North! Or Be Eaten

  “Wait!” Janner pleaded. “No! We just want to pass through! This isn’t fair!” He felt a blinding pain on the side of his face and found himself on the ground, blinking away tears.

  “Quiet, boy, or I’ll hit you again,” Claxton muttered.

  As hard as he tried, Janner could think of no plan, no ideas that could stop what was happening. He wished Peet would come swooping in to save them as he had done so many times before. He wished Nugget were still alive.

  Lying on the ground, Janner saw the hem of Leeli’s dress, orange in the glow of the fire. He saw the leather slipper on her good foot and the way her bad foot curled in on itself, the toe of the slipper rubbed bare where it dragged along the ground.

  Beyond Leeli’s feet, he saw Tink’s, and his heart skipped a beat. Tink’s toes wiggled inside his boots, and his right foot occasionally twisted back and forth in a way that made a circle in the dirt. Janner had seen his brother do this countless times, always just before he broke into a sprint during a zibzy game or when they played Ships and Sharks with Podo.

  Tink was about to run.

  Tink was fast, of course—probably faster than any of the Stranders—but even if he managed to get away, he had nowhere to go. North was the Barrier. South was the river. East was the Dark Sea. He might run west, toward Dugtown, but he wouldn’t last long without Podo—or Janner, for that matter. What did he plan to do, alone in the wilderness?

  Janner had to stop him. They stood a better chance together, and Podo and Nia had always urged the children to stay together at all costs.

  As usual, Janner fumed, thinking only of himself.

  Leeli pulled Janner to his feet. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he whispered, shaking his head clear of the pain from Claxton’s blow. “But I think Tink’s about to—no!”

  Janner tried to grab him, but it was too late—Tink broke away, bumped into Claxton, and leapt past the fire.

  Janner couldn’t believe his little brother could be so selfish, so reckless. He wished he were free just so he could wrestle Tink to the ground and teach him a lesson with his fists. Was he really going to leave them all behind?

  “Coward!” Janner screamed, aiming all the anger in his heart at his brother’s back. It felt good to say it, and he hoped it echoed in Tink’s ears with every step he took away from them.

  But before the word died away, and before Claxton and the Stranders had time to react, Tink sprang onto a bench on the far side of the circle and spun around.

  “STOP!” he yelled in a voice much deeper than usual. His eyes were wild with panic, shooting from Claxton to the Stranders to Nia and the others in the darkness beyond the firelight. For a moment his eyes rested on Janner with a look of sadness and confusion.

  “If…” Tink said in a quavering voice, “if you k-kill them, you’ll never…”

  “Never what?” Claxton leapt across the fire in a whoosh of bright sparks and clutched the neck of Tink’s shirt. Tink gulped and squinted one eye shut. “I’ll never what?” Claxton repeated. “I’m sick of all the talk and the stories and the threats. This is my clan, my bend in the river, and I’ll draw my blade on whoever I want.”

  “D-draw what blade?” Tink asked with a smile that worked its way through all the terror on his face.

  “What blade?” Claxton narrowed his eyes. “Why, this blade—” He reached for his dagger and choked.

  “This blade?” Tink produced a dagger from his sleeve and held its point just below Claxton’s ear. He gripped it with a steady hand and looked calmly into the big man’s eyes.

  The Stranders gasped. Janner’s jaw went slack. He had just called his brother a coward, and yet there he stood, face to face with a murderer. Janner wanted to hide his face in shame.

  “He took Claxton’s own blade,” the Stranders said.

  “That’s not all!” Tink said. He reached into his shirt and withdrew a tarnished medallion on a chain. It dangled from his fist and sparkled in the firelight.

  More gasps and murmurs issued from the Stranders. “The pone! He took Claxton’s pone!”

  Quick as a cat, Claxton twisted Tink’s wrist so that he dropped the dagger. He flung Tink to the ground, picked up the knife, and snapped it back into its sheath.

  “And I’ll have me medallion back,” he said, snatching it away. He turned a nervous eye on his clan. “Did ye see that, East Benders? Never have I seen such grum in a boy. Picked me own pocket, right here in front of me Stranders! Now the way I see it, I could either flay him here and now or make an ally of a young man who may someday find great renown along the Strand. I hate to put an end to such a promisin’ future.”

