Strangewood (26 page)

"Our Boy! Our Boy! You really are back! I know you can
do it, I know you can! You can fix it! Of course we will help you and when the
child is gone back to the other place, you will stay here with us and
Strangewood will be safe and beautiful again."

That was the moment when Thomas began to wonder about
Tinklebum's sanity, which was why he did not correct the bell-bottom's
assumption of the path things would take in the future. For the moment, all
that mattered was saving Nathan. Then he would do what he could to save
Strangewood, whatever that might be.

He looked away from Tinklebum's gleaming grin and glanced
across the path again. The burned out cottage, the lake, the Winding Way
leading out into a wondrous world beyond. While he had been talking with
Tinklebum, the dark had crept in and night had truly fallen. Now the orange
stars gleamed above, and Thomas realized he was already tired. He needed rest.

But there would be no rest yet. Not for a time. Not unless
he absolutely had to.

He frowned and turned back to Tinklebum. "Where are all
the others?" he asked, realizing even as he did so that he had thus far
learned nothing from the bell-bottom, save for the fact that the Jackal Lantern
was among his enemies.

"Others?" Tinklebum asked.

Then he began to shake a bit, as if he were shivering from
the cold. But it was quite warm in the wood that night.

"Tinklebum?" Thomas asked.

But Tinklebum wasn't answering. He shivered, staring off
into the orange-starred sky, and Thomas had the odd idea that somehow he was
being electrocuted. It was the way he stood there, almost frozen, quivering.

A low growl came from behind Thomas. Then the words. "Been
like that ever since his village burned. Fiddlestick wanted to leave him
behind, but I wouldn't let him."

Thomas turned around and stared up, up, and up into the
snout and tiny, soft eyes of Brownie the Grizzly. His paws were huge, his teeth
like daggers, but Thomas wasn't frightened at all. Instantly, he trusted
Brownie. Perhaps, he thought, his anxiety around Tinklebum had to do with the
bell-bottom's questionable sanity. And his own.

Brownie was another story.

Just as he had done when he was eight years old, Thomas
folded himself in the soft, moist furry embrace of the Grizzly, and he felt
safe. He whispered the bear's name, and Brownie patted his back, as he'd done
all those times, all those nights when Thomas had cried.

"Our Boy," Brownie whispered. "We will find
Nathan. You are not alone, here. You'd be surprised to learn who has sided with
you."

That stopped Thomas a moment. He felt the bear's arms
tighten around him, and the breath went out of him just a little. Then he
pushed away from the bear, stared up at him, back at the mad little bell, and
then Thomas Randall nodded.

He was in Strangewood. They had his son, his Nathan, but he
was not powerless here. Strangewood was not really his creation, but this
Strangewood . . . this he had created. All he had done had gone to shape it, to
carve it. His memories had changed it, his words had ordered it. Yes, and left
alone it had begun to fall back into chaos, back into its own law, its own
awareness.

But he knew this place. And he knew all of them. There was
power in that, and Thomas was determined to use that power against the Jackal
Lantern. He would need it.

"The Forest Rangers," he said grimly. "With
whom do they side?"

Brownie growled low in his chest. Tinklebum actually
chuckled a bit, and his clapper bonged twice.

"The Rangers have not acted to help either side, as far
as I know," Brownie said, his tone revealing his displeasure.

"No. Broadbough came to me, in my own world, and warned
me," Thomas admitted. "If their captain has allied himself with me,
the Rangers must do the same."

"What if they refuse?" Mr. Tinklebum asked, a
nervous frown of concern on his face.

"Then I'll burn them down," Thomas replied.

The Grizzly actually shivered.

Thomas turned and began to walk south, and the others fell
into step beside him.

"I don't think it's a good idea to take Tinklebum
through what remains of his village," Brownie said quietly, glancing down
at the bell-bottom who ding-donged happily along far below them.

"We won't be going that far," Thomas replied.

The bear stared at him, but Thomas said nothing more.

* * * * *

The fire burned blue.

