Tigerheart (6 page)

Paul marveled at her olfactory skills, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of looking impressed because his head was still smarting from where she’d thumped him. “You’re Fiddle!”

“Fiddlefix, if you please.”

“I know you! It was you!” His voice was growing more and more excited. “When I clapped in my dreams, it was for you!”

This brought Fiddlefix to a halt. Slowly she set the pot aside and stared fixedly at Paul, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You clapped for me?” she said slowly.

“Yes. The Boy urged me to. Urged all children. And I tried to remember it clearly since that night, and I could, but not entirely clearly. Then I look at you, and your light illuminates it all for me. What a superb pixie you are. The greatest, most wonderful pixie in all the world.”

Well, if there’s one thing that pixies are, it’s vain. And not only was Fiddlefix not the exception to prove the rule, she was, rather, the rule incarnate. She lifted her chin proudly, adjusted the leaf that was her garment, and then chimed at him, “Clap for me now.”

Paul was quite happy to do as he was bidden, banging his hands together enthusiastically. And Fiddlefix brought one arm across her middle, swept her other arm back graciously, and took a deep bow. Then she curtsied in a vague attempt to suggest the sort of manners she didn’t truly possess before bowing once more.

“Well done!” Paul said. “A splendid bow! You are truly the most marvelous creature I’ve ever seen.”

“You are no doubt right,” Fiddlefix said approvingly, but then she flopped down upon the floor in a manner so lifeless that Paul thought, for one horrible moment, that he’d gone and lost her. But her glow did not diminish. Instead, she was simply paralyzed by sadness. “The Boy did not think so. He killed me, you know.”

Paul was aghast. “No! I’m sure you meant so much to him! I don’t believe—”

Fiddle immediately sat up, her eyes wide in horror, which puzzled Paul until he realized that the absolute worst thing you can say in the presence of a pixie is any sentence beginning with “I don’t believe,” for if two fatal words follow those, it will not go well for the pixie. So Paul hastened to finish the sentence as he’d always intended, which was, “he would do such a thing on purpose.”

Fiddlefix glowered, the light around her actually darkening to reflect her black mood. “He is heartless,” Fiddle said. “He was never the same after the wretched Gwenny came and went. Oh, he played at being the same, because, you know, that’s what he does. But he wasn’t. I could tell. And he despised me because I could tell.”

“The Gwenny?” said Paul. “Who is the Gwenny?”

So Fiddlefix proceeded to tell him the entire tragic (as she saw it) history involving the intrusion of the Gwenny, along with her brothers, into the Anyplace. Some of it sounded passingly familiar to Paul, for the history of it had seeped from the reality of the Anyplace into the dreaming Anyplace, and from there into the deepest minds of children everywhere. That happens on occasion. Dreams usually go one way, toward the Anyplace; but from time to time something of enough significance happens to reverse that trend, and it becomes one of those things that children just “know.” Most of the songs and taunts common to childhood, for example, originated in the Anyplace. The waterspout upon which the eensy, weensy spider crawls drips water in the Anyplace; and the liar whose pants are perpetually on fire resides there; and the rhymes for choosing up sides, such as “My mother and your mother were hanging up clothes,” were first chanted there; and yes, believe it or not, there exists in the Anyplace a solitary chicken whose sole mission in life is to get to the other side of the road.

So now you know.

“And The Boy was going to bring her back for spring cleaning,” Fiddlefix concluded, her chiming voice rising as her ire rose. “And I told him she would be nothing but trouble, mark my words. And he said—”

She stopped. It was clearly hard for her to continue, and Paul was loath to urge her to do so. But then she took a deep breath and forced out the words. “He said he didn’t believe. In me. In pixies. The Boy, of all people, said it.”

“But he could not have meant it. He knew it not to be true,” Paul said. “He may have said he did not believe, but he didn’t believe in not believing.”

“The Boy believes what he wants to believe, when he wants to believe it. And right then he said it because,” she said tragically, “he wanted to see me die.”

Paul gasped. For all that he had thought The Boy at least somewhat heroic, this cold and capricious act was simply staggering to him. “That…bounder!”

“Yes.”

“The heartless cad!”

“He is rather,” Fiddlefix said carelessly, as if the matter were of little consequence to her rather than the greatest thing in the world. “And this is the person you seek?”

Paul explained to her as quickly as he could what his intentions were. Fiddlefix listened, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s possible,” she said at last. “I haven’t been in the Anyplace for a while. I’ve no idea of the lay of the land. But perhaps there are young lost girls now who would serve your purpose. For that matter, perhaps there’s a mother Indian who would not miss her papoose if it disappeared.”

“I would think she would,” Paul said uncertainly.

“Hard to say. Mothers are difficult to predict.”

Paul pictured the lady his mother had been and the one she’d become. “That’s true,” he had to agree.

