackness. This is what I have left, he thought. The sun on my face and nothing more. “The sun on my face,” he said aloud, sitting up and looking around him. He closed his eyes again, but this time he looked beyond the blackness and down the long corridor of memory where he and the two magic boys walked along in single file with Spintoffle trailing behind. An inner voice urged him, “Pay attention. Take heed. Don’t you see?” And when he opened his eyes he was smiling once more.

“I do see,” he said quietly. “Everything I have right now is me!

That’s all. Good. We have that straight, and now it’s time to be off.” He whistled as he walked, and his step had a spring to it. The sun was warm on his face, just as it had been warm on his back throughout the journey to the farm. “Therefore, I must be headed in the direction I came from,” he reasoned.

“I am bound to come to a sheer rock wall where I shall have to climb down inch by inch clinging to tiny clefts and fissures,” he 124

thought. “After that I shall come to a smooth plain that stretches to the horizon with no trace of vegetation, where the wind makes a pure and cruel sound like pain itself. Then I shall come to a steep rocky hillside where the ground falls away beneath my feet. And finally, I shall reach a riverbank thick with thorny bushes and stinging nettles. These are my memories. They are part of me. And I am everything I have right now, so that’s what I must use.”

The air was thin and growing colder. As he walked he thought of Trog and Merry, who would be waiting for him. It would be hard to tell them that he had failed, but the thought of their warmth and comfort gave him strength nonetheless. He thought of Mike and Spike and wondered where they were. What had become of them? The thought made him so terribly fearful and sad that he could not bear it.

He thought of Spintoffle. What a strange and perplexing creature. Spintoffle had saved his life back there at the farm. He wondered, “Would I have done as much for him?”

And Kyra? What of her? She was everywhere he looked—the sky, the trees, even the earth beneath his feet. He remembered her face, which spoke silently of sadness, and her eyes flashing with love whenever she spoke of her children. He thought of the warm touch of her finger pressed against his lips as she gently silenced him. One moment the thought of her made him outrageously happy and pushed him onward, while the next moment his fear for her safety made him tremble until he had to tear his mind away or else be paralyzed and perish where he stood. But the vision of Kyra would never stay away for long. It always returned and filled him with confusion and joy. She was part of his memory, part of him, and the thought drove him on.

When he reached the edge of the sheer rock wall that fell away to the barren plain below, his heart swelled until he felt it would burst. “I was right,” he whooped. “I am going back.”

He began to climb down at once, inch by torturous inch. The 125

sun slipped into night’s abyss and still he climbed. It made no difference that he could not see; his hands and feet, probing for tiny cracks in the rock, were all the sight he needed. His fingers bled.

Bitter winds whipped his face and tore his clothes. He wrapped himself in thoughts and memories and clawed the darkness until at last he set foot upon the rocky plain below, just as the sun crested the horizon to warm his face once more and beckon him along.

He did not stop to rest or catch his breath. Pain and hunger clamored for his attention, but he ignored them. He bound up his wounded hands with sunlight, breakfasted on cool morning air, and in place of sleep filled himself with courage and the everpresent vision of Kyra.

Quickening his pace, Wundermint reached the steep rocky hillside by early afternoon. He raced down the slope, rocks slipping away beneath his feet as he tripped and tumbled and picked himself up, bruised and cut, and still he continued.

He reached the river’s edge where gray mist swirled off the water and made eddies in the gloom of approaching night. The current was too swift and the water too deep to cross, but he could not stop, so he pushed on without pausing for food or rest.

Thorny bushes raked his arms and face, and stinging nettles attacked him like angry bees. Sky and trees vanished in darkness, leaving only river sounds to guide him. He slipped in foul smelling mud that oozed over his ankles, picked himself up, and slogged ahead.

An owl, black and fleeting against the rising moon, ensnared him in a flickering shadow. He dropped to one knee, hands outstretched to break his fall, and mud swallowed his arm. The more he struggled, the faster he sank. He opened his mouth to scream. Moonlight caught in his throat and choked him.

Exhaustion fed upon itself until he no longer had the strength to fight. With a gentle sound, like a cat lapping cream, the mud pulled him deeper and deeper. It was hard to breathe. Stars slipped away 126

into the cold gray of dawn. As the mud closed over his shoulders and encircled his neck, Wundermint closed his eyes and saw the face of Kyra. “I failed,” he said softly. “Forgive me if you can.”

The river whispered, then grew strangely quiet. Overhead, a blue jay squawked and darted away. Wundermint opened his eyes.

Hazy light reflected from the water. The sun, a fuzzy orange ball, was enmeshed in leafy treetops on the far bank. A stately heron speared a small fish, flapped its wings, and disappeared into the mist with a ponderous whoosh. Only then did Wundermint see the dragon, its fierce, deep-set eyes, its tiny head and gaping jaws, and its long gray-green body parting the steamy waters.

The monster came closer, silent as fog, advancing without effort.

Unable to move or even cry out, Wundermint closed his eyes and steeled himself for his final moment. In that instant, he thought of Kyra and imagined her face just as he had seen it the very first time.

He drew one last breath and waited. When he could hold his breath no longer, he opened his eyes and Kyra’s face was still before him. She emerged serenely from the mist, wearing a white dress and carrying a small bouquet of wild flowers. She smiled as she stood in the front of a long wooden boat with a carved dragon’s head ornamenting the bow.

Wundermint was not quite sure what happened next. Kyra screamed and dropped her flowers. Mike and Spike were at her side. They called out, shouting and waving. Then Spintoffle appeared, shaking his head in amazement, and behind him the long wooden boat was filled with children of all sizes and ages. He remembered Kyra reaching toward him, cries of alarm, mud filling his mouth and nose, hands upon his shoulders dragging him to the boat. Someone sat on him and pounded his back until he stopped coughing up mud and river water. A warm hand gently pressed against his head. He heard Kyra, soft and reassuring. Then he lay still as excited voices all around him laughed and chattered, until sleep, like a loving parent, welcomed him aboard.

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19. A Perplexing Puzzle

Y

ellow sunlight with jagged edges exploded inside Wundermint’s head the moment he opened his eyes. Trees swam above him, mossy trunks revolving slowly overhead, heavy green leaves punctured by a hot morning sky. Whispers of water mixed with the murmur of low voices. “He’s awake!” someone shouted, and other voices took up the cry until a loud shush silenced them.

The shusher was a tall brown-faced boy with deep-set eyes and dark curly hair. He knelt beside Wundermint, gently lifted his head, and said, “Hullo. My name is Beezer. I’ve tried to keep these rascals quiet until you woke up.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Wundermint asked.

“All day and all night,” Beezer said. He had a pleasant smile and a quiet, authoritative manner. Several small children crowded closer.

A small girl with green eyes and a mop of red hair gently poked at Wundermint with tiny fingers, as if to discover exactly where he ended and she began. “We’ve ’scaped and now we’re free,” she said.

“Kyra says we must all thank you.” Then a chorus of voices rang out: “Thank you, mister. Thank you.” Some of the children clapped their hands, and others began to giggle and shove each other. In the blink of an eye, they were all squealing with joy.

Mike suddenly appeared and hoisted Wundermint to his feet with a mighty bear hug that brought forth wild cheers from the rambunctious children, who seemed to enjoy any excuse for an energetic celebration. Spike was next. With a flourish he produced a white scarf out of thin air and tied it in a great flowing bow about Wundermint’s neck.

Spintoffle, looking more thin and worn than usual, gave Wundermint the briefest of handshakes and shyly mumbled a word of welcome. Then without warning he wrapped his skinny arms around him and twirled him about while the children 128

jumped up and down until only the calming influence of Beezer kept them from upsetting the boat.

Head spinning, ears buzzing, Wundermint tried to steady himself.

When Kyra appeared, he lost his balance completely and sat down with a thump. The children laughed appreciatively at this fine new trick. Mike and Spike hauled him to his feet. “You’ve had a long rest,” Kyra said with a smile. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Much better,” Wundermint replied, trying with little success to stand on his own and appear kingly.

“You were very brave,” Kyra said. She touched his arm, a gentle brush of fingertips. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough. I just want you to know ...”

Wundermint leaned forward, eager to receive his longed-for reward, but at that precise moment one of the children began to squeal, pointing at the sky where a strange object floated, swooped, and darted like a huge tethered bird.

“A kite!” Mike yelled.

“We know that kite,” Spike sang out.

“It’s my kite!” Wundermint cried. “It’s Merry’s kite—the kite she made for me.” The children had never seen a kite before, but they knew it was magic of a very special sort. Wundermint tried to tell them how the kite stood for him, with a red band across the top for his hair, two large blue circles for his eyes, and any number of small spots for his freckles. Merry had called them his “precious freckles,” but he did not mention that. It made no difference—everyone was too excited to listen anyway.

The river had grown wide and slow, bending around on itself in long, meandering arcs that gradually brought them nearer the kite until it floated almost directly overhead. Then they saw the welcoming party there to greet them.

Merry waved from the riverbank, dressed in her ruffliest blouse with a bright red bandanna on her head. Trog waded out to meet them, waving both hands above his head and grumbling loudly 129

about the gnats stinging his eyes and causing tears to stream down his wrinkled cheeks. Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole, P. H. and D., welcomed them with an enthusiastic tootle on his small trumpet, and Smithfield accompanied him with a magnificent bray. Spurt turned somersaults and wagged his stubby tail until his whole body seemed ready to shake apart.

After almost smothering Wundermint, Merry welcomed each of the children with hugs as if they were her very own. Mike and Spike, on their best behavior, introduced Kyra. Trog made a courtly bow. Merry hugged her like a long-lost friend, and when they separated, both had tears in their eyes born of an immediate kinship so deep and abiding as to require no words or explanations.

Trog grasped Wundermint by the shoulders and regarded him with a squinty eye. His voice quaked as he said, “You were gone a long while. It had me some concerned.”

Wundermint flung himself into the old man’s bony arms, and they stood that way for some time. “You taught me well,” Wundermint said.

“You came back,” Trog said, his voice cracking. “Confound these pesky gnats.”

“They’re worse than usual,” Wundermint agreed as he brushed away one of the invisible pests and gave the back of his hand to an errant tear.

They celebrated far into the night. Merry’s pots and kettles became treasure chests of fragrant delights that simmered and bubbled over a large open fire. Everyone ate their fill and a bit more. Afterward, Mike and Spike provided entertainment, juggling three large pumpkins, four eggs, two empty plates, and a large bowl of blackberry cobbler piled high with sweet whipped cream. Each time the cobbler flew past, they took a large, swift bite that left their faces covered with a white foamy beard.

DiBoole played perky tunes on his trumpet, and Trog and Merry stirred the glowing embers with a happy jig, their eyes brighter than 130

the flying sparks they sent ascending to the heavens.

Then all grew quiet as Kyra her story of how she had gathered up the children and taken them to the boat. “It was the only time in all those years we had ever been left alone,” she said. “If we had been there when the men came back, we would have been beaten—all of us—and given no food for days on end. We were terribly afraid, and we feared the worst for Wundermint and my brothers. I knew this might be our only chance to get away. So we pushed our fears aside and made our way through the darkness to the great roaring falls where these gallant gentlemen”—she waved toward Mike, Spike, and Spintoffle—“waited for us with the boat. And here we are. All of us.” She laughed with a sound of silver rain and hugged the children who clustered about hanging on her every word.

At last it was Wundermint’s turn. As he spoke, the playful banter around the fire turned to a quiet hush. The children moved closer, leaning forward eagerly to hear of the hard journey and the difficulties encountered.

Warming to the task, Wundermint conjured up the thorny riverbed until the children were fairly swatting mosquitoes and whimpering as imagined nettles stung their arms and legs. They shivered with cold as Wundermint’s words and voice transported them to the barren plain where ice glazed the rocky landscape. They cheered as Wundermint told of how Mike and Spike had clomped about on mighty stilts made of saplings. His words made them see giants with gigantic powers who distracted the demon dogs while Wundermint slipped inside the walls of wickedness. The faces of the children glowed in the dying firelight as Wundermint told of the cunning warrior, himself, who braved all danger and hid in the bowels of a dungeon to carry a message to Kyra.

Wundermint spun his tale like a skilled weaver, drawing the threads of his story together, adding a touch here, a texture there, creating subtle forms and shapes that took life of their own and moved through the still night air as real as the children themselves 131

and as close as the person beside them.

With great care and gentleness, Wundermint explained how he heard the story of Jofe and Ehdrd told by the villainous Gray Whiskers. Merry gasped and began to sob.

One of the children fetched a clean handkerchief, and Merry dried her eyes. “Don’t be sad,” Wundermint said. “It has a happy ending.”

The smallest children began to whimper as he told how the dogs had chased him through the dark forest. The older ones put comforting arms around their brothers and sisters, whispering softly, “There, there,” trying not to let their own fears show through.