That was the first clue the Peanut Butter General had that
things were not quite right. With Fiddlestick sitting atop his shoulder, the
General had forged tirelessly on through the oldest part of the wood. The trees
were a bit further apart and much taller and thicker than elsewhere. Some were
as broad across as four men shoulder to shoulder, and taller than even the
General's eyes could see, in spite of the glow from the orange stars.

They had passed the time mostly in silence, this strange
pair of travelers. What little they had in common stemmed from their concerns
for the boy, Nathan, and for Strangewood itself. And their journey. The journey
was all that mattered now. That, and the blood that must flow at journey's end.

Wildlife had been scarce, save for various night birds and a
run-in with Fox Trot. Though the General and Fox Trot had worked together
several times to thwart the best intentions of The Boy and those who lived in
the wood nearby Grumbler's cottage, the General had never trusted him. Nor did
he trust the red furred one now.

Still, Fox Trot was no friend to the Jackal Lantern and
would do nothing that did not benefit him directly. In the present conflict,
the General was certain the four-legged beast could be counted to stay out of
things all together. In truth, he suspected that having seen them in the
forest, and realizing that a battle was likely due, Fox Trot would have hidden
himself away somewhere until the worst was over.

Clever and mischievous, yes, but the fox was a coward.

They had journeyed on, after that brief meeting, and did not
chance upon any more fellow travelers. The Orange Pealers were silent, as the
General had commanded, and they moved in and out of the trees to either side. After
a time, the General saw them so infrequently that he'd nearly forgotten they
were there.

The night had come, and as the darkness crept from tree to
tree, and branch to branch, silence swept across Strangewood. Fox Trot, it
seemed, wasn't the only one who had hidden himself away.

"Fiddlestick?" the General had asked, the first
time in an hour that he had broken the silence. "Why do you do this?"

The dragon was unsettled, and fluttered its musical wings
for the first time in long, long minutes, causing the General to shush him
again. But Fiddlestick craned his long, scale-encrusted neck out so that he
could stared into the General's peanut butter webbed eyes.

"What do you mean?" the little dragon had asked.

The General had nodded, realizing how inadequate the
phrasing had been. "If the Lantern gets hold of you — or, for that
matter, if Longtooth or Cragskull get their hands on you — they'll kill
you, my orange-bellied friend. Do you understand that? You'll be dead?"

Fiddlestick's head sank lower, and he had glared at the
General through slitted eyes, only inches from the General's face. He had
snorted and fire licked out of his nostrils and scorched his nose.

"My parents are dead, aren't they?" the dragon
asked.

The Peanut Butter General raised his eyebrows at that,
though no one who saw him would have recognized the expression. Covered as he
was. He looked back at the dragon. So many questions came into his mind, but
instead of asking a single one of them, he had merely nodded slowly and said,
"Yes, of course."

"Love," Fiddlestick had said a moment later. "I'm
here for the love of Our Boy, and of his son, and of Strangewood. I can't think
of any other reason."

The dragon had leaned in so close that the heat from its
nostrils seemed to melt the peanut butter on the General's nose.

"What I'd like to know, General, is why
you're
here."

"I don't have a choice," the General had replied. "Which,
I believe, makes you the more courageous." Then he stared more closely at
the dragon for a long moment before looking away, as if to indicate that his
next question meant absolutely nothing.

But the Peanut Butter General was not one for idle chatter.

"Let me ask you, Fiddlestick," he had begun. "Do
you recall a time before I came? A time when there was no Peanut Butter
General?"

"You ask the strangest questions," the dragon had
replied.

After that, they had fallen into silence once more. Even the
wood was quiet. They had walked on along through the trees. At times it would
seem that they had come upon a path, but soon it would turn out to be nothing
more than the lay of the land. Once they came to a tiny stream, a tributary of
the Up-River, apparently, for it flowed up the steep wall of a ravine and then
on away into the wood.

Then, moments later, the fire. Blue, flickering light that
cast ghostly shadows through the trees. And in the branches above them, the
wood all around, things moved; and the General didn't think it was the Orange
Pealers. Wings fluttered like moths swarming to the glass around a torch lamp. Leaves
rustled. The General felt Fiddlestick begin to stir on his shoulder, and he
whispered harshly to the dragon to be still.