  He pulled Tink to his feet and clapped him on the back. “Now, how did the old man’s story go? Let’s see. He picked the golden bird from Growlfist’s pocket, Growlfist laughed, and then…ah, yes!”

  He struck Tink in the face so hard that the boy flew over the bench and landed in the shadows beyond it.

  “Tink!” Leeli screamed.

  Claxton laughed darkly. “Never try to game with Claxton Weaver, boy.”

  Then something happened that would be talked about on the Strand for a hundred years.

  From where he lay in the shadows, Tink flung a dagger at Claxton, and the handle struck him on the back of the head. Janner didn’t know how Tink had done it, but he’d stolen the dagger a second time. Claxton, with a look of great confusion and a knot sprouting on the back of his head, crumpled to the dirt, unconscious.

  The Stranders cheered and rushed to where Tink lay. They stood him up and brushed him off, chattering about his quick feet and quicker hands.

  Maraly offered him a wad of damp cloth for his bloody lip and sat him on the bench. “Me dad’s had that comin’ for a long time,” she said, and she kissed Tink on the cheek.

  His ears turned red as sugarberries, and he grinned so wide that his cheeks stuck that way for an hour.

  Nia, Oskar, and Podo were freed and ran back into the circle. They hugged the children and fussed over Tink, and Janner’s stomach ached with the shame of what he had said—and even worse, of what he had thought.

  A bent old woman in a filthy dress pushed through the crowd and poked Tink in the belly with a cane. Her face was warty and caked with mud, and she wore her hair in a grimy bun on top of her head. The Stranders fell silent.

  “Ye’ve taken down Claxton Weaver, head of the East Bend, boy,” she said. “We were all growin’ weary of Claxton. The fool’s me son, and that’s all that’s keepin’ him alive right now. You should know he’ll be after ye when he wakes, and aimin’ to kill. But don’t fear. I’ve a mash of slugroot that’ll keep this old mudbeard in bed for a few days at least. We Stranders won’t abide a clan leader dumb enough to let his dagger be swiped twice in one night.” She whacked Claxton in the leg. “If there’s anything we in the Strand have always liked, it’s a good tale and a quick hand, and you’re so fast even I didn’t see you swipe the dagger that second time. Hmph. Didn’t have it for long, but the lad got his pone, didn’t he, clan?”

  “Aye!” the Stranders cheered.

  “What’s yer name?” she asked.

  “Kalmar.” Tink straightened. “Kalmar Wingfeather.”

  “Kalmar,” the old woman said, and she spat. “Hmph. Well then, you and yours’ll have no shelter, but the fire is yours if you like.” Then she hobbled over to Podo and squinted up into his eyes. “Podo Helmer,” she said, jabbing him with the cane. “You’re not as handsome as ye used to be, old man. But me heart is still yours if ye’ll have it.”

  25

  Tackleball in the Fog

  Nurgabog?” Podo asked, flabbergasted.

  “Aye. It’s me.” The old woman smiled, and her leathery, wrinkled face creaked in protest. The Stranders whispered and pointed like they were seeing some rare animal for the first time. “I never thought I ‘d see ye again, but here ye stand, as ugly as a dig-toad and naught but one full leg—and still I want to kiss you a thousand times.”
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  “Nurgabog, dear, it’s fine to see ye,” Podo said, backing up a little. “Why didn’t you say somethin’ when we first showed up? If you didn’t plan to toss us in the river at all, it might’ve saved us a fat lot of worry.”

  “I let ‘em tie ye up because half of me heart would be happy to see you thrashing in the Blapp while ye sank! You left me fifty-five years ago without a word—and that was when I still had me teeth!” She sighed. “But the half of me heart that still wants to smooch won out, I reckon. I wouldn’t have let ‘em kill my sweet Podo.”

  “Thank ye, Nurgabog. You’re as pretty as ever ye were.”

  She answered with a whack of her cane. “Don’t you lie to me, old man! I know I’m ugly as a riverweed! Now listen. We Stranders of the East Bend will offer you a few days’ rest on account of Kalmar Wingfeather’s quick hand and your fine looks fifty-five years ago—on one condition.”

  Podo winced.