They looked on with their imaginations as Maul, Biter, and Rip tore off Gray Whiskers’s clothes and the hateful old man disappeared into the woods, the hounds at his blooded backside.

Wundermint looked at Merry across the fire. She smiled proudly, even as she dabbed away the tears of painful memories.

Trog rose stiffly, walked around the fire, carefully picking his way among the clutter of bewitched children, then bent down and gave Wundermint a smacking kiss on top of his curly red hair.

“Splendid!” declaimed DiBoole. “Absolutely splendid, dear fellow.”

In the shadows beyond the fire, Kyra spoke only with her eyes, but Wundermint heard clearly her grateful thanks, listening only with his deepest heart.

To complete his tale—skipping no pages, as he had learned from Trog so long ago—Wundermint explained how he made the long trek back, stopping neither to eat nor sleep. He saw a dark look cloud Trog’s face. As he described how he sank into the river mud too exhausted to struggle, Trog shook his head and muttered, “Not good. Not good.”

Flustered at this odd response, Wundermint wrapped up his story without further ado. “Then all of you came along and pulled me 132

out, and here we are.”

“Forgive me for so saying,” Trog spoke up, “but you ought to have taken better care of yourself. You took a few too many chances for my liking.”

Wundermint felt his face burn like the coals before him. “If I’d not pushed on, I might not have caught up with my friends,” he protested hotly.

“True enough,” Trog agreed, “but if they’d not found you in the very nick of time, you’d likely not be here tonight—that’s all I’m saying.”

“I did my best,” Wundermint said, his voice rising. “You shouldn’t shame me for that.”

“I intended no shame,” Trog replied quickly. “If shame I gave, I wish to take back a double portion for myself and ask your forgiveness.”

“I didn’t ought to be shamed for using everything I had,” Wundermint grumbled. He did not understand why his voice shook or why he felt anger coiled in the pit of his stomach. Trog’s comments, he knew, had been well intended, but they were remarks addressed to a little boy who had not taken proper care of himself— not at all what one is supposed to say to a victorious warrior king.

“It’s been a long day,” Merry said. “Perhaps we’d best sleep before the tiredness of the day works a mischief on us.” She began to scurry about gathering up pots and kettles.

“Yes, by all means, let us have our sleep,” Wundermint said in a tight voice. “For we shall be up early tomorrow and on our way.” A shocked silence greeted his announcement.

“We only just got here,” complained Mike.

“There is a battle yet to be won,” Wundermint said firmly. He stood with his feet apart, his hands defiantly on his hips. The fire’s glow lit his face from below and made him seem suddenly older and taller.

“Battle?” Kyra asked. “What battle?”

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“This is not your affair,” Wundermint replied in clipped tones.

“This is my army. We are off to fight the wicked Grundlers at daybreak. I have not come this far to quit now and live the rest of my life by a peaceable river.”

“I know we promised ...” Mike mumbled.

“We said we’d help ...” Spike chimed in half-heartedly.

“So I s’pose we have to,” they said in unison, but their voices were not happy.

“I’ll help,” Spintoffle said suddenly. “If you’ll let me.”

“I need all of you,” Wundermint said. “Everyone.”

Clouds, pale as moonlight, painted the night sky, and smoldering coals hissed. Thin trails of smoke climbed toward brilliant stars.

Then Beezer stepped into the glow of the fire, his dark face solemn and his voice soft. “I don’t know what your battle is about,” he said, “but I am in your debt. You freed me and Kyra and the children, so I will do whatever you ask of me.”

“No, don’t,” Kyra pleaded.

“I have no choice,” Beezer said gently to her. “If there is to be a fight, I’ll fight at Wundermint’s side.”

The children were suddenly on their feet, following Beezer’s lead, chanting, “We’ll go. We’ll go.”

One of the children, still in diapers, toddled about on chubby legs shaking a pudgy fist and chanting, “Me fight. Me fight.”

“How could you!” Kyra said to Beezer. “You know the children will always follow you. You can’t allow this.”

“I must do it,” Beezer said in his calm, quiet voice. “I owe it to him.”

Kyra whirled and faced Wundermint, her eyes a lightning storm of feelings. “I won’t let you hurt my babies,” she said. “I will protect them with my very life if I must. I will stop at nothing.” And without another word she turned and walked into the darkness.

Wundermint started to follow, but Trog laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Not now,” he said. “There will be a better time to talk to her.”

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“The time for talking is past,” Wundermint said pulling away from the old man’s touch. “I will be off at first light with my soldiers. She won’t stop me. And neither will you.”

“Nor will I try,” Trog assured him. “I know you must do what you must do. Tomorrow morning I’ll be with you.”

“If you wish,” Wundermint said coldly.

“We must cross a big river to get to your village,” Trog said. He bent near and Wundermint could smell the firefly wine on his breath. “But don’t you worry none. For I know where to take us across that river where it’s flat and dry as any desert. I’ll help you get there.”

“If you offer your help, I accept it gladly,” Wundermint said with no trace of gladness in voice or face. “But if you have more shame to heap upon me, you may stay right here. It’s all the same to me.”

“I never meant to shame,” Trog said shaking his head.

“I’m very tired,” Wundermint said. “It will be an early morning.”

“Sleep well,” Trog said.

Wundermint did not answer. He knew sleep would not come easily. “Why is everything so different than I supposed?” he wondered silently. He pulled his knees up to his chin and closed his eyes tightly. He saw Kyra’s face, heard Trog’s words, and felt tears scorch his cheeks. They would not stop no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, and all night long sleep hovered just outside his anxious reach.

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20. The Crossing

T

he ragtag band of travelers formed a straggly line that moved fitfully along the gray-green river’s edge. Merry in her covered wagon led the way. Trog, looking small and wrinkled, sat beside her, cradling his head in his hands and rocking it gently as if it were a colicky baby. The youngest children rode in back, peering out curiously from the noisy welter of pots and kettles.

Next came Ferdinand DiBoole in his bright yellow wagon with flamboyant green letters on the side, its red spoked wheels spinning off flecks of dusty sunlight. Resplendent in his stovepipe hat and flowing bow tie, DiBoole jiggled the reins and clucked to Smithfield, who replied with a grouchy snort and vengeful kick.

Beezer, with two of the older children, perched atop the wagon.

They shielded their eyes against the hard blue sky and scouted in every direction for signs of anything that might require attacking.

Spintoffle floated down the river in the dragon-headed boat, separate and alone as ever, a dark-suited scarecrow eyeing the world suspiciously through wire-rimmed glasses.

Kyra refused to ride, preferring instead to walk in icy silence behind DiBoole’s wagon, her brothers close by. A smattering of attentive children walked in the shadow of her anger and sadness.

They showed their concern by clinging to her hand and clutching at her dress.

Wundermint brought up the rear, feeling confused and utterly unkingly. His upper arm bore a swollen half-moon of square tooth marks, a painful reminder of Smithfield’s disinclination to become a puller of wagons. It was by no means his only wound of the day.

Kyra had cut him deeply with her pointed silence. Mike and Spike had been openly unenthusiastic about the forthcoming adventure.

From time to time, the children peeked from behind Kyra’s dress just long enough to stick out a tongue or make a face at 136

Wundermint. They clearly blamed him for her somber mood.

I will not let them see that they hurt me with their childish faces, Wundermint thought grimly. I will do what is best for them in spite of them. He bent down and absently scratched the ears of Spurt, who trotted at his feet half-asleep. Startled by the unexpected touch, the little dog added injury to insult with a feisty nip to the fingers.

Not my best day, thought Wundermint, gloom circling him like a cloud of black bees. I had planned to lead a grand army, to march at the head of a legion of devoted followers intent on giving me my revenge. Instead, I trudge at the tail end of this peculiar band of unhappy travelers who would appear to be leading me.

As the river grew wider, the trees on the opposite shore became ever smaller in the distance. We are lost, he reflected. We must cross this river, and yet the farther we go the more impossible it seems. Trog said he knew where to cross, but Trog was not always correct. Who to trust? That was always the problem.

By late afternoon, the land had turned to low sandy hills covered with long grass that waved in the wind and gnarled pine trees with branches like Trog’s fingers. The air had become thick and tangy. It felt cool, as if a rain might be on the way, and yet the sky was clear.

Large white birds circled above, gliding on outstretched wings, swooping and screeching.

At the first booms of distant thunder, Wundermint scoured the horizon looking for billowing white clouds filled with rain and wind. He saw only clear sky. He licked his lips and tasted salt. The booms grew louder until they were a constant roar interrupted by even louder crashes that sounded every few steps. At the front of the line, Trog jumped down from wagon, gave a yell, and began to dance about as if his britches were full of wasps. From high atop DiBoole’s wagon, Beezer began to shout and wave. The children started to squeal, some running to the front of the line, others rushing back to Kyra to cling timidly to her side.

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Wundermint crested a small grassy hill and caught his breath.

Blue water ablaze with dancing sunlight reached to the sky at the farthest point on the horizon. Line after line of swelling waves rolled in never-ending succession to crash upon a sandy beach in a ragged fury of spray and foam. Unable to speak or even think, he let the vast ocean fill his senses. Then slowly he felt his wonder ebb and fall away like the waves below as he came to a new and horrifying realization. He started to run, fighting for breath that came in harsh, wrenching sobs.

Trog stood facing the sea, his arms outstretched as if to embrace an old friend. His thin hair blew back in fine gray wisps, and his baggy old clothes filled with the fresh sea wind.

“Why have you done this to me?” Wundermint demanded, his voice hard and angry above the pounding waves.

The old man turned slowly, his wrinkles arranged in a happy smile. “Has ever there been a sight more gracious and comfortable to the eye?” Trog asked. His voice was soft and peaceful.

“You said you knew a place where we could cross,” Wundermint shouted. His face was red. His hands were tight fists, knuckles white as the rising foam.

Trog tried to smooth the few strands of hair that now whipped his face. “Cross we shall,” he said, his voice so soft he could scarcely be heard.

Trembling with anger, Wundermint pointed to the great river that flowed effortlessly into the even greater ocean. “This is what you’ve brought us to,” he raged. “I trusted you.”

“Why of course,” Trog replied amiably. “I’ve given you no reason to do otherwise.”

“You’ve given me every reason,” Wundermint shot back.

Trog hunched his shoulders as if trying to retreat inside himself.

“I beg you, mind your manners, lad. I’d sooner you didn’t set into me so—not afore Merry and the wee ones.”

“You’ve made me look a perfect fool,” Wundermint raced on.

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“First shaming me in front of one and all last night—and now this.

We can’t cross here!”

Trog gazed off for a long moment, breathing deeply of the cool salt air. When he spoke his voice was disarming and gentle. “Do you recall a time back when we first met up, when you became so fearsomely upset with me that you could not talk?”

“I recall quite a few such times,” Wundermint said angrily.

“Like the time you allowed Spintoffle to cheat us of our Wrinkie fish. Or perhaps when the great river of mud swept down and you scurried off to higher ground leaving me to rescue the stupid mule.”

“Those were not the times I had in mind,” Trog mumbled, hanging his head.

“Then perhaps you are referring to last night, when you made it seem that I was some weak creature who couldn’t so much as care for himself,” Wundermint continued.

“I didn’t mean it in quite that way,” Trog said.

“If you didn’t mean it, you ought not to have said it,” Wundermint interrupted. “I see plainly now that I was wrong to trust someone who can’t even say what they mean. You said you would bring us to a wide dry place where we could safely cross the river, and like a fool I believed you. Well, never again. I’m done with listening to your prattle, your mind so befogged with firefly wine most of the time that I should never have paid heed in the first place. We’d all be better off if I hadn’t brought you.”

Trog swallowed hard and the veins on his scrawny neck stood out like strands of rope. “The disagreement I was referring to,” he said, working hard to hold his temper, “was the night long ago when I first agreed to come with you to take revenge on the Grundlers. Remember? We’d just finished a fine mess of Wrinkie fish and the campfire was all aglow. You told me how you intended to take your revenge—and then you got most fearsomely angry when I didn’t understand what you were talking about. I said then, you’d not told me your whole story. You’d skipped some pages. I 139

feel right now like you’ve skipped some pages.”

“You’re clever with words,” Wundermint blazed. “You try to make it my fault. Well it isn’t, and your clever words won’t trick me this time. We’ve no choice now but to turn around and go back up the river until we find a spot narrow enough to get to the other side.

You’ve made me look bad in front of Kyra and the children, and Merry—and all the rest of my army. If you think I’ve skipped some pages, look in your flask of firefly wine. Perhaps you’ll find the missing pages there.” And with that he turned and walked away.

Suddenly he whirled about, eyes flashing, cheeks redder than his hair. “And you can take this back. I never wanted it any way.”

Wundermint ripped the whalebone from his neck and flung it at Trog’s feet. The old man just stood with his mouth working as if words were trying to escape, but none came. They faced each other for a long moment, the silence between them filled only by the crash of waves and the rush of wind.