Ahead, perhaps eight yards away, the wood opened into a
clearing. The blaze was there, blue and white and crackling with destructive
hunger. Beyond the clearing, on its far edge, stood the largest tree the Peanut
Butter General had ever seen. But he had only been in this part of Strangewood
once before, and never through this particular clearing.

This was to be avoided.

"The fire," Fiddlestick whispered suddenly,
pointing one of his thin arms into the circle. "It's stones. They're
burning stones."

The General saw that it was true. In the presence of all
this wood, whatever had camped here had made a fire of stones. How this had
been done, the General did not know. But he did not doubt that it could be
done, for he was seeing it even now.

"We should turn back," the dragon suggested.

Out of the corner of his eye, the General saw the way
Fiddlestick's neck was drawn back, and he could feel the way the dragon was
tensed to flee. Calmly, the General moved his right hand to the pommel of his
sword and spoke to the dragon without turning.

"We go forward," he said. "It is the only way
for us now. If you try to flee, I'll cut out your flaming heart myself."

Fiddlestick said nothing after that. With the dragon on his
shoulder, the General moved cautiously toward the clearing. Wings beating,
something fluttered out of the branches above them and darted toward the
General's face. He ducked, put up a hand to defend himself, and several others
appeared and instantly raced toward his face.

"Back!" the General snapped, and struck out. He
connected with something, and heard it crash through some leaves and plummet to
the forest floor.

Another came at him, and now the General saw it clearly. Saw
it, even as Fiddlestick named it.

"Wood nymphs!" the dragon snarled.

And they were. Tiny fairy creatures, with bodies made of
wood and bark and wings of leaves. Their faces were savage and angry lights
burned in their eyes.

Many of them were covered with orange pulp, and the scent of
it was strong on them. The General's eyes went wide with horror. These
creatures had been stalking them, flanking them, and had murdered the Orange
Pealers in silence. Not one of them had so much as screamed.

"General, do you smell . . .?" Fiddlestick began.

"They're all dead," the General replied grimly.

Fire spurted from the dragon's nostrils.

The wood nymphs then swarmed in, and the General drew his
sword from its scabbard with a sticky tug. The peanut butter whipped away from
the gleaming blade and he slashed in front of him. The blade connected, hacking
through wood. The peanut butter on his shoulder slipped away, just as he had
promised, and Fiddlestick took flight, the music of his wings cutting through
the dark, pulsing with the flickering of the blue flame up ahead.

As he spun to face another onslaught, the Peanut Butter
General moved backward, his body naturally seeking a wider space from which to
defend himself, he stepped into the clearing.

The wood nymphs did not follow.

They hovered just outside the clearing, red, ugly light
flashing in their eyes as they glared at him for a moment, then turned to go
back and help their comrades-at-arms to attack Fiddlestick.

"Dragon, to me now!" the General cried. "They're
afraid of this place!"

Instantly, Fiddlestick moved. He had heard the General, and
with the tinkle of wind chimes, he shot up through the branches. Several of the
wood nymphs held on to his wings, but he brushed them off on the trees before
soaring out over the clearing. Moments later, he settled down not far from the
Peanut Butter General's feet.

Ten feet from the burning stones.

All around the clearing, the wood nymphs hovered. For all
intents and purposes, they were trapped.

"Vicious creatures," the General observed.

"Very," Fiddlestick agreed. "But what I'd
like to know is, for such horrid little things, what fear would this clearing
hold?"

They stared at one another then, soldier and dragon, and the
General felt a queer dread creep over him. He stared once more at the burning
stones, and then looked across the clearing toward the enormous tree. Fiddlestick
also turned to stare at the tree.

"That's her, isn't it?" the dragon asked.

"I believe so," the General replied.

Together, they moved slowly across the clearing and closer
to the enormous tree. With a last glance at one the dragon, the General knelt
on the ground before it.