The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (17 page)

He shouted something else in German, but I got the gist of it. A fella knows cursing when it hits his ears in any language. I took two more books from another crate,
Frankenstein
and
The Count of Monte Cristo
.

“I’m much obliged that you read in English,” I told him, stuffing the books in my knapsack. “Suppose these books are hard to find in Germany. Suppose you haven’t been to Germany in a long time, have you? Suppose you follow the bloodshed.”

More cursing. I decided to take my leave of the Hessian.

July 17, 1864

Hungry. Tired. Passed a stream and wet my whistle. Not sure which stream it is. Not sure exactly where I am. The trees are familiar, but I’m too famished to think straight. I passed a town in the early morning. Thought I recognized it. I slipped around the edge of town in the darkness just before dawn, wandering around brick buildings that seemed familiar. Even the library looked familiar. I set down the Hessian’s copy of
Frankenstein
on the doorstep, then walked confidently to my safe house on the north end of town.

I swear, it was my safe house. It was a bona fide “station” on the Underground Railroad. I
swear
it. But when the gentleman opened the back door, something strange happened.

My eyes stung. I stepped back. I’d knocked six times, which was our code. The door had opened. But standing in the doorway was a short man not half my size, wearing a gray suit and positively lit up like a glow bug. As if there was a lantern right behind him, sort of slipping its way underneath his pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is … is Mr. Walter White here?”

“Mr. White,” said the little man, “is gone from here, dear boy. Who are you? Who do you belong to?”

“The … the Beauregard Plantation,” I said, thinking fast. Come on, Eugene! You’re more clever by half! “I was told to pick up a sack of flower from town.”

“At night?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you looking at me so?” he asked.

“Never … never seen a small man, sir.” I tried not to squint. But my eyes were so used to the darkness … the light coming from this man burned my eyes. “I should go,” I said. “So sorry to bother you.”

The man shouted something, but I was already making my way through the little cotton field on the north end of town. Back into the forest.

Not sure that was such a good idea. I’m hungry and tired and only put in a couple hours of walking before the sun came up. Not sure if the little man is going to send anyone after me.

July 18, 1864

There’s a Confederate army moving west. At the northern edge of the forest, near the Virginia border. A big army. They’ve got lots of men on horses, and they’re moving slow. It’ll take a day to get around them, especially in this are
a of the forest full of big southern red oaks. Too thick with undergrowth to make good time. And I need to make good time. Something is following me.

Don’t know what I’m doin. Hungry. Scared.

Was reading
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
during the afternoon, waiting for dusk so I could creep around the Confederate army. But whatever is following me seems to be waiting for night, too. Definitely not the short man. Definitely an animal.

A page slipped out of the book. Feels strange. Can’t quite explain it, but the fountain pen seems drawn to it like one of those magnets magicians sometimes use. I’m going to try writing something.

July 19, 1864

Here’s what I wrote on that blank page. First thing that came to mind …

Well now, Br’er Rabbit was always a clever little rascal. A trickster.

My pa’s favorite way to tell a Br’er Rabbit story. Br’er Rabbit the trickster, always getting into trouble. He’d sit on my bed all sweaty and sore from working in the field, and he’d tell me a story about Br’er Rabbit. It helped me sleep. So did feeling my ma’s warm, calloused hand on my bare back.

“Ahem!”

I fell over the log I’d been sitting on. A terrified scream escaped my throat. I peered cautiously over the log and gasped.

“Oh dear, sweet Eugene you’ve gone mad as a hatter!” I exclaimed.

Br’er Rabbit eyed me suspiciously. He was wearing a pair of gray trousers and a brown vest, just like a human would wear. His ears were standing straight up. Brown fur. About five feet tall. Definitely a figment of my imagination.

“You know a wolf is hunting you, right?” he asked.

“I … I had an inkling
something
was following me,” I said carefully. Not wanting to spook my imaginary rabbit.

Br’er shrugged and looked around, spotting a berry bush. “Them edible?”

“I dunno,” I said. “I dunno what rabbits eat.”

“Oh, I suspect I can eat most anything,” the rabbit said. He hopped over, grabbing a pawful of berries. He hopped back, munching on a few and staining his big buckteeth a bright blue.

I shut my eyes. Get a hold of yourself, Eugene.

When I opened them again, the rabbit was standing in front of me. His paw was held out. Three blue berries sat there.

“Thank you,” I said, taking them and popping them in my mouth. They tasted heavenly.

“Don’t thank me,” Br’er Rabbit said. “They’re gonna make yer stomach hurt like there’s no tomorrow. And I do apologize, but that wolf chasing us is more than a little hungry.”

“Wh … what?” I asked. My stomach answered with a sharp pain, doubling me over.

“Again, so sorry,” said Br’er Rabbit. “But I am a trickster, as you may know.”

“As I may know … wait! Come back!”

But he was already hopping away, making his way between the tall trees.

From somewhere in the empty woods came the haunting howl of a wolf.

“Come on, Eugene,” I said. “You’re the hero, right? That’s what the nice soldier man said.” I looked around frantically for something to defend myself with. But all I had was the fountain pen.

And the piece of paper! I stared at the words I’d written. Whatever magic it was using … maybe I could use it again. So I started writing again.

Br’er Rabbit was the hero’s friend. And when he sensed Eugene was in trouble, he returned to lend his friend a helping paw.

“I have had a change of heart,” said the rabbit.

I fell back. He was sitting on the fallen log beside me, watching me with his two big blue eyes. The tips of his ears were flopped over.

“You gotta save me,” I said. “My stomach …”

“I can lend you a helping paw,” said the rabbit. “But you are the only one who can stop the wolf.”

“How?” I asked.