Then Wundermint turned and slowly walked away. He sat by himself, looking out to the endless ocean where wave after wave destroyed itself in a roar of froth and foam on the sandy beach.

Some of the smaller children played in the sand. They built ingenious walls and castles and then ran away squealing with terror and delight when the onrushing waters dissolved in a moment everything they had worked so hard to build. Kyra was nearby, keeping a watchful eye on their every move. Her hair was the color of the sand in the late afternoon sun and it blew free, streaming out behind her. She was barefoot and looked very small.

The sun dipped into the far edge of the ocean and ignited a fiery strip that ran to the shore, turning the sky above into a brilliant inferno of shifting reds and yellows. Wundermint did not know how long he had been sitting there when Beezer appeared. “Excuse me,” said the tall, dark-skinned boy. “Mr. Trog says it’s time to go.”

Wundermint looked up, squinting against the brightness of the sky. “It’s too late,” he said softly. “We’ll turn back tomorrow and 140

begin looking for a place to cross.”

Beezer shook his head. “Mr. Trog says it’s time to cross now.”

Wundermint got to his feet prepared to give Beezer a piece of his mind. Who did Trog think he was, ordering people about? But when he stood he realized that something had changed. The air was still fresh and cool, but now the salt tang had the heavier odor of mud and riverweed. It was quieter. The waves no longer roared.

They made sleepy splashing sounds and moved farther away. The breeze was still. And where the river had been, there was a wide rocky flat that caught the last slivers of the setting sun and glistened like a path of pure gold. “Mr. Trog says it won’t last long,” Beezer said. “So if we’re going to cross, we should do it now.”

Wundermint stumbled toward what had been the river’s edge.

It was as though someone had pulled the plug from a tub of water and drained it all. He thought it might be one of Mike and Spike’s magic tricks, but it was too grand for that. It was quite simply a miracle.

Merry’s wagon was the first to cross, clanging like distant bells, pealing and beckoning to the others: follow me, follow me.

DiBoole was next, shaking the reins and speaking in soothing tones to Smithfield, who was skittish at the sight of so much mud. The children scampered along on foot, jumping into shallow puddles that rose not even to their ankles, throwing pebbles, dancing, skipping, singing. Kyra had promised supper on the far shore.

Too stunned to move, Wundermint stood and watched the line of travelers darken and grow tiny as they moved away. He became suddenly aware that he was not alone. “Quite a sight, wouldn’t you say?” Trog remarked softly.

“What happened?” Wundermint asked.

“It’s the way of the sea,” Trog said simply. “I’m not a man of learning so as to give you a proper explanation, but it always happens this way. Some folks calls it a tide. Why not? That’s as good a name for it as any. Not that having a name explains much of anything.”

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“You knew this would happen,” Wundermint said.

Trog nodded. “I did,” he acknowledged.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Wundermint asked.

Trog ran a hand through the small trace of hair that waved atop his head and paused. “I tried,” he said softly. “I s’pose I wanted you to trust me.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me about the tide,” Wundermint asked, “instead of letting me get angry and act like a fool?”

“Look out there,” Trog said, waving his hand at the great wide expanse that had been a river such a short time earlier. “If I had told you that the river would vanish and leave a desert, would you have believed me?”

“No,” Wundermint said. “No, I don’t think I would.”

“We’d best start,” Trog said without further ado. “For the tide comes in again, as quick as ever it went out. And then it’s a river once more. We’d not want to get caught in the middle.”

“Yes,” Wundermint agreed. “We’d best catch up to the others.”

“One more thing,” Trog said. “I’d be grateful if you were to take this back.” He held out the whalebone, spinning on its leather necklace, its thin smooth edges flashing in the fading sunlight.

“Yes,” Wundermint said. “I should be happy to have it back. It is my secret weapon.”

“There may yet be things in this world that you will have need to cut loose of,” Trog said.

Wundermint felt somehow that he had not fully taken the old man’s meaning. But now was not the time to ask. They had to catch up with others.

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21. Call to Battle

T

hree days after crossing the great river that emptied and refilled itself, Wundermint encountered the first Grundler.

A chill early morning wrapped itself in a restless blanket of swirling mist. Trees full of autumn glowed red and orange in the hazy gray light, their trunks black as the approaching wintry nights. Wundermint had set out on his own before breakfast. He needed the time alone to think and to plan his battle. His head was aswim with visions of rock throwers, spear flingers, stick pokers, and other armed combatants, he in shining armor and mounted on a fine steed leading the way.

Cresting a brown, knobby hill, Wundermint came upon the Grundler setting a snare for a wild boar. He was driving a stake into the ground with a rock, which he dropped with a grunt and sprang to his feet. The Grundler was twice as tall as Wundermint.

Dark, matted hair grew in clumpy patches on his head, from his ears, and just beneath his dark little piggy eyes. He was dressed in furry animal skins, mangy and yellowed with age, and with what appeared to be gravy stains all down the front. The Grundler squinted at Wundermint through the fog. His lips curled back from pointy teeth, and he stepped forward.

Wundermint dropped to one knee, his fingers closed around a rock the size of a horse chestnut, and he flung it with all his might.

It hit the Grundler just above the nose, exactly in the middle of the single ragged eyebrow that stretched without interruption across his bumpy forehead. The Grundler roared, stepped backward, and dislodged with his thorny foot the stake that held the snare. A bent sapling sprang straight up with a whistling sound. It pulled the snare tightly around his ankles lifting him feet first into the air. The Grundler’s head struck the ground with a resounding thump like a potato thrown against the side of a barn. Then he dangled silently 143

in the fog, feet over face, gray mist swirling all around.

For an instant, Wundermint stood too stunned to move, his mind spiraling backward in time to a little boy of long ago who lay in the yellow dust as the cries of battle and devastation rang through the air. In the next moment, his mind leapt forward to the battle that was about to begin. His time had come. He did not stop to savor the moment but turned and began to run. ********* Trog had gone in search of breakfast fixings. Merry had a fire going and was bustling about humming to herself. Wundermint’s call to arms roused the rest who stumbled sleepily to gather about the fire. “I have just seen the enemy,” he announced. “Happily, I have roundly defeated him.” The children gave a sleepy cheer, and Mike and Spike rubbed their eyes and yawned. “And now, my dear friends,” Wundermint continued, “there is not a moment to lose.

The victory will be ours before this very day is over.”

“It’s too early for a battle,” Mike grumbled.

“I’m always better at battles after breakfast,” Spike observed.

“We vote for going back to bed,” they said together.

“I want all of you to gather as many rocks as you can,” Wundermint commanded. “Fill your pockets. Bring pails and buckets to carry them in. We shall pick up sticks along the way, and I will sharpen them. You must do everything just as I say.

Hurry, dear friends.”

Obedient as always, the children shuffled about, stifling yawns with sleepy fists and preparing to do as they were told.

When Kyra stepped forth and began to speak, her voice was calm and measured. Immediately, all motion ceased. There was not a whisper or a giggle. No one even blinked. “I don’t know why you are doing this,” Kyra said, her eyes blazing with the pale fury of hot blue flames.

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“I have no way to stop you.” She whirled about to face Mike and Spike, her voice kinder, but no less intense. “And I can’t stop you either, though I wish I could. You will go if you please, I know that. But it will be without my blessing. And as for the rest of you”—her eyes swept the children, more piercing than arrows, her voice even and clear—“if any one of you chooses to put yourself in the way of harm there will be no breakfast, no supper, no stories at bedtime, no lullabies before sleep. Not today, not tomorrow, or any other day you care to name. This is not roughhouse play where you scrape your knees and have it made all better with kisses and hugs. I did not risk the journey from Gray Whiskers’s hateful farm just to lose you to another foolish peril. I will say no more.” She turned and began to walk away, but Wundermint called to her.

“Don’t you understand?” he said. “The Grundlers are bad. They destroyed my family.”

“Will it make things better if you destroy mine?” Kyra asked softly.

“They took away my home,” Wundermint insisted.

“There are other homes,” Kyra replied.

“We will defeat them,” Wundermint said, “and this will be home for all of us until we are gray and gone. We will live out our days here, together, with food aplenty, and not just nibbles and greensweets. We shall have warm, dry places to sleep, real houses with roofs and fireplaces. And we will grow old telling stories of the bravery and courage that gave us victory.”

“I fear it will not be so,” Kyra said. There was no anger in her voice now. “There will be many who will never grow old if you go through with your plan of revenge.”

Wundermint started to answer hotly, then stopped himself. He swallowed hard, took a long, deep breath, and then with a slow, deliberate flourish took the whalebone from around his neck. With it, he scratched a line upon the ground. When he was done, he held the gleaming white whalebone above his head for all to see. “If you 145

will fight alongside me,” he said, “step over this line. If not, stay just as you are. I shall not think less of you for it.”

The children milled about uncertainly, tugging at their pajamas and making snuffly sounds as they murmured among themselves.

But no one crossed the line.

“I’ll help out,” said a voice from the back, and everyone turned to watch Spintoffle pick his way through the crowd and step proudly over the line. Several children cheered weakly, only to be shushed by the others.

“And me as well,” Beezer said. He looked steadily at Kyra for a long moment then crossed the line.

“Count us in,” said Mike and Spike in unison as they linked arms and jumped across. In the silence that followed, someone coughed. The fire popped. But no one else crossed over.

Kyra walked calmly toward her brothers and hugged them, lips trembling. She gently touched Beezer’s cheek with her fingertips.

Then she turned to Wundermint, took his hand in hers, and said, “You may be victorious. I hope you are. But think on this.

Among the Grundlers there may be one who will go off alone to plan revenge. And he will come back one day with an army of his own to reclaim what he believes to be rightfully his. What will you do then?”

“I don’t know,” Wundermint said simply. “I have thought about it. And I just don’t know.”

Kyra squeezed his hand. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “Please bring my brothers back. Watch after Beezer. Come back safely.” Then she kissed his cheek and walked away.

With a long-handled pot for a helmet and a sturdy breastplate fashioned from one of Merry’s largest kettle tops, Wundermint loudly ascended to Smithfield’s back with the helping hands of Mike and Spike. From that lofty vantage, he surveyed his troops, similarly armored in pots and pot tops, their pockets abulge with a choice selection of flinging-size rocks. Trog had not returned, which was 146

cause for disappointment, but Wundermint was too eager to wait any longer. He waved good-bye and the children cheered.

Merry, her eyes red and her cheeks wet, muttered and scurried about as if trying to find something, anything, to put off the departure.

When Ferdinand DiBoole suddenly appeared, unshaven and rumpled from sleep, Wundermint cried out, “Hurry. We were about to leave without you.”

“Alas,” said DiBoole, “my old wounds forbid my joining you.

But you plucky lads shouldn’t go into battle without the sounds of trumpets ringing in your ears.” With that he produced his shiny little horn and blew such a piercing toot that Smithfield leapt into the air, landing with a jolt that sent Wundermint flying past the mule’s long ears and slamming into the ground with the sound of clashing cymbals. Smithfield let loose a lusty bray and trotted off into the woods where he refused to move.

Trying to salvage what little dignity remained of the situation, Wundermint rose stiffly to his feet, brushed himself off, lifted his right hand to the pot upon his head in a farewell salute, and went rattling off down the road with his clanking comrades at arms.

They arrived back at the knobby brown hill just in time to see the ensnared Grundler being cut down by three of his own kind.

Wundermint gave a holler and they bore down on the surprised gathering, shrieking and pelting them with rocks. The Grundlers hoisted their dazed friend onto their shoulders and ran down the hill as fast as their long legs would carry them, disappearing into a low thicket of scrub trees and thornberry.

The warriors cheered and shook hands all around, complimenting themselves on their bravery. “Just as I suspected,” Mike laughed. “They are cowards through and through.”

“I doubt we’ll see those rascals again,” Spike crowed.

“Onward,” Wundermint cried, lifting high a sharp-pointed stick that he had found along the way. Spirits soaring, laughter ringing, 147

they set off in eager search of their next battle.

A warming sun had split the early morning fog, revealing a stark and barren countryside. They passed fields where dry rows of broken cornstalks told of a scant harvest. What had once been fields of deep, waving grass were now brown patches of stubble.

Steaming piles of wet, unbaled hay gave off a sharp odor of mold and decay. Pumpkins, squash, and colored gourds rotted on the ground, and wild grapevines, brown and brittle, clung to tumbledown walls and fences. Nothing was the same as Wundermint remembered, and yet everything was haunting and familiar: the shape of hills, the feel of the warming air, the color of sky behind the fiery red and yellow trees.

They soon came upon a small farmhouse where a wisp of thin gray smoke rose from a rickety chimney. White shutters hung in splinters next to vacant windows, and a crow perched on the sagging thatched roof, eating beetles. A gaping hole shown in the roof, probably caused by heavy spring rains and never repaired.

“I know that house,” Wundermint said. “It belonged to a farmer named Foldrol, a friend of my father.”