  “I want one deep, satisfyin’ kiss from yer grizzled lips, Podo Helmer. Been waitin’ for it long enough.”

  Nurgabog hobbled forward, closed her eyes, puckered her lips, and waited. Podo took a deep breath, leaned closer, and gulped. It was like watching someone about to eat a rat. Stranders and Igibys alike stood rapt and silent. Janner clamped his eyes shut and heard a long, wet kiss, then Nurgabog’s girlish sigh.

  The Stranders burst into applause as Nurgabog tottered away. Podo wiped his mouth with his forearm and watched her go with a look of fondness, sadness, and nausea. The clan dispersed, nodding at Tink as they passed. They paid no more mind to the Igibys than to the dirt in their teeth.

  From Pembrick’s Creaturepedia

  Tink swaggered over with a hand to the wound on the side of his head.

  “Amazing!” Janner said. “That was amazing.”

  Tink shrugged.

  “Listen.” Janner took his brother by the shoulders. “I’m sorry. Sorry I called you a coward. Sorry I doubted you.”

  Tink toed at the dirt, took a deep breath, and nodded. “It’s okay.”

  The knot in Janner’s stomach unraveled. He hugged Tink as tight as he could, and he didn’t care that Tink was too shocked to hug him back.

  “So how did you do it?” Leeli asked. “How did you steal the pone?”

  “I noticed Grandpa slipping the coins and knives from the Stranders as soon as we got here,” Tink said. “You can tell from the way their clothes hang whether there’s anything tucked in there and if it’s simple to snatch. It’s easy, really.”

  “Ha!” Podo said as he approached. “Easy as pickin’ a totato from the vine, ain’t it, lad? I tried to get somethin’ from Claxton but couldn’t get close enough to ‘im. Do ye realize what you did back there, Tink?”

  “Picked the clan leader’s pocket?” he said.

  “Aye, but ye didn’t just snag any old thing. You got his pone! Do ye know what that means?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Don’t let it go to yer head, but it means that for now, you’re the clan leader. The boss of this bend in the river.” Podo beamed with pride. “My grandson.”

  Tink’s face went pale. “Oh no. Do I have to do anything? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Not a thing,” Podo chuckled. “We’ll be leavin’ soon enough, and they’ll choose another leader. Besides, a clan leader ain’t in charge of anything. He does what he pleases, and the rest of the clan has to do what he pleases too. Bein’ a clan leader ain’t about havin’ responsibility—it’s about havin’ none at all.”

  Two Stranders appeared and dropped the family’s packs to the ground.

  “Old Nurgabog told us to put everything back,” one of them said.

  “Our thanks,” Podo answered.

  The Stranders left the Igibys free to sit around the fire and inspect their packs. Janner found his old book, his tinderbox and matches, his folding knife and his bow, his dried meat and mirror. As far as he could tell, his belongings were all accounted for.

  “It’s all here,” Nia said. She turned to her father. “You never told me you ran with the Stranders.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Tink asked.

  “Because it’s not somethin’ I’m proud of,” Podo said. “Just because it makes for a good story doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go back and change it if I could.” He looked at Nia. “There’s much I ain’t told ye, daughter, and much I don’t mean to ever tell.”

  With that, Podo lay down with his hands under his head and closed his eyes, and soon, beside a warm fire under the cool stars, they were all fast asleep.

  Janner woke to a world shrouded in fog.

  It draped the ground, creeping up from the river and collecting in eerie pools around tree trunks and depressions in the land, coursing between the rickety buildings that made up the settlement of the clan of the East Bend. The structures were made of planks and shutter boards, leftovers from the ravaging of Skree at the end of the Great War. They reminded Janner of Peet’s tree house, but unlike Peet’s castle, these buildings were shabby and unkempt, constructed without imagination or care. Stranders slept in or near the shacks, nothing for their beds but dirt, no pillows but their dingy hair and dirty arms. Beyond the shacks, deeper in the fog, squatted the cages.

  Janner could see nothing inside them, and the iron gates hung open. The Strander children had been so timid when they approached the camp the night before. May we come near? the girl Maraly had asked, and they hadn’t approached until Claxton gave his permission. Why were the children so careful around the adults? And where were their parents?

  Then he realized Tink was gone. The rest of the company lay fast asleep by the ashes of the fire, but Tink was nowhere to be seen. Janner scrambled to his feet.