“The Boy had a very low opinion of mothers,” Fiddle said, “except when he was busy trying to pretend the Gwenny was his mother. He wasn’t happy unless he was either pretending or making himself miserable, and he never knew what he wanted. Except me. He didn’t want me,” she added in that same tragic tone that simply ripped at Paul’s heartstrings.

“What’s to be done, then?” Paul said. “How am I to seek the help of someone who can treat another so badly?”

If Paul had been older or wiser or a bit cannier in the ways of pixies in general and Fiddlefix in particular, he might have perceived the scheming in her voice. For Fiddlefix was nothing if not a conniver. She didn’t do it maliciously. It was just the way she was. “You can go to the Anyplace and avenge me against The Boy,” she said with growing excitement.

Paul gasped at the very notion, and even glanced around to make sure that no one was listening. “Me?” he said. “Go up against The Boy? But…I couldn’t!”

“If you haven’t, then how do you know you couldn’t?” Fiddle said reasonably.

“And—The Boy? He killed Captain Hack!”

“He did no such thing,” Fiddlefix said. “Hack threw himself to the serpent that had pursued him all those long years, after The Boy fed him Hack’s right arm. Perhaps The Boy might have defeated him, perhaps not. I can help you, though.”

“But I have no experience in adventures. Not real adventures. Adventures when I’m sleeping, yes, but this…”

“I will aid you,” said Fiddlefix. “We will have the element of surprise. Why, I’d wager my wings that The Boy doesn’t even remember me anymore.”

“I would never forget you,” he said with full passion.

“A bargain, then,” said Fiddlefix, twinkling with glee. “Come with me to the Anyplace. Aid me against The Boy. And I shall find you a new sister to set things right and restore your mother to you—presuming, after spending time in the Anyplace, you have any interest in having her back.”

Paul felt no end of trepidation over the notion, but Fiddlefix was looking at him expectantly, and he felt caught up in forces that were beyond his ability to control. Which is, when one thinks about it, not unlike the first true steps to adulthood. But Paul didn’t see it that way. All he knew was that pleasing the females in his life had suddenly become the most important thing of all. One of those females was a mother who had been there all his life but had emotionally abandoned him, and the other was a female who had been in his life for less than half an hour and made him feel like the most important boy in the world.

“I am yours,” he said to her.

Fiddlefix chimed with joy, so loudly, so purely, that Colleen Dear, sitting downstairs in the study—the cobbled-together leftovers now serving as her dinner growing cold on the table—heard it. She had no idea what it was, but despite appearances, she knew one thing it was not: a bell. She responded to it in a primal manner that she would not have thought herself still capable of possessing. She ran up the stairs, her mind racing, trying to determine what the source of the noise could have been, how she was going to deal with it—all that and more.

For the first time in a long while, fear for Paul created a crack in her veneer. She began calling out his name in a manner that, had he heard it, would have given the first true lift to his heart that it had felt in quite some time.

As it was, he did not hear it, for he had received a lift of a very different sort. And so when Colleen Dear burst through the door into the room, all she found was her pot, deftly repaired, shutters banging open in the wind, and no sign of her son at all.

Chapter 6

Dark and Sinister Boy

S
ee him there? Pull him up in your mind’s eye now, and he should be clear to you.

The Boy, walking about the deck of the
Skull n’ Bones,
a rakish-looking craft, foul to the hull. See the swagger in him as he develops his sea legs, swaying back and forth. Occasionally he will lash himself to the wheel in anticipation of a storm possibly blasting him off the deck, even though the sun is shining down upon him. Realizing then that it has missed its cue, the sun will scuttle behind clouds to accommodate him and a storm will come rolling in, pounding harshly upon him while he grips the wheel, turns it sharply, and bellows, “Stay the course, ye scabrous dogs, or every man jack of you will feel the lash of the cat before we’re done!”

It is a sight that brings a smile to our lips, or at least to mine, and very likely to yours as well. A boy at play, pretending that he is a pirate with the same enthusiasm that any other child might…except any other child is conjuring his sailing vessel out of pillows or sofa cushions or large cardboard boxes.

The smile fades slightly, however, when one notices a few things. Gone is the forest raiment that The Boy was sporting when he returned to London to fly Gwenny away for spring cleaning. He has instead donned the suit that Gwenny once made for him, right after Hack had abandoned himself to the jaws of the serpent. It is an evil suit, made from the wickedest garments in Hack’s wardrobe. Moreover, The Boy has developed the curious habit of straightening his right arm and chopping it, as if it bore a hatchet the way that Hack’s had, waving it around every so often and threatening those of his crew who make the mistake of drawing near during one of his foul moods.