“Perhaps they’ll give us hot cider and snacks,” Mike and Spike suggested as one.

“He does not live there anymore,” Wundermint said shaking his head sadly. “He would never let his house go to ruin that way.

There are Grundlers inside.”

“Then let’s bring them out,” said Spintoffle.

They put their heads together and began to whisper in low, excited voices. When they had their plan, they shook hands among themselves with great seriousness and set about their work.

In a tool shed behind the house, Wundermint found a dusty ladder. He leaned it against the house and Spintoffle scrambled to the rooftop, agile as a cat. Beezer emerged from a nearby field with an armload of pumpkins, which he passed one at a time to Wundermint halfway up the ladder, who in turn relayed them to 148

Spintoffle. Standing next to the hole in the roof, Spintoffle looked every bit as black and solemn as the crow he had frightened away.

He peered into the hole, holding his glasses with the tip of his finger to keep them from sliding down his nose. He looked up and nodded silently.

Wundermint signaled to Beezer, and Beezer gave two soft, low whistles: tow-weet, tow-weet. They waited and then heard return whistles from the front of the house.

Wundermint nodded to Spintoffle, who lifted an overripe pumpkin high above his head and heaved it down the hole in the roof. It landed with a splattering thump. Spintoffle shrieked and heaved a second pumpkin. Frightened shouts came from inside. A third pumpkin, the largest of all, struck the floor below and the entire house shook. The front door flew open and two Grundlers ran outside, tripping over the length of cord that Mike and Spike held at ankle height across the doorway. Two more Grundlers came running out and tripped over the first two. They lay sprawled and tangled on the ground, dazed for a moment, and as they arose the heavens opened with a hail of rocks.

The Grundlers covered their heads with hairy arms and roared as the rocks rained down upon them. They crawled on all fours until they were beyond throwing range, then stood up and began to run. Arms flailing, voices wailing, they scurried over a rock wall, across a brown expanse of open meadow, and vanished into the woods.

Wundermint and Spintoffle slid down the ladder whooping all the way. Mike and Spike rolled on the ground, tears of laughter streaming down their cheeks. Mike did an imitation of the Grundlers running away. Spike mimicked their screams. Beezer’s dark eyes gleamed with pride, and Spintoffle clapped his bony hands together. They hopped about shaking their fists, hollering to the sky, punching each other’s shoulders, and congratulating themselves on their splendid battle.

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“It is even easier than I supposed it might be,” Wundermint bragged.

“Bring on the rest!” shouted Mike.

“Take me to them!” cried Spike. “We’ve a thing or two more to teach them.”

They were so busy celebrating that they failed entirely to notice when a small Grundler child slipped out the back window of the house and ran to hide behind the tool shed. The little Grundler peeked cautiously around the corner and waited until they were all occupied refilling their pockets with rocks. Then, silent as a cat’s shadow, he slipped away into the adjoining cornfield and began to run as fast as he could toward town.

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22. The Grundlers Strike Back

W

undermint and his gleeful army stopped in an abandoned orchard where weeds grew tall as trees. Over a fire of dried leaves and twigs, they roasted apples until the insides were warm and mushy and the skin was black and crisp with a sweet smoky taste.

Beezer fashioned a bow of springy applewood and made arrows of sharp dry thorns and sticks. Mike and Spike engaged in a slowmotion fistfight, making thumping noises with their hands as they pretended to deliver devastating kicks and punches. Wundermint and Spintoffle joined in the fun by throwing apple cores at them.

They gathered about the fire and extinguished it in a timehonored fashion that caused much merriment and laughter as hot coals hissed and acrid steam filled the air. Then they gathered as many sticks as they could carry, sharpened the ends, and tucked them into their clothing until they looked like a band of porcupines skipping down the road, whistling and taunting each other goodnaturedly.

For Wundermint, the road to town was strewn with familiar things made foreign by the passage of time and long neglect. A swimming hole where he once played was now a mud puddle, choked with cattails and frog pads. A mighty oak that once supported a magnificent rope swing was now a twisted skeleton, its broken branches dark and bare.

At the entrance to the town, a pile of rust and rubble was all that was left of two stone pillars and an iron gate designed to discourage intruders in an earlier time. Wundermint scrambled to the top of the pile and stood there, legs apart and hand to hip, as he gazed over his old village. The streets were empty. Smokeless chimneys spoke of homes where no one lived. A grassy green that once had buzzed with life and laughter lay vacant and forlorn before him. “It’s all deserted, by the looks of things,� Wundermint 151

announced gravely. “The rascals may have got wind of our coming and cleared out.”

“I hope not,” Mike said. “I’m ready for another fight.”

“Perhaps we can find one or two stragglers and thrash them, just for good measure,” Spike said.

They marched into town triumphantly, Wundermint in the lead.

His head was high and the low autumnal sun glinted off the pot top across his chest.

When three large Grundlers stepped from behind three large trees on the green, everyone froze. The Grundlers crouched, ready to spring. Their eyes were dark and the furry hides that covered them bristled, like the neck hair of an angry dog.

“Sticks,” Wundermint said softly. He was pleased that his voice did not crack. Without moving his head, he cut his eyes to one side and saw his comrades poised with pointy sticks at the ready. The Grundlers took a step forward. “Now,” Wundermint commanded, and five spears whistled through the air. Two sailed over the advancing heads of the Grundlers, missing completely. Two more were slapped away as if they were no more than pesky mosquitoes.

The fifth struck the middle Grundler in the shoulder and brought forth an unearthly yowl of pain and surprise.

“Again,” Wundermint shouted, and five more spears flew forth.

The Grundlers dropped to the ground and began to roll, letting the sharpened stick pass harmlessly above them. They sprang to their feet, advancing again, only to be met by a barrage of flying rocks.

They paused, ducked their heads beneath their arms for protection, and scattered in three different directions.

“Let them go,” Wundermint commanded.

“But we can catch them,” Mike argued.

Wundermint shook his head so vigorously that the handle of his helmet turned half way round. “No,” he said firmly. “We have to stay together.”

Down a long cobblestone street, the sounds of their footsteps 152

echoing in the silence, they rounded a corner and came face to face with five large, angry Grundlers. The largest Grundler caught a rock aimed at his forehead, and with a terrible show of yellowed teeth, popped it in his mouth and crunched it like an almond, spitting out the pieces with a fiendish grin.

“Fall back,” Wundermint shouted. A rock bounced off his helmet with a resounding clang and another smashed into his breastplate. “Stop throwing rocks,” he screamed. “They’re just throwing them back.”

“Run!” Wundermint cried. “Run!” Mike and Spike were already at the far end of the street. Beezer attempted to load an arrow into his bow. “Don’t wait,” Wundermint shouted. “Go. Go.” As Spintoffle turned to run, a rock smashed into his cheek and shattered his wire-rimmed spectacles.

Wundermint held out his hand crying, “Hurry!” Spintoffle reached out his hand in return. It was red and sticky. A bloody gash started just below his eye and snaked toward his chin. Together they stumbled down the street, the Grundlers roaring at their backs.

Then the roar grew fainter. The rain of rocks subsided. They slipped into an alleyway where they held their sides and gasped for air.

Wundermint gave a low whistle and listened. In a moment he heard the whistled reply, and Mike and Spike and Beezer crept from behind a house, their faces gray with fright.

“We’ve not a moment to lose,” Wundermint whispered.

“Listen closely. We must stay together. No matter what! That is our strength. Together we are strong. We fight together. If we must run away to regroup, we run together. Do you understand me?” Everyone nodded. “Here’s what we shall do next,” he said.

He dropped to one knee and began to sketch a hasty battle plan in the dirt.

When he looked up, Mike’s face was frozen in horror. Then Mike was up and running, with Spike right behind him. Spintoffle, his arms before him like a blind man, beat a clumsy retreat stumbling 153

along and feeling his way down the street.

Wundermint whirled about and buried his nose against the largest, worst smelling Grundler yet. A grimy hand with fingernails like claws grabbed his arm. He bit the hand and heard a scream of pain. Spitting the sweaty taste from his mouth, he backed away and flung a sharpened stick that hit the Grundler’s vest of animal fur and clattered harmlessly away.

The Grundler caught him and began to squeeze his breath away. Wundermint tried to cry out and could not. The harder he struggled, the tighter the grasp until it seemed his eyes would pop loose. Then the whole world began to spin, faster and faster.

The air split with a furious roar and Wundermint fell to the ground with a mighty clang as helmet met breastplate and set his ears to ringing.

The Grundler spun about, hopping up and down holding his foot. A thorn-tipped arrow was buried in the Grundler’s great toe. A second arrow whistled through the air and struck the Grundler in the shoulder. He screamed, made a nasty show of jagged yellow teeth, then hobbled off down the street bellowing fearful curses with every painful step as Beezer waved his little bow and shouted victoriously.

Wundermint staggered up. His ribs ached and he could hardly breathe. Beezer offered a welcome shoulder to lean on, and together they limped away. “Not good,” Wundermint said hoarsely. “We must go away and make a better plan.”

“Where are the others?” Beezer asked.

“We will find them,” Wundermint said. “Then we must all run away—quickly. Together.”

They crept along the street, peering around corners, hiding behind houses, scrambling from bush to tree: hiding, waiting, peering out, then scrambling again. When they came again upon the town green, they crouched in the shadows behind the last house and looked in every direction. “We have only to cross it and 154

we’re safely away,” Wundermint whispered.

Beezer nodded silently. They stood slowly, looked once more, and began to run. The trees were blood red in the failing autumn light. A dying sun, low on the horizon, sent long black shadows to tangle their flying feet.

“Wait for us,” a voice called. “Wait!” Mike and Spike came streaking across the green. Close on their heels were two fearsome Grundlers. Beezer sent a wobbly arrow into the air. Wundermint flung a handful of small stones, the last he had, and the Grundlers passed through them as if they were gnats.

The Grundlers with their long legs were within a whisker of grabbing Spike by the neck when Mike stopped as suddenly as if he had hit a brick wall. He dropped to all fours, and the onrushing Grundler tripped over him, flipped once in the air, and landed with a ker-thonk that shook leaves from trees. The second Grundler tripped over the first and rolled until he crashed into a tree that peppered the sky with startled sparrows.

Mike and Spike brushed themselves off and pounded their fists into each other by way of congratulations when two more Grundlers appeared at the far end of the green. Wundermint turned to lead a spirited retreat but found the way blocked with three approaching Grundlers. He stopped, whirled about, and saw still more of the evil creatures emerging from the streets leading to the green. They poured from houses and sprang from behind trees and low bushes. They were everywhere, their voices shrill and angry.

With his last remaining spear, Wundermint spun about, knocking the nose of one Grundler, jabbing another in the arm, and delivering a solid clonk to the head of a third.

Mike formed a stirrup with his hands. Spike stepped into it and did a springing backflip that caused the attackers to turn and look for the flying boy. In that instant, Wundermint speared the behind of a bewildered foe, producing a startled yelp and causing the Grundler to exit the battle cradling as best he could his wounded 155

nether parts in his great ugly hands.

One of Beezer’s arrows found its mark and sent another snuffling Grundler fleeing from the field.

As two Grundlers approached, Mike lay down and with a swift arch of his back flew into the air like a spring, his feet landing on two Grundler foreheads with a potent combination of pain and surprise.

Beezer was so engrossed in loading his bow that he failed to see the Grundler behind him. In one crushing sweep, the Grundler gathered up Beezer, turned him upside down and shook him until all his arrows fell away. Then he squeezed until Beezer’s eyes bulged and his bow snapped in two.

Wundermint looked up just as a gigantic crow dropped out of a tree and onto the Grundler’s back with a terrifying squawk. It took a moment to understand that in fact it was Spintoffle, who had thought to hide himself from the fracas below. With his ill-fitting black suit flapping loosely about him, he clung to the Grundler’s back, whooping and raking the sky with bony hands as his furious mount twisted and bucked. Beezer dropped to the ground and crawled off in a daze. The Grundler shrieked and threw himself against a tree, trying to dislodge the raving fury from his back.

Nimble as a cat, Spintoffle jumped free at the last moment, and the Grundler succeeded only in knocking the wind from himself.

Wundermint was everywhere, darting from skirmish to skirmish: a well-placed poke in the ribs here, a stab to the thigh there, all while shouting encouragement and praise as the fighting raged on.

Spintoffle, as brave as he was blind without his glasses, fought until a Grundler grabbed his coat collar, swung him about overhead, and flung him away like a limp rag doll. He landed out of sight with a crash and a cry of pain.

Spike attempted another backflip, but his legs were tired and he did not go as high as he intended. A Grundler slapped him to the ground where he lay gasping for air, tears forming in his eyes.

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Mike leapt into the air and cracked a Grundler across the cheek.

He helped Spike up and panted, “Run brother. Run!” Spike limped away. Mike slipped between the legs of another Grundler, kicked him in the seat, spit in his face when he turned around, and then began to run as fast as he could.