  In the trees to his left, he heard voices, then a giggle. Tink appeared out of the fog at a trot, holding a leather ball under his arm. Janner breathed a sigh of relief and waved. Tink waved back, put a finger to his lips, and vanished into the fog again.

  Janner tiptoed away from the fire and followed Tink into the fog. Before he had taken two steps, Maraly materialized out of the mist like a ghost. Janner gasped and braced himself for a fight—the girl had a wild, mean look in her eyes.

  Out of the fog flew the ball Tink had been carrying. It smashed into the side of Maraly’s head, and she staggered sideways, scooped up the ball, and disappeared into the fog again, whispering, “Kalmar! I’ll get you. You can’t outsmart Maraly Weaver.”

  Janner shook his head in disbelief.

  Sounds of struggle came from the left, and he followed them through the fog until he found Tink and Maraly tumbling about on the ground, struggling for the ball that lay just out of reach. Janner strolled over and picked up the leather ball, and instantly found himself in the middle of the fight.

  Maraly Weaver fought dirty. She clawed and hissed, snapped her teeth and punched. She socked Janner in the gut, and he doubled over, gasping for air and angry she had turned a friendly game into a fight. But he wasn’t in Glipwood anymore. This was the Strand, and if he didn’t want to get a little hurt, then he shouldn’t play.

  Neither of the Igiby boys matched Maraly for meanness, but they got used to dodging her attacks. The three played tackleball until the fog lifted and the camp awoke. It was the most fun Janner and Tink had had since that last zibzy game with the Blaggus boys on the morning they explored Anklejelly Manor.

  Podo stoked the fire and prepared a breakfast of oatmeal and diggle strips. Janner plopped on the stump beside him, winded, wounded, and filthy from tackleball.

  “Good morning!” Oskar said with a puff of his pipe. Janner’s old book was open in the old man’s lap, and beside him on a stump were a few pieces of parchment and an ink bottle. “I’ve been working on this since I woke. The language isn’t so different from Old Hollish after all. Look.” He held out a piece of parchment on which he had scribbled several lines.

  “What does it say?” Janner asked.

  “A fine question, lad. A fine question.” Oskar’s fa
ce fell. “I’ll have to ask your mother. I can’t remember much of Old Hollish other than the look of the letters. All I’m doing is sorting out the new letters from the ancient ones. Once I have a page finished, your mother and I will set to work translating it.”

  “Made a friend, have ye?” Podo asked as Tink sprinted past the fire with Maraly at his heels.

  “I guess so,” Janner said. “Tink has, at least.”

  “We’ll eat some breakfast and then tread on. Every day we’re out here, the Fangs have more time to widen the search. It’s taken us longer to get to Dugtown than I thought it would, and the Ice Prairies aren’t gettin’ any closer.”

  Leeli and Nia returned from the river, their hair and faces dripping wet.

  “The shoal was safe, then?” asked Podo.

  “No daggerfish, and it was right where your old sweetheart told us it was,” Nia said.

  Podo rolled his eyes. “Nurgabog gave me this.” He held up Claxton’s pone medallion. “Said if we ran into any more trouble from Stranders between here and Dugtown, the pone would give us safe passage. Claxton’s a feared man, she says.”

  “Feared by everyone but Tink,” Leeli said.

  “Aye, lass. He did good last night, didn’t he?”

  Tink lurched past, hugging the ball to his chest while Maraly clung to his back and pounded on his ribs.

  “If we don’t run into any trouble,” Podo said, “we’ll reach Dugtown by dark. Nurgabog told me where to find a river burrow.”

  “What’s that?” Janner asked.

  “A Strander hideout. We can stay there while we make arrangements in Dugtown to get past the Barrier and up to the Ice Prairies. The Stony Mountains’ll be too cold for Fangs and too rugged for travelers. All we’ll have to fend from will be the snickbuzzards.”

  “And the bomnubbles,” Oskar said.

  “Aye, and the bomnubbles.”

  “They’re a terrible breed,” Oskar said. “Nigh impossible to kill. I remember reading in Pembrick’s Creaturepedia that—” He broke off at a glance from Podo. “Er, I’m sure we won’t see any. Probably not real anyway.”