That, however, believe it or not, is among the lesser of our concerns. Our greatest concern stems from this: that one judges a man, or a boy, by the company he keeps. The company that The Boy is keeping is of the most disturbing variety, so much so that we almost hesitate to tell you lest they take root in your dreams and make it impossible for you to sleep well. You might wake up one awful night screaming, for instance, “The Terrible Turk is coming for me!” If that should happen, I must confess that the chances are the Terrible Turk is, in fact,
not
coming for you. But my advice to you is that it’d be best if you stayed awake until sunrise on the off chance you might be right; and I would hate for you to believe otherwise, leaving me feeling responsible for your sudden and violent demise.

Let us survey the deck of the
Skull n’ Bones
as the crew goes about its business, all under The Boy’s watchful eye. Let us discuss, in more detail than before, the remaining Vagabonds who accompanied The Boy when he heartlessly abandoned Gwenny for his newfound activities.

First among them is Big Penny, The Boy’s second in command: bold and brassy and tanned almost to a copper hue and hard as the coin for which he’s named. When The Boy swaggers, Big Penny swaggers as well.

Big Penny is busy bossing the other Vagabonds…except we should backtrack and make clear that they, in fact, no longer go by that name. Big Penny, you see, presented the notion to The Boy that it was a misnomer, considering they were not aimless wanderers, as vagabonds most certainly were. Instead they had a home, aim, and purpose. Pondering Big Penny’s words, The Boy finally agreed it was a valid point, and promptly changed their name to the Bully Boys. It suited their nature, and they very much took to their new moniker, as we shall soon see.

The other Bully Boys, then. Over there is Yorkers, small and shifty and master of unfair play. Nearby him is Roomer, with fiery hair and repulsive disposition, never happy except when he is speaking ill of someone else behind his back. And Caveat, the most intelligent of the Bully Boys, prone to throwing elegant-sounding foreign words in his speech, and the most insidious in thinking of ways to hurt others with minimal risk to himself.

Those then are the Bully Boys but, scarily enough, they are not the largest cause for concern.

Once upon a time, you see, The Boy and the Vagabonds fought and killed pirates. Indeed, they commandeered the
Skull n’ Bones
over the dead bodies of Hack and his entire crew, save two whom you’ve already met, and who have served their purpose in our narrative. Yet now The Boy captains Bully Boys, not Vagabonds, and they all work side by side with—brace yourselves and cover your ears lest the news be too terrible for you—pirates.

The villainous-looking lot that served under Hack was more fearsome than any who had hung in a row on Execution Dock, and yet they pale in comparison to those who stalk the deck now. They are Barbary pirates through and through, with not so much as a single gentleman in the bunch. There are fifteen of them, most of them walking about shirtless, since The Boy—unlike the Eton-schooled Captain Hack—has failed to institute a strict dress code. Their muscles are thick and glistening; and many of them were slaves who revolted, took over their masters’ ships, and continued plundering, making them doubly desperate and doubly dangerous.

Some of them are Moriscos, fearsome and scowling, such as the formidable Suleyman, with his shining shaved pate and gold tooth. Near him is the aforementioned Terrible Turk, all bristling beard and gleaming scimitar. Perched in the crow’s nest, looking for possible plunder on the seas, is Simon the Dancer, so deft on his feet that when you think you are about to cleave him with your sword, you discover he’s suddenly behind you and you are doomed. Scowling off in the forecastle is the mulatto, Agha Bey, his naked chest covered with tattoos that say unspeakable things in foreign tongues. And those are just the ones whose names we dare speak. Most of the others don’t even have names, which, as you know, makes them all the more formidable. To know someone’s name is to have some degree of power over him, even a little. These others are pure wild cards, and we know not what they will do or to whom or when.

And, overseeing all of them, walking among them and smiling and nodding, is the crooked old lady with the hooked nose.

We will tell you more of her later, since you must suspect by now there is a great deal about her to be learned (not the least of which is why such a scurvy and repulsive lot as this would tolerate the existence of a woman on board). For the time being, all you really need to know of her is this: She never strays all that far from The Boy. She coos in his ear, whispering sweet nothings of adoration, telling him what a wonderful job he is doing and how he is the greatest captain who had ever sailed the seven seas. She dotes on The Boy, and The Boy in turn dotes on her words of praise. Mother to son? Older sister to younger brother? A bit of both, but the result is that The Boy never sways from his course, secure that he never misspeaks; never makes mistakes; and never does anything that isn’t justified, no matter how unjustified. Thus are the dangers of living in an insular world surrounded by those who tell you only what you want to hear rather than what you need to.

Do you still hold out hope that this is mere playacting on The Boy’s part? That he still maintains a solid grasp on the difference between right and wrong, hero and villain? One has to admit that he always had a tenuous hold on the differences at best, but now we will see that matters have deteriorated.

What is the best way to show it?