Wundermint watched in terror as Mike and Spike disappeared in opposite directions, each with a band of Grundlers nipping at his heels. The heat of battle had done what no other force on earth could, breaking them apart and sending them on their separate ways.

Now Wundermint was alone. He jabbed and poked and stabbed and slashed. He twisted, twirled, kicked, bit, screamed, and cried.

Tears streamed down his face and he fought on. Even when he knew that all was lost he continued to fight. And when at last his strength was gone, he dropped to one knee, bowed his head, waited, and said softly, “The king is dead.”

One Grundler then fell to the ground clutching his head like a split cabbage. A second Grundler staggered backward, his hands covering his face as his furry hides turned shiny wet and red. A third Grundler backed away, grunted, and loped off into the gathering darkness.

Wundermint jumped at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He waited for the final blow to fall, and when it did not, he at last turned slowly, heartsick and filled with pain, to look up and into the steady eyes of Finicus Troglander.

Trog laid down the club he had wielded with such effect and knelt to put his arms around Wundermint. “We’d best be getting back,” he said. “It’s nearing dark.”

“The others?” Wundermint sobbed. “I can’t leave them.”

“I fear they’ve left you,” Trog said gently. “Hurry now, before them wicked creatures comes back.”

They crossed the green as night invaded the trees and stole away their autumn colors. Wundermint clung to Trog for support, 157

wishing with every step that night would steal him away and end his pain. They reached the pile of rubble that was once the gate to town, and a shadowy figure stepped into the road before them. In the dim light, it looked like a Grundler, a very small one. It blocked their way and said in a harsh voice, “Ye’ll not pass here.”

“Who are you?” Wundermint demanded.

“Ye’d not be knowing me,” said the voice, still harsh but with a quiver that spoke of fear. “Ye’r the wicked fellow as bombed my house with rotten pumpkins. Now you’ll get yers.”

“Wait,” Wundermint cried, but it was too late. The Grundler child drew back his arm and threw a rock. It whistled through the darkness over Wundermint’s head and made a cracking sound against Trog’s forehead. The tiny Grundler scurried off into the underbrush. “Stop!” Wundermint cried. Then Trog’s legs buckled and the old man dropped slowly to the ground.

“Trog!” Wundermint shouted. “Trog!” he screamed again. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. There was no answer. Sobbing uncontrollably, Wundermint tried to lift him, but it was no use. At last he hooked his hands beneath the old man’s arms and walked backward, dragging Trog down the road, his scruffy tramp’s boots lifting a veil of dust that hung thinly in the pale moonlight.

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23. The Bitter Taste of Revenge

A

pale flame danced with the chill nightwind, casting a flickering circle of orange light. Merry pulled a thin shawl more tightly about her shoulders and moved closer to the fire. Spurt, asleep at her side, whimpered and twitched as he chased phantom rabbits across a murky dreamscape. Merry stroked his ears until he was quiet once again. She added another stick to the fire, placing it carefully to coax the blaze higher, less for warmth than visibility. Firelight swam in falling tears as she peered into the darkness, hoping and waiting.

The children had gone to bed fearful and restless. They resisted sleep far into the night, despite the best efforts of Merry and Kyra to calm them. At last they were asleep in the wagons, snuggled close to one another under warm deep quilts. The rumbling snores of Ferdinand DiBoole mixed with the cold creak of tree limbs and the scurry of departing leaves.

Kyra would not allow herself even the small comfort of the fire.

She paced near the wagons, an ever watchful sentry, ready at a moment’s notice to soothe away a bad dream with a gentle touch and return a wakened child to sleep with a loving word or whispered lullaby.

The moon was in full retreat when Beezer returned leading Spintoffle by the hand. Merry rushed to greet them, bursting with questions that found no answers. Where were the others? What had happened? When were they last seen? Her eyes scoured the windy darkness for signs of the others, but found none. She bustled about talking to herself, her hands like nervous birds as she served hot tea, cleaned the wound on Spintoffle’s split and bruised cheek, and covered it with a clean bandage made from her petticoat.

“We got separated,” Beezer said, clutching a mug of warm tea to his quaking body. “We didn’t mean to, but they were just too strong.”

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“And too many,” Spintoffle added.

“Spintoffle got his spectacles broken,” Beezer explained. “And I found him wandering all alone.”

“Spectacles don’t matter,” Merry said softly. She patted Spintoffle’s hand and brushed his stringy hair back from his forehead. “You can always get a new pair of spectacles, goodness knows.”

Mike was the next to return. He arrived alone and stood at the edge of the firelight, sad and confused. With his face partly hidden in the flickering shadows, he appeared to be only half a person. He stood trembling, silent, eyes dull as coal lumps. Merry wrapped him in a billowy embrace, then led him to the fire and sat him down.

Mike stared wordlessly into the blaze, hugged his knees to his chest, and rocked back and forth.

Kyra ran to his side and demanded, “Where is our brother?”

Mike gathered his knees closer and rocked faster. Kyra gently touched his cheek and lifted his face toward her. “Is he alive?” she whispered. Still Mike did not answer. She brought him one of Merry’s quilts and draped it about his shoulders and sat next to him.

Merry brought him a steaming mug of tea. It sat untouched, cooling in the graying dawn.

Merry was the first to see Wundermint struggling up the road, dragging Trog along with lurching backward steps. She lifted her puffy skirts above her ankles and ran to them. Wundermint looked over his shoulder and gently laid Trog down as he braced for one of her fiercest hugs. She swept past him as if he had turned invisible and knelt beside Trog, cradling his head, touching his wrinkled cheeks and saying again and again, “Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no!”

Merry put her ear to Trog’s mouth and listened. Satisfied that he was still breathing, she lifted the old man in her arms, carrying him like a rag doll, and placed him next to the fire. She wrapped him in a quilt, rubbed his hands, and said, “My poor dear. My poor dear

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Mister Trog.”

At Merry’s instruction, Kyra made a bandage and soaked it in strong apple vinegar. She wrapped it about Trog’s forehead where an ugly purple lump had risen and was starting to spread above his eyes like a fat, sleepy spider.

Wundermint slumped down next to Mike and said, “Where is your brother?” Mike moved his lips, made a strangled noise far back in his throat, and gripped his knees tighter, staring into the fire and rocking. Wundermint grasped his shoulder and squeezed it tightly without a word. Spurt sidled up, gave him a sleepy lick on the hand, and went to snuggle next to Spintoffle.

A cold morning sun caught the tops of the tallest trees and pulled itself above the horizon. Its light ignited the last few clinging leaves but gave no warmth. The children began to stir. They tumbled out of the wagons, rubbing fists into sleepy eyes and grumbling because there was no breakfast. Some began to snuffle and cry, and even Kyra could not quiet them.

It was late morning when Spike came over the hill. No one saw him at first. Then he gave a whoop and a wave and a wild cheer rang out from the children. Mike sprang to his feet, vaulted over the fire, and ran full tilt into Spike’s arms, knocking his brother flat to the ground. They rolled about pummeling each other, laughing, shouting, and crying. They ran to Kyra and danced around her. She tried to hug them, but they couldn’t stand still. Scampering in and out among the children, they called each other names, like toad bloat, goat sneeze, and jelly snout. They made silly mouth sounds, clapped hands, skipped, whistled, and turned cartwheels. The children giggled and squealed and forgot to fret about the lack of breakfast.

“All safe,” Merry said softly. She sat down next to Wundermint and put her arm about him. When she looked into his eyes, he saw a sadness there so deep that he gripped her hand to keep from falling into it.

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“You knew didn’t you?” Wundermint said, his voice no more than a whisper. “You knew all this would happen.”

Merry tightened her arm about him. “I feared the worst,” she said softly. “But I always hoped for the best.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” Wundermint asked.

“Would you have paid me any mind?” Merry asked simply. “I think not.”

Wundermint hung his head, and his shoulders slumped. “No, probably not,” he admitted.

“I know a thing or three about such matters, having raised up thirteen children of my own,” Merry said. “If I’d set about to stop you, you’d still have gone off and done it all by your lonesome.” She turned her gaze to Trog and listened for his raspy breathing.

“Perhaps I was wrong not to try and stop you. T’wouldn’t be the only mistake your Merry ever made. But at least this way, I knew if I stayed behind I could be here for you when I was needed most— although I prayed it mightn’t come to this.”

“I will call this whole thing to a halt,” Wundermint said. “I will put a stop to it now.”

“It may not be so simple,” Merry said. “Your dream has kindled its own fire in your comrades. They will not easily forgive the shame and suffering they’ve been caused. Now they have much to prove— to themselves and to each other. Just as you did. I fear you’ll not find it so easy to walk away as you suppose.”

“What would you have me do?” Wundermint asked.

Merry rose, bent over, and kissed the top of his head, lightly as a butterfly. “I have no answer to that question, my dear. Would that I did. But now you must excuse me. I have Mister Troglander to look after.”

Wundermint sat for a long while, chin in hands as he thought.

Then he rose, stretched the stiffness out of his tired body, and climbed to the seat of Merry’s creaky old wagon. He beat on a kettle with a spoon, making a racket that caught the children’s attention, 162

woke up Spintoffle, and sent a small covey of grouse whirring into the air. “Let me have your attention,” he called, still clanging away.

Ferdinand DiBoole emerged unshaven and sleepy-eyed from his wagon, wearing only his long red underwear. Smithfield and the swaybacked mare clomped into view, their ears vibrating to the kettle’s clamor. Mike and Spike stopped their romping and everyone drew near. Kyra stood far at the back, her face grim and her arms crossed defiantly.

“Dear friends,” Wundermint began. “As you know, yesterday was an unfortunate time for us. We narrowly escaped with our lives and even now my beloved Trog remains unconscious. I see now that we must change our plans.” To his surprise a great cheer arose.

As the cheer died away, Mike shouted from the crowd. “A new plan is just what we need. Then we’ll teach those scoundrels a real lesson.” His words were also greeted with a cheer.

“I’m ready to fight!” Spintoffle called out. Beezer gently turned him around and pointed the sightless creature in the direction of the wagon. “I’m ready to fight!” Spintoffle shouted again, and once more the air filled with applause.

“We can not fight them,” Wundermint said quietly. “We must not fight them.”

“We can’t stop now,” Spike piped up. “They’ll think we’re afraid.” The crowd rumbled and buzzed as the children talked among themselves.

Wundermint held his hands up to call for silence. “If we try to fight them, as we did yesterday, we will certainly lose. We must forget all about the Grundlers and leave at once.”

“We’ve no place to go,” Beezer called out.

“We can stay here for the time being,” Wundermint said, but even as he spoke it seemed a hollow suggestion.

“We’ll freeze here,” Mike complained.

“And the Grundlers will find us here,” Spike chimed in. “And we won’t be ready to defend ourselves.” That created a new wave of 163

rumbling, buzzing talk.

Wundermint felt trapped. It was just as Merry had said. He had led them to this place and now they had nowhere else to go. He wanted desperately to never fight again, and yet there seemed no other way. He looked to Merry for help, but she was by the fire bathing Trog’s head in herb water. He looked up, his eyes pleading for someone to step forward and make it all go away. They looked back at him with expectant eyes, all but Kyra, whose jaw was clamped so tight that Wundermint feared her teeth would break.

Wundermint drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said in a voice so low that everyone had to lean forward to hear, “What would you have me do?”

“That’s not a fair question,” Mike protested. “You’re the one who makes the plans. Not me. I’m just a juggler and an acrobat.”

“He’s right,” Spike agreed. “We don’t make battle plans. We just do tricks.”

“Magic,” Mike corrected him.

“Magic tricks,” they said together.

Wundermint swept his eyes over the crowd, and they came to light on Ferdinand DiBoole, who had found the rear entry to his long johns and was enjoying a satisfying scratch of his backside.

When DiBoole realized he was the center of attention, he quickly withdrew his hand and blushed redder than his underwear.

“You’ve told us stirring tales of your battles,” Wundermint said.

“What would you have us do?”

“Ah, my battles,” DiBoole said. “But that was long ago I fear.

And perhaps I exaggerated the least bit. I’m no longer so brave as I once was. I am now a mere seller of healing potions”—he paused, coughed, and seemed to feel that the moment called for a bit more truth—“a mere seller of bottled horse liniment, actually. I fear I’m mostly good for playing my small trumpet these days.”

“And you, Spintoffle,” Wundermint said. “Have you a suggestion?”

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“Don’t look at me,” Spintoffle protested. “I’m just a thief. That’s all I really know. Swindling. Stealing. Picking pockets. Sorry. I know that doesn’t help much.”

“And you, Beezer?” Wundermint continued. “Do you have anything better to offer?”

“I have no gifts,” Beezer said quietly. “I am simply loyal.”

Wundermint wanted to cry. He wanted Trog to wake up and tell him what to do. He wanted to be all alone, back at his old run-down castle where his life had been so simple. And none of it was possible.