The rabbit pointed to my pen. “That will do the trick, I should think.”

“How’s a pen going to kill a wolf?” I asked.

Another howl, so close it tickled the hairs in my ears. My eyes darted from tree to tree, searching. The setting sun cast long shadows inside the forest.

Br’er Rabbit just shook his head. “Come on, now. You know that pen is magic. Do I really need to spell it out?”

“No … no, I suppose not.” I took the pen, holding it over the fat trunk of the fallen log. Last time, I’d drawn a book. Well, I didn’t think any book was going to stop a wolf no matter how good the book was.

So I drew a pistol. The image glowed on the surface of the log. I stared at it.

“No offense,” Br’er Rabbit said a bit nervously, “but you might want to hurry. I do believe we’re not alone.”

I looked up and nearly wet my drawers. There, standing—standing!—beside one of the southern red oaks not ten feet away was a wolf.

A big, bad wolf.

I pulled the gun from the log, aiming it at the wolf with a shaky hand. I pulled the trigger.

Click!

“Er, do you know how a gun works?” asked the rabbit.

“Not really.”

“Well then why did you think
that
contraption would work?”

The wolf answered with a growl, lunging at me A pair of soft paws grabbed the back of my shirt, spinning me around. The wolf missed me, reaching out for my knapsack and tearing it away from my shoulder.

“We should probably run,” Br’er Rabbit said, hopping back on the log, “since you obviously have no idea what you’re doing, and I’m a delicious juicy rabbit!”

I took a step back, watching the giant wolf tear at my knapsack with its big snapping jaws. It quickly lost interest, skulking its way around the oak tree. So close I could smell him. Smelled like a big old wet dog.

“How about a saber?” Br’er Rabbit asked. “You know what that is?”

“Course,” I said. “It’s a piece of sharpened steel.”

“Then draw it,” Br’er Rabbit said. “And … if you could, please be quick about it.” He began hopping up and down on the log. “Hey you! Yeah, you!” he called out.

The wolf looked at him, cocking its head. Then it turned back to me. Drooling.

“Hey!” Br’er Rabbit said, grabbing my journal off the ground. He threw it at the wolf, knocking him right in the kisser. The wolf turned and growled, crouching low.

And then it was flying through the air! Br’er Rabbit hopped back over the log, turned, and ran with the wolf right on his puffy white tail. “Hurry now!” he called out.

I drew a general’s saber into the trunk of the log. It glowed bright and golden, and when I pulled it out, the cool steel sent goosebumps up my arm. I tested the edge: sharp as a butcher knife.

From the shadows came an “Eep!” The rabbit appeared from behind a tree, followed by the terrifying wolf. “Get ready!” he called out.

“What do I do?” I asked, clutching the saber’s hilt with both hands.

“Point the sharp end at the monster, dagnabbit!” Br’er Rabbit jumped into the air, right over the log. The wolf was only a hare’s breath behind, lunging right at us.

I pointed the sharp end at the wolf. And closed my eyes.

July 20, 1864

We had to straighten some things out today. First and foremost, I leveled with Br’er Rabbit and told him everything the soldier had told me about the magic pen. About the Brothers Grimm and their voodoo silliness. About the Corrupted. He seemed to know a little bit, maybe because when I’d written those first few words on that blank piece of paper, I’d been thinking about the stuff the soldier had told me.

“So we hunt down these monsters and destroy them,” Br’er Rabbit said. He slapped his paws together. “It’s downright heroic!”

“Yeah, lots of fun,” I said, laying on the sarcasm.

He paced the forest floor. We’d made our way around the Confederate army, back into Union territory where we could at least breathe a little easier.

“Of course,” Briar added, “that means I’m also Corrupted. After all, this magic page of yours is no doubt a leftover from the magic paper used by the Brothers Grimm. How the Hessian got the book doesn’t matter. Magic is magic, no doubt.”

So I added this to the piece of paper:

The Corruption couldn’t touch Br’er Rabbit, as he was pure of heart.

One of the rabbit’s ears perked up, as if he knew what I’d written without even seeing the paper. He didn’t have much interest in seeing anything I’d written. “That’s mighty kind,” he said, hefting the book of fairy tales, “but I suspect it will only stave off the inevitable. After all, many characters in this book end up living happily ever after. And yet here they are, turning all sorts of evil.”

“You’re right,” I said.

“And so you shall have to write in my official position as deus ex machina. Helper extraordinaire. Assistant to the hero.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Once I write it … I don’t think I can change it. You’ll be shackled to your duties.”

Br’er Rabbit set a hand on my shoulder. “Dear Eugene, you must understand I’m not the Br’er Rabbit from the stories you were told as a child. I am your creation. I have appeared out of thin air as the result of
magic
. And I shan’t go off frolicking in the woods living in a briar patch. The only purpose I could possibly serve is to assist the hero. And I should very much like it.”

I sighed. The tip of the magic pen sat on the piece of paper. “All right,” I said finally, and wrote down the words that would forever bind my furry savior to this new world …

Br’er Rabbit’s job was to serve the hero and assist in the destruction of the Corrupted. And by gosh, Br’er Rabbit was good at it. He was smart, capable, witty and sleek of foot. He could turn invisible at will, keeping himself hidden from the rest of humanity. And he had the peculiar quality of communicating with his fellow animals …

“Ahem!” Br’er Rabbit tapped his foot on the ground, staring at me. “It’s hardly necessary to mention my intelligence or wit. Such qualities are natural in a fellow like myself. Don’t you remember the stories your parents used to tell you?”

I laughed. “I sure do, Br’er Rabbit.”

His whiskers twitched. “Call me Briar. My friends call me Briar.”