He cast back in his mind. What would Trog tell me if he could speak to me now? He would give me his crooked old toothless grin and tell me to use everything I have. And here before me is what I have. Nothing more.

He took a deep breath and felt something stir within him, faint and far away where he could neither see nor touch it. He looked out to the sea of faces before him, waiting patiently for him to speak.

This is everything I have, Wundermint said to himself.

He took another deep breath felt the words forming inside his head. When he began to speak it was in a voice that seemed to come from outside himself. It was a full voice, even and confident.

Wundermint did not so much speak as listen. The voice made him feel strong, and he trusted the voice and let it speak: “We must use everything we have. That is the best we can do. What we have is ourselves and each other. And we must hold tight to that and lose no part of it.” They were not quite sure what Wundermint was saying, but his words and the sound of his voice held them spellbound.

“We cannot fight. We cannot run away,” he continued. “We cannot sit here and do nothing. I will offer a plan. It is dangerous and difficult, I know. But it may be our only hope. If you agree with my plan, we will move ahead with at once, for there is no time to spare.” Step by step, in words measured carefully as precious jewels, Wundermint unfolded his plan. He gave his reasons at every point along the way. As if reading from a wondrous book, he covered 165

every detail, assigned each task, and left no question unanswered.

When he was done, he said, “If any of you disagrees with this plan, with any part of this plan, tell me now.” No one spoke.

Wundermint lifted his eyes to the very back of the crowd where Kyra stood, aloof and alone. “You can stop us with a single word,” he said to her. “We will not do this thing if you ask us not to.”

Kyra stood very straight and brushed the long blonde hair from her face. Her eyes warmed the day. “Everything you have told us is true,” she said. “We cannot run away and we cannot stay here. If there were another choice, any choice, I would choose it, for what you propose is filled with danger. But your plan is both brave and thoughtful. We must do it.”

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then the smallest children flocked to Kyra’s side and tried to hold her hand, grab her arm, or clutch at her skirt. Mike and Spike solemnly picked their way through the crowd and shook Wundermint by the hand. Their faces were grim. Spurt began to bark. Ferdinand DiBoole produced his small trumpet and began to play a low, soothing tune.

Wundermint stepped down from the wagon and moved through the somber crowd. Beezer and Spintoffle patted him on the back and tried not to look as scared as they felt. Some of the older children tugged at his raggedy clothes and smiled up at him.

Wundermint walked to the fire and stood next to Trog, who lay still and gray as stone. Kneeling beside him, Wundermint took his wrinkled old hand and said softly, “I will try to make you proud of me.”

The old man stirred ever so slightly, gave Wundermint’s hand a feeble squeeze, then opened one eye halfway. “Yes,” he said. Even the slight effort of that single word seemed to exhaust him. He relaxed his grip and closed his eye.

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24. The Flight to Danger

T

he younger children gathered dry grasses that grew in wispy yellow clumps beside the river. Carrying the grass in great bushy armfuls, they looked like sheaves of enchanted wheat made to move by a wizard’s magic. They worked from first light to starlight, trudging to and fro on weary little legs, singing a song Kyra taught them: When the world is upside down The best of smiles is just a frown.

Fetch the grass and don’t be slow.

When the world is wrongside to You’ll be me and I’ll be you.

Fetch the grass and don’t be slow.

But when the world is topside right Then we’ll feast and play all night.

Fetch the grass Fetch the grass Fetch the grass and don’t be slow.

The older children worked alongside Merry and Kyra, braiding the scaly river grass into long strands of hard, rough rope.

Mike and Spike crafted a fine new pair of stilts from hickory wood, taller than anything they had ever walked on before. In the evenings, after dinner around the campfire, they practiced juggling and perfected daring, dangerous acrobatic tricks.

Beezer was everywhere. He gathered wood, tended the fire, scrubbed the pots, fetched pails of water, made tea, kept a close lookout for Grundlers, and did anything else that needed doing— always with a smile and great politeness. When he wasn’t doing chores, he was busy making kites, large magnificent kites with bold colorful patterns and shaped like diamonds, boxes, pyramids, stars, fish, and dragons.

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Spintoffle was in charge of disguises, and he devoted himself to the task with uncommon enthusiasm. Occasionally he would wander about camp, seemingly at loose ends, and lift things from people’s pockets without their knowing it. He always gave everything back, because, as he explained, he was just keeping in practice. It became quite a game to try and catch him at his pickpocketing, but few ever did. Merry created a fine joke one day by putting sticky candy in her pocket, and when Spintoffle reached in he couldn’t let go. That made a splendid story for telling around the fire at night where everyone gathered to eat, and laugh, and draw strength and courage from closeness to one another.

DiBoole toodled endlessly on his trumpet. He blustered about tirelessly urging everyone to work harder even though they were exhausted from working as hard and fast as they knew how.

Trog was too weak to help. He lay near the fire, wrapped in a quilt, eyes glum as winter sky. The ugly lump that sat upon his forehead like a fat spider had gone away. All that remained was a blue-purple bruise the size of a small pancake. He rarely spoke, and when he did his voice was faint and far away.

Wundermint left camp each morning before the sleepy autumn sun chipped away the chill of night. He would return in the evening amid the lengthening shadows of ever-shorter days, sometimes with a meager catch of Wrinkie fish, sometimes with only nibbles and greensweets to show for his efforts. Whatever he brought was prepared and seasoned with Merry’s boundless love and equally divided among all.

Late one afternoon, as Wundermint struggled beneath a load of glistening Wrinkies, Spurt trotting casually at his side, they came to a thicket at the edge of the campsite. Spurt stopped suddenly, ears aquiver, nose twitching. Deep in the thicket half-hidden in tangled shadows crouched a Grundler. He had not heard them approach.

Spurt growled. The Grundler whirled, black eyes wide with surprise and fear. He snarled and grabbed a heavy wooden club 168

just as Spurt dove for his bony ankle. The club connected with a ker-splat, and Spurt sailed high in the air, too startled to even yelp.

The Grundler turned and ran away with wild loping strides.

Wundermint watched until trees and approaching night swallowed the fleeing creature. Then it was still and quiet once more. Spurt whimpered and limped up for a reassuring pat. “Good boy,” Wundermint said softly, caressing his trembling ears. “Brave dog,” he said. He whispered so his voice would not shake.

That night, after a fine feast of Wrinkies, Mike and Spike were full of tricks and merriment. The children, their tummies full for the first time in days, scampered and squealed, and their playful faces glowed like the campfire.

Kyra had watched Wundermint throughout the evening. He alone did not seem to share in the festivities. She went to his side and sat close to him. Firelight kissed her cheeks and filled her hair with jewels. “You are very quiet tonight,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”

Wundermint furrowed his brow and shook his head.

“If there is something wrong, let me help,” Kyra said.

Wundermint stared into the fire, deep in a tangled web of his own thoughts. He did not want to frighten her, but he needed to share his awful secret with someone. “I saw a Grundler today,” he said simply. “They know where we are.” He felt her tremble.

“Every day we stay here, we are in greater danger.”

Kyra nodded and thought quietly. “Tomorrow, I will go into town,” she said. Before Wundermint could speak, Kyra shushed him with a finger across his lips. “Don’t let the others hear,” she whispered. “If your plan is going to work, we have to know the Grundlers’ market day. That is when they all will be in town. You said so yourself.”

“Then I will go,” Wundermint said.

Kyra shook her head. “You can’t. The Grundlers know you.

They don’t know me.”

“It’s far too dangerous,” said Wundermint. “I can’t allow it.”

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“Everything is dangerous now,” Kyra agreed. “Most dangerous of all is to do nothing. Come, let’s get everyone back to work tonight.”

“We can make the fire larger,” Wundermint suggested. “That will give us light to work through the night.”

“We can make torches to light our way to the riverbank to gather the grasses,” Kyra offered.

“When will they sleep?” Wundermint asked.

Kyra stood up and brushed the dirt from her dress. “If the Grundlers come to fight us here,” she said, her voice low and firm, “sleep will not matter. If our plan works, there will be plenty of time for sleep afterward.”

“And if not ...” Wundermint’s voice trailed off into the darkness.

“Then sleep will matter least of all,” Kyra said.

All night long, by the light of flickering torches, they worked.

The children carried larger bundles of scaly grass than ever before.

They ran back and forth, hardly pausing to warm their hands at the fire. The older children braided the grasses until their fingers bled, and then they washed their hands in the cold river and came back to braid some more.

Kyra left before dawn without saying good-bye. Wundermint simply looked up and she was gone. He touched the whalebone hanging from his neck and said ever so quietly, “Come back safely.

Come back soon.”

Merry made berry biscuits and leaf tea for breakfast. A few stopped to eat while most just kept working. A few of the younger children grew so tired they lay down on the way back from the river and fell asleep on the bundles of dry grass they carried. The others moved them gently out of the way and worked twice as hard to make up for those who had to rest a bit.

There were now three groups of workers: gatherers, braiders, and weavers, who fashioned a large net out of the lengths of grassy rope. Day turned into cold gray dusk, and the woven net 170

was the size of a small house. “Larger,” Wundermint instructed.

“Much larger.”

Dinner was wild turnips, raw and bitter, eaten around the fire.

Some of the children fell asleep. Some cried softly and snuggled their companions for warmth and comfort. Ferdinand DiBoole played a hopeful tune on his trumpet as Wundermint walked about offering words of encouragement and good cheer.

When Kyra returned far into the night, her eyes were ringed with tiredness and her face was drawn. Stepping over and around sleeping children who lay scattered about in exhausted little heaps, she found her way to Wundermint. “There is not a moment to lose,” she said. “Tomorrow is market day for the Grundlers. And at sunrise the following day, they will attack us—here!”

“Are you sure?” Wundermint asked.

“They talk of nothing else in the town,” Kyra said.

Wundermint looked about hopelessly. Weary snores buzzed the still night air like mosquitoes. “They are all but spent,” he said. “I hate to wake them.”

“We have no choice,” Kyra said. “Come, I’ll help.”

Some cried, some complained. Others were silent and sullen. But all the children awoke and went back to work. Merry moved among them like a mother hen, a word here, a touch there, a tear dried, a nose blown, an unruly lock smoothed into place. Mike and Spike and Beezer rushed to and fro in a frenzy of last-minute activity. DiBoole polished his trumpet and hitched up the wagons.

Trog lay near the fire, doing his bit by keeping it going with small sticks from his trembling hand.

One by one, stars blinked and vanished. As the sky swelled with its first tinge of orange light, the two wagons were loaded and made ready.

DiBoole jingled the reins, and Smithfield pulled away with a sharp jerk and an angry snort.

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Wundermint clucked to the swaybacked mare, docile and sorrowful as ever, and Merry’s covered wagon went clanking down the road.

The children waved to the departing wagons and immediately fell asleep in the very spot where their last task was done. Trog called out a farewell so feeble that no one heard. Merry waved good-bye until long after the wagons were gone from sight. Then she sat down on the ground, lifted her apron to her face, and wept tears enough to last a lifetime.

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25. The Plan Unfolds

D

iBoole’s splendid yellow wagon rumbled to a stop in the middle of the village green. Mike and Spike, wearing wigs of black curls and great flowing mustaches made of Smithfield’s tail, hopped down and began to unload long poles from the back of the wagon. Beezer, in a similar disguise, helped them wrestle with the rolled-up grass net and spread it out on the ground. They hooked the tent poles, made of sapling trees, to the corners of the net and pulled the poles upright with long ropes fastened to wooden stakes driven in the ground.

A small crowd of Grundlers milled about, murmuring among themselves and watching with curiosity. They gasped in surprise as the last tent pole was hoisted into place and a fine, if somewhat saggy, tent arose before their very eyes.

DiBoole folded down the side of his wagon to make a small stage, which he stepped onto and sounded the first happy notes of a rousing march on his golden trumpet.

Beezer was busy sending his magnificent kites soaring into the air, zigzagging toward a cloudless sky and trailing colorful tails like squirming snakes. He launched four kites, and the crowd, which had grown larger, oohed and ahhed as each one sailed aloft.

From atop the wagon, Mike climbed onto his high stilts and began to stride along the edges of the tent. His false mustaches flowed in the breeze and made him look especially dashing.

Teetering above the crowd, he saw Grundlers heading into town from all directions. Even from a distance they could see this was no ordinary market day as they pointed at the beckoning kites and quickened their pace to the far-off sound of the music.

At the edge of the green, hidden by trees, Mike could see Merry’s wagon where Wundermint, Kyra, and Spintoffle awaited his signal.

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DiBoole removed his stovepipe has with a flourish and bowed low to the growing crowd, bidding the Grundlers to draw nearer to the stage. Some moved in a bit; most eyed the tent cautiously and remained outside.

Spike hopped onto the stage wearing a pointy green hat with a red furry ball that bobbed comically and sat at a jaunty angle atop his black curly wig and made the Grundlers’ eyes widen with delight.

Spurt appeared with a white ruff around his neck, almost as big as he was. At Spike’s command, he jumped through a hoop, did a backflip with more than a little help from Spike, and chased his tail like a tiny whirlwind while DiBoole toodled a lively tune. When Spurt stood on hind legs and ducked his head, as if taking a bow, the Grundlers broke into hoarse laughter and clapped their hands.

Mike did a jig on his stilts, waving to the crowd below, all the while keeping a watchful eye to make sure all Grundlers were being drawn to the village. The roads were almost clear now.

Everyone was on or near the green—at least he hoped they were. He called to a few stragglers, urging them to hurry over and join the fun. He circled the crowd once more, and when he stood on the far side of the tent, away from the wagon, he pulled a long red scarf from his pocket. He swung it overhead, making flashing loops of color, then sent it flowing into the air where it turned into a tufted red cardinal that flew over the crowd and darted out of sight. The Grundlers cheered in amazement. Mike peered off into the distance and saw Wundermint, Kyra, and Spintoffle leave the covered wagon and head toward the green.

“My dear friends,” DiBoole boomed, “if you will now gather closer, you will have the rare opportunity to view with your very own eyes an exhibition of such extraordinary magic that this day will remain forever writ upon your memory.” As he spoke, 174

he needed to place a hanky over his mouth and nose to combat the pungent aroma of the ill-kempt Grundlers.

Mike wobbled into view in front of the crowd, and Spike kicked away one of the stilts, causing the Grundlers to grunt loudly in surprise. Just as Mike was about to come crashing down, he steadied the single stilt, lifted himself into a one-armed handstand, and slid to the ground headfirst. The Grundlers shouted and stomped their feet in approval.

Wundermint and Kyra crept unnoticed onto the far edge of the village green. The Grundlers were intent on watching Mike and Spike juggle six pie plates, a mixing bowl, and an eggbeater.

DiBoole played a waltz tune so perfectly in time with the flying utensils that they seemed to dance.

“They’ve got to move in closer,” Wundermint whispered to Kyra. “If we don’t get them to the middle of the tent, some may escape.”

Kyra nodded silently, her eyes intent and watchful on the crowd.

Still juggling, Mike cracked six eggs into the mixing bowl as Spike picked apples from the air and tossed them into the bowl with handfuls of flour. Magically, when they stopped to take their bows, six steaming apple pies sat along the front of the stage. Beezer deftly sliced the pie into small pieces and handed them out to those in the front rows. Some of the Grundlers moved in tighter, all hoping for a taste. But many stayed on the fringes, their eyes dark with suspicion.

Mike produced three empty flowerpots with three snaps of his fingers—snap, snap, snap—and hid a shiny red marble under one of them. When the Grundlers tried to guess where the seed was, he lifted each pot to prove them wrong. They moved closer to the stage, growling and angry at being fooled. Mike quickly gathered up the pots, waved his hand over one, and caused a brilliant bouquet of flowers to sprout up, which diverted the ill feelings of the crowd and brought forth a few grudging claps of 175

their hard and grimy hands.

“Not enough,” Wundermint whispered to Kyra. “They have to move in closer or we’re lost.”

“Wait here,” Kyra said. “Be ready!”

“Stop!” Wundermint cried. “What are you doing? This isn’t part of our plan.”

Kyra turned, gently took his hand, and lifted it to her lips.

She kissed his fingertips and said, “You are brave and good. No matter what happens, you’ve done your best.” She let go of his hand, smiled, and stepped away.

Kyra circled around the back of the crowd toward DiBoole’s wagon. Taking care not to attract attention, she picked her way among the houses near the green. She listened to the sounds of the crowd as they reacted to the antics upon the stage. They were starting to become restless, snorting and snuffling and shuffling their hairy feet. Time was short. She appeared at the back of the wagon just as DiBoole was about to go back on stage. She whispered in his ear. He looked at her, his eyes wide with amazement and fright. Then she pushed him toward the stage before he had time to answer.

Mike and Spike came bounding off the stage and pulled back in surprise as they saw her. “Rig the high wire,” she said, not wasting a moment. Mike started to protest, but she silenced him with a look so stern and sisterly that he had no choice but to obey. “Run a long rope right over the center of the tent, all the way to the back of the crowd,” she instructed. “But you have to keep them distracted. It’s got to be a surprise.”

Spike tried to speak and Kyra cut him off. “Now!” she said in a tone of voice they knew all too well. They did not argue.

Stepping to the front of the stage, DiBoole began to play a loud polka. He stamped his feet in time with the music and urged the Grundlers to clap along.

Mike and Spike scurried about gathering armfuls of dry 176

leaves and piling them behind the wagon. Mike set the leaves afire, and as the first wisps of gray smoke rose into the clear blue sky, Spike was lifting a tall pole into place with a rope tied at the top.

The smoke grew thicker, and Beezer sauntered around the edge of the crowd, trying to look as if he were just taking a peaceful stroll. Every few steps he fed out the coil of rope he carried, being careful to stay out of the reach of the smelly Grundlers. Glancing casually over his shoulder, he glimpsed the other end of the rope attached to the top of the tall pole, just as it disappeared behind the screen of smoke.

The crowd grew restless as DiBoole’s polka dragged on a bit too long and loud. They were ready to lose all patience when suddenly Spurt dashed onto the stage, tripped on the huge ruff around his neck, and went head over stubby tail three times in a magnificent somersault. All eyes were on the little dog as he picked himself up, stood on his wobbly hind legs, and delivered a feisty nip to the unsuspecting backside of Dr. Ferdinand DiBoole, P. H. and D, which put an end to the polka, produced a yelp of surprise, and brought forth a roar of harsh laughter from the Grundlers.

Wundermint, watching from afar, was so captivated by the performance that he jumped with a start when Beezer appeared unexpectedly at his side holding a wooden peg and the end of a long rope.

“No time to explain,” Beezer said. “Hold the rope.”

With three sharp blows of a rock, Beezer drove the peg into the ground and Wundermint swiftly tied the rope to it with one of his most trusted fishing knots. The rope ran upward at a steep angle, rising above the tent, directly over the crowd of Grundlers, and vanished into the wall of smoke behind the wagon.

“Get ready,” Beezer said. “This is it.”

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DiBoole mopped his glowing face with his hanky, stepped to the edge of the stage, and announced in his most dramatic voice, “Dear friends, you are about to witness an act of sheer skill and daring such as few mortals ever see.” His voice grew quieter.

“An act so vastly terrifying that I urge any of you with weak hearts to have a seat upon the ground.” He paused and his voice grew softer still. A few Grundlers edged nearer the stage to hear him better.

“My friends”—DiBoole removed his hat, placed it over his heart, and lifted his hand skyward to the wall of smoke—“I present, the one, the only, the magnificent ... Kyra!” He blew a long and soulful toodle on his trumpet.

Mike drummed on one of Merry’s pots with a wooden mixing spoon. Spike, hidden from the crowd by the brightly colored wagon, dropped a quilt over the smoldering leaves and held back the smoke.

From high above the wagon, a brilliant shower of leaves suddenly filled the air, raining down upon the crowd in a shimmer of red and gold. The smoke thinned, then cleared.

There, standing against the sky, her hair flowing and filled with autumn colors, stood Kyra, balanced on a thin rope at the top of the pole. Serene and lovely as a cloud, she held a small bouquet of flowers. Her dress rippled in the breeze.

She took a tiny step and then another. Slowly, ever so slowly and carefully, she descended along the rope, step by faltering step. The Grundlers crowded to the center of the tent, every eye upturned and fastened tightly upon this vision, this angel, small and fragile, with the sunlight streaming through her golden hair.

Wundermint dared not breathe. Each step she took brought her closer to the spellbound Grundlers and made his heart twist, and leap, and pound. Dear, brave Kyra.

Then suddenly she slipped.

She tried desperately to regain her balance, her arms flailing 178

wildly. She recovered and teetered for a moment as a throaty cry rose up from the crowd below.

Then she fell.

The Grundlers roared, and a hundred greedy hands reached up to grab her. Arms outstretched, teeth bared in anticipation, they crushed in upon each other to catch the angelic creature.

Only the bouquet fell to earth. Kyra hung by one hand just out of reach as sharp fingers below scratched, clawed, and tore at the sky. “Now!” she called out. “Now!” Wundermint stood frozen in fear. Kyra’s voice rang in his ears. He stumbled toward the tent and bent over to loosen the tie rope of the corner tent pole. The knot refused to give. From the corner of his eye he could see Kyra dangling by one hand.

This was not part of the plan. A tall angry Grundler spied him and snarled in rage.

Wundermint struggled to release the rope, and three Grundlers rushed him. Their eyes were red as fire, their black claws outstretched. He pulled with all his might. The rope gave way suddenly and he tumbled backward. A Grundler leapt toward him, darkening the sky. He seemed to hang there for one long and terrifying moment.

Wundermint lay flat on his back, the Grundler hovering above him. Helpless and beyond hope, he watched as the Grundler swooped down like a ravenous hawk. Hot breath scorched his cheek. He closed his eyes and waited. A roar filled the air followed by a crash like a falling tree. When Wundermint opened his eyes, he saw the Grundler, still above him, but trapped in the woven tent net as tightly as any fly that ever ventured into a spider’s web.

The Grundlers yowled and screamed. The more they thrashed about, the more they became snarled in the sturdy woven net.

Wundermint rose unsteadily to his feet and saw Mike, Spike, and Beezer scrambling about, hammering pegs into the edges of 179

the net to keep the Grundlers trapped inside.

Kyra continued to dangle above the crowd. Then, nimble as a mouse, she pulled herself up, swung into a standing position, and skipped the rest of the way down as easily as she would cross a meadow.

Mike and Spike danced and pounded each other. Beezer raised his fist to the sky and shouted for joy. DiBoole did a jig on the stage and sent forth a victorious toodle from his trumpet.

Spurt barked, Smithfield whinnied and stamped, and even the swaybacked mare far back of the green lent voice to the celebration.

Kyra threw her arms about Wundermint, her face wet with happy tears against his freckled cheek.

Beezer, Mike, and Spike joined hands and formed a circle laughing and shouting.

Then Beezer screamed.

Mike whirled about and bumped into the fiercest, dirtiest Grundler he had ever seen. Brandishing a knife, the Grundler lunged forward. Mike and Spike screamed, and the creature put a grimy hand upon its own head and lifted off a mop of long, oily hair. With a single slash of the knife, the tangled beard fell away, and there, dressed in stained furs, stood Spintoffle, eyes squinting, a happy smile across his pinched face.

Beezer started to laugh. Spintoffle reached into his pocket and brought out dozens of pocket knives, hunting knives, skinning knives, straight razors, and all manner of sharp objects. “They won’t be cutting their way out anytime soon,” Spintoffle announced with a satisfied chuckle. “I’ve picked them clean as chickens.”

“We knew it was you all along,” Mike and Spike said, then added in unison, “sort of.”

Spintoffle removed his furry coat and placed it over Wundermint’s shoulders like a cape. “A royal robe,” he said 180

with a wide grin. “Fit for a king.”

Mike rushed up with one of the flowerpots used to trick the Grundlers earlier and carefully placed it, topside down, upon Wundermint’s crop of red curls. “I crown you King Wundermint,” he announced solemnly. DiBoole blasted forth an appropriately regal toot, Spurt yapped and pranced, and Spike pressed a wooden mixing spoon into Wundermint’s hand. They hoisted the flustered king to their shoulders, cape, crown, and scepter, and paraded him about with joyous shouts and hurrahs.

Holding tightly to his flowerpot crown, Wundermint bounced through the air, feeling far more jostled and foolish than kingly.

Kyra watched from afar, and her look of amusement made him more uncomfortable still. He could see the Grundlers thrashing beneath the net, causing it to rise and fall like some mighty wounded beast. Their anger lashed the air, and their hateful shrieks scalded the autumn sky.

Mike and Spike built a bonfire, and Beezer gathered apples and chestnuts. Spintoffle sharpened cooking sticks, and DiBoole played a stirring medley of marching songs. Wundermint was placed ceremoniously on an overturned kettle, which Spike explained was his throne, and was not allowed to participate in the festive preparations.

Wundermint waved shyly to Kyra. She smiled but did not come to his side as he hoped she might.

They celebrated into the afternoon, laughing, joking, and feasting on the meager treats they had gathered. As evening approached, the air grew cool and the chatter about the fire became gradually more serious.

“As I see it,” Mike said, “I’ll never have to work again. Now that these chaps are my prisoners, I’ll have them do it all.”

Spike chimed in, “I’ll have them cook my meals, wash my clothes, fetch my dinner ...”

Spintoffle nodded an enthusiastic agreement.

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“My wagon could use a good polishing,” DiBoole observed.

“I say we put two or three of these smelly rascals on the job straight away.”

Perched upon his thoroughly uncomfortable throne, Wundermint watched and listened and puzzled over what to do next. He looked at the Grundlers cowering beneath the huge net, their eyes sullen and angry. He looked at his friends, boasting and plotting a life of ease. He looked at Kyra. Nothing was as he had dreamed it would be. He did not feel kingly nor triumphant. At last he slid off the cold kettle bottom, stretched his arms and legs, and called a halt to the festivities.

“It’s time for all of you to return to our camp,” Wundermint said. “Merry and Trog have worried long enough.”

“We’re not done celebrating,” Mike protested.

“The children will be wanting dinner,” Wundermint said.

“Merry needs your help.”

“Who’ll guard the prisoners?” Beezer asked.

“I’ll stay here,” Wundermint said.

“Can I help?” Spintoffle asked.

“You go with the others,” Wundermint replied. “I’ll be safe.”

Wundermint removed his flowerpot crown, which left a bright red crease around his forehead, and went to Kyra’s side.

“We could never have done it without you,” he said.

“We all did it together,” Kyra replied.

“Please give Trog and Merry a message from me,” he said.

“Tell them all is well. We have won. Tell them ...” He paused and his eyes brimmed with tears.

“What?” Kyra asked gently.

“Tell them I love them,” Wundermint said. “Go now. Take the others with you.”

“What will you do,” Kyra asked, “now that you have taken your prisoners?”

“I will do what I must,” he said, and his voice was soft and far 182

away. “If I don’t come to you by morning, load the wagons and move away, as fast and as far as you can go. Don’t wait for me.”

Kyra opened her mouth to speak, but Wundermint interrupted. “Promise me,” he said.

Kyra nodded and turned away before he could see her tears.

The wagons rumbled off, lifting a trail of dust that rose and fell away like nightfog. Stars poked holes in a darkening sky and waited patiently for a milky half-moon to free itself from a tangle of oak branches. Wundermint threw the last bit of wood on the fire as cat tongues of blue and yellow flame licked away the chill. Glowing sparks drifted upward, reflected and multiplied in a hundred angry eyes beneath the net.

The shadow of an owl’s wing swept the earth and slipped away. Wundermint warmed his hands, took a deep breath, and slowly walked to the edge of the net. He cleared his throat and said in as steady a voice as he could muster, “I don’t know why you came here in the first place. I don’t know why you fought the people in this village and drove them away. I only know that this was once my village where I lived with my family. And tonight, it is mine once more.

“We fought you fairly, and tonight we have won—although no one really wins a fight such as we have had. We must not fight again. Do you understand me?” Feet shuffled, but no one spoke.

“I cannot hold you as prisoners,” Wundermint said.

“A lesson I have learned well is that prisoners take away the freedom of those who guard them. If any of you wish to stay in this village, you may do so. We will help you learn to farm, if you wish. To grow apples. To fish for Wrinkies. If you stay, you must be good neighbors, and my friends will do the same.

“But if you choose to live here, it must be in peace. Make no mistake about that. I refuse to live in fear of you, and I give you my promise you will have nothing to fear from us.

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“I have no control over you. I desire none. I pray you go in peace or stay in peace. And now I have done all I can do. I have done my best.�

Wundermint took the whalebone that Trog had given him long nights ago when revenge was still a sweet and far-off dream. He held it up to the moonlight for all the Grundlers to see. And with one swift sure swipe he cut the net then turned on his heel and walked away.

He heard sounds at his back. Running feet. Harsh voices. He did not look back. It was cold now. The moon was high.

Shadows crossed his path, but he kept walking, his eyes on the road before him. The sounds faded into the soft sigh of nightbreeze and trees creaked a song of coming winter. He walked faster now, his step light. He felt light, as if he could fly out to the stars and sail back again on morning wings. He whistled. Then he laughed and began to skip. And then he broke into a run, going faster and faster, beating his own shadow back to camp by a good six steps.

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26. A Tale from the Campfire

M

ost of the Grundlers left and were never seen nor heard from again. A few moved into the outlying woods where they lived on scrubbery roots, berries, nibbles, greensweets, and the occasional bowl of hot porridge or stew that Merry and other kindly folk regularly left at their gates as a friendly gesture. One Grundler, a tall muscular young man named Yar, continued to live in the town and became a much loved and valued citizen. Yar and Wundermint, after some early disagreements, became fast friends and had adventures together, but that is another story.

Wundermint moved back into the house where his family had lived. It was crumbly, full of mouse holes, and plagued with an uncooperative chimney, but it provided a warm dry place for all to live during that first long and difficult winter. Fortunately, spring was gracious the following year, summer was fruitful, and fall was bountiful, so everyone ate, everyone worked, and everyone had a warm, dry, and safe place to rest at night.

With each passing day, Trog grew stronger. He smiled his crinkly old smile with all its former cheeriness and went back to his fishing ways. Often of an evening he could be seen returning to the village, heavily laden with Wrinkies, which caused him to walk with that curiously unsteady gait. He was wise in the ways of carpentry and farming, so he repaired houses, planted corn and wheat, and built plows and other tools when he wasn’t fishing. He had a secret way of drawing sap from the trees in the early days of spring and boiling it until it was sweet and sticky and delicious—so naturally the children had a special love for him.

As time went on, word spread that the Grundlers had been driven away. New people moved to town, and some who had lived there before returned, and the little village of Pleth-on-Scrum grew and prospered.

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Spintoffle became a blacksmith and was respected far and wide for his skill, hard work, and, above all else, his honesty.

Merry continued to travel about to visit her children, but after a time many of them moved to the village to be near her. They brought children of their own, which gave Merry double helpings of happiness.

Beezer ran a general store that sold nails made by Spintoffle, pies and bread baked by Merry, and clothes, cloths, and candles created

by Merry’s children—as well as medicinal remedies mixed and bottled by Ferdinand DiBoole, P. H. and D. DiBoole also dabbled in dentistry, and he carved a fine set of teeth from applewood and gave them as a present to Trog. Unfortunately, the teeth fit poorly and gave the old man such splinters that he seldom wore them, except on the most special of occasions.

Mike and Spike became apple growers. In the autumn, when tree limbs groaned with the weight of apples fat and juicy as young turkeys, they could be seen walking about on their high stilts, picking the topmost, sweetest apples. They paid the younger children to pick the apples farther down the tree, rewarding them with golders mysteriously plucked from behind their ears and beneath their chins.

Kyra became a schoolteacher. She taught the children to read, write, count, do sums, and be thoughtful and well behaved. She was very strict and made the children work hard at their lessons.

They all adored her.

Wundermint elected himself mayor of the village, which made it his job to greet and welcome newcomers and lend a helping hand wherever needed.

One day, after many harvests had passed and the season of High Hoffles was approaching, Wundermint was sweeping the sidewalk outside the village bell tower, when two strangers appeared at the far end of the street. One was an older man who walked with a 186

stoop and had a fine shock of white hair that blew in the wind like dandelion fuzz. The other was a younger man. He walked with a spring in his step and his head held high, sometimes putting a steadying arm around the shoulder of his older companion.

As they came closer, the younger of the two men called out to Wundermint. “We’re told that a lady named Merry lives here. Do you know her?”

Wundermint leaned upon his broom and eyed the strangers. The older man had shoulders broad as a doorway, but he was tired and shuffled when he walked. The younger man was handsome, with clear eyes and a fine smile. His cheek burned with an angry scar where two half circles of deep red gashes told of some old and terrible wound.

“I know of a lady named Merry,” Wundermint said cautiously.

“What do you wish of her?”

“She is our mother,” said the younger man. “We have not seen her for many a year.”

The broom upon which Wundermint was leaning slipped away, and he toppled to the ground with a hard and more than slightly embarrassing ker-thud. The strangers politely stifled their laughter, but they could not restrain a smile at his surprise. Wundermint looked first at one, then the other, his eyes blinking, his mind racing. “Your names!” he demanded. “What are your names?”

“My name is Ehdrd,” said the young man with the scar. “And this is my brother, Jofe. He is a bit tired and unsteady, for we’ve traveled far. In my youth, he cared for me. Now I care for him as best I can.”

Wundermint shook his head and rose unsteadily to his feet. “But wait,” he cried, “this can’t be! I know the story. Merry told me.

How Old Gray Whiskers tossed you about and set his dog on you.

How he burned the barn—” “We were lucky to escape with our lives,” Jofe said. His voice was deep and rolled like far-off thunder. “Take us to our 187

mother. When we’re done with hugs and tears, we’ll happily tell you our whole story.”

“And gladly will I hear it!” Wundermint said.

That night, there was a celebration like none before. A great bonfire lifted orange flames to the heavens and lit the sky for miles around. Everyone came and brought delicious things to eat, musical instruments to play, and abundant joy for Merry’s great good fortune. Ears of corn roasted in their own shucks about the blaze. Wrinkies sizzled on sticks, and the aroma of Merry’s best baked bread decorated the air. For dessert they feasted on sugared sweetberries by the wheelbarrow-full with whipped cream piled thick and high as the snow-capped mountains of the north.

Kyra declared the following day a school holiday, so that all the children could stay up late to dance and play and celebrate far into the night.

After dinner, everyone gathered about the fire, and Jofe and Ehdrd told how they had fled from the burning barn that awful night long ago; how they had searched in vain for Merry until one day Jofe heard about a famous doctor, a miracle worker, who lived on the far side of the Sargacian Sea; and how they had traveled there and Ehdrd had been magically cured through the use of herbs, animal extracts, and applications of poultices made from hot mustard and cabbage leaves.

Merry sat between her beloved sons, sometimes smiling, sometimes dabbing her eyes with the sleeve of her finest puffy blouse, and always with a glow of joy and contentment so strong and real that it sparkled about her like the fireflies of the night.

When the story was done, the fire popped and sizzled and a sighing breeze streaked the flickering darkness with thin wisps of smoke. It was late, but the children were not ready for bed. They began to beg Wundermint to tell their favorite story of how the Grundlers had been overcome. “Please,” they chorused, crowding close to him, their faces gleaming in the firelight. “Tell us again 188

how it happened that we all came here.”

“It happened,” Wundermint said softly, “because everyone used their best and most special gifts.”

“Tell us, tell us,” they clamored.

Wundermint looked deep into the glowing coals, and the heat made his freckles burn. His thoughts traveled back in time to a misty gray morning long ago. “First there was Trog,” he said softly.

“Trog’s gift was a wise and gentle understanding of the world.

Without it, none of us would be here tonight.”

The children grew silent and sat on the ground to let the tale unfold.

“Then there was Mike and Spike,” Wundermint continued.

“Their special gift was laughter and bravery. There was Merry, full of love and never-ending hope. And Kyra, overflowing with kindness and courage. And all of you—remember how you fetched the grass, spun it into ropy strands, and made the great net? Your gift was hard work and boundless trust.”

The children wiggled happily at the memory.

“Dr. DiBoole,” Wundermint continued, addressing his friend by his formal title as a sign of respect, “encouraged us all with his unflagging good spirits and musical genius.” DiBoole beamed and doffed his high-topped hat by way of thanks.

“And Beezer,” Wundermint said, looking across the cheery fire to the dark-skinned boy with solemn eyes. “His gift was and is the ability to offer steadfast friendship that weathers all hardships.”

Spurt scraped at Wundermint’s hand with his furry paw and gave a whimper. “I haven’t forgotten you,” he said with a loving pat. “Loyal and alert. Those are your gifts.” In the distance, Smithfield pawed the ground and hee-hawed long and low. “And you, too, my fine mule,” Wundermint called out. “Never swift, but always sure and steady.”

Everyone laughed and Wundermint continued, “Spintoffle’s talents were thievery and deception. How odd that he should use 189

them to such a noble and loving purpose.”

“And what about you?” the children demanded as one. “What was your gift?”

“My gift,” Wundermint said, his voice dreamy and far away. “I heard stories and learned about other people’s dreams. I listened and remembered them. The stories and dreams of my friends taught me to care—they fed my own dreams like wood feeds a fire.” He let the words trail off and float away on the smoky night air. “I trusted in the stories and those who told them. Perhaps that is my gift. And now it’s late. Our honored guests are tired.”

Jofe and Ehdrd nodded pleasantly and Jofe spoke: “Don’t stop on our account. We’ve all the time in the world.”

“Tell us the story,” the children chanted. “Tell us, tell us.”

Wundermint looked across the embers to Kyra. She smiled, her face radiant in the glow of the coals, her eyes alight with peace and joy. “They can sleep late tomorrow,” she said softly. “Share the story with us all once more.”

Wundermint closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned back.

He opened his eyes and drank in the joyous sight of his beloved friends gathered about the fire. He looked beyond them over the treetops dark against the moon-filled clouds and out to the starry heavens vast and quiet and still, and when he spoke it was in a strong and confident voice that seemed to come from somewhere outside him as everyone gathered closer to hear his magic words: “Once upon a time, long long ago, and far away in the realm of sand beneath the silver stars, there lived in a castle on a hill a king ...”

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