Let us choose an ally of The Boy’s and see how he responds.

The Boy has many allies throughout the Anyplace, people and races who have come to know him and respect his sense of adventure, his flashing sword, his heroism when it suits his fancy. We have done a quick drawing of lots and made our decision as to who shall be brought forward and given the honor of being victimized by The Boy, all to prove the point. Our apologies to the six princes; the bishop of the Gnomes; the Swan Princess; and, most tragically, the troupe of Hungarian acrobats. We will instead select for the purposes of demonstration the Indians of the Picca tribe.

In the past, The Boy and the Piccas had formed a bond of trust and friendship as a result of The Boy’s rescuing their beloved first daughter, Princess Picca, at Rotter’s Rock. In the past, as a result of that bond, they fought a great fight and lost many braves to the cutlasses of Captain Hack and company, all to protect The Boy and the Vagabonds.

So let us see now what transpired when Simon the Dancer, up in the crow’s nest, called out to The Boy, “Savages, Captain! In canoes! Off the port bow!”

The Boy, who had been standing at the wheel, staring at his hand, immediately looked up with interest. Sure enough, coming in from the left were two canoes manned by small Picca fishing parties.

“They mean to attack us, Captain!” Roomer said, slithering within range of The Boy’s ear. “You can see it in the fierceness of their bearing!”

The Boy pulled thoughtfully at his imaginary beard. He looked quite striking in his splendid garments: a black frock coat with gold trim, white shirt, gray cuffed pants with black buccaneer boots, a plumed tricorn hat, and his sword tucked boldly through a red sash around his waist. He strode to the port bow and studied the braves, the old lady behind him, petting him affectionately on the arm.

The braves had no weapons on them. Instead, three to a boat, they were sitting there with fishing cable dangling in the water. They had paddled their boats to get into position but now were bobbing in the water, having just the paddles so as not to scare the fish. Upon seeing The Boy staring at them, they waved in leisurely fashion and then went back to the lazy craft of catching fish.

“They obviously mean business!” The Boy said. “And what sort of lords of the seven seas would we be if we didn’t answer in kind!”

“Well spoken, my pet, well spoken,” the crooked lady said. She straightened his collar slightly so that he would look his best, taking care not to step upon his shadow as she did so.

“Roll out the guns!”
said The Boy.

“Roll out the guns!” Big Penny repeated, and the order was chorused one to another to another, until the formidable Suleyman—the best shot of all of them—had the cannon up to the port side and angled directly at the peaceful Indians.

One of the braves noted the cannon aimed right at them, and began shouting in alarm to his fellows. At first they didn’t believe him, but then they saw, and they very much believed. They grabbed their paddles and quickly started trying to get to shore.

Too late! Too late!

The cannon unleashed its deadly burden, and the braves leaped clear just as the cannonball smashed into their canoe, ripping it asunder. The pirate crew laughed merrily at the sport as Suleyman reloaded the cannon. He needn’t have bothered, for the rest of the Indians had already vacated their canoe, swimming as fast as they could toward the shore. This didn’t deter Suleyman, who aimed and fired with terrible accuracy, blasting apart the second canoe.

Just to drive home the point, The Boy leaped into the air, drew his sword, and flew off the ship. While his crew pointed and chortled and egged him on, The Boy swept down toward the Indians. Then he paused and said, “Oh! It’s you! This is all a vast mistake, my friends! Truly!”

“Truly?”

“No, not truly, for I am first cousin to Puck and say what I like to mere mortals.” Swinging his sword at the Indians while hovering just above them, he was out of reach of their hands but they were well within reach of his sword. The Indians kept being forced to dive far under the water to evade The Boy’s sword thrusts, but every time they came up for air, there he was, dive-bombing them while crowing continuously.

It was a truly tragic day for the Indians. They finally managed to get back to shore with only a few cuts and nicks, and one brave had lost his magnificent braid of hair, since The Boy had swept down and slashed it off with one deft flick of his sword. Once they splashed up onto shore, however, they heard a low growling and saw burning yellow eyes from deep within the undergrowth. The Indians backed up, moving along the shoreline; but they were too slow, for a fearsome tiger came bounding into view.

He was a great and terrible beast, with the largest head that any of them had ever seen and fangs as long as the arm of any one of them. Had the Indians been armed, they still would have been hard-pressed to defend themselves. Unarmed, they had no chance. The tiger took down two of them beneath its claws and gnashing teeth while the others managed to effect their desperate escapes.

As for The Boy, he returned to his ship, where he danced merrily upon the deck, playing his pipes and singing praises of himself while the others joined in. There had been no plunder in the harassment of the Piccas, but at least it had provided some sport.

So it went, day after day and night after night. Sometimes they made life miserable for the various residents of the Anyplace, and other times they sailed away from the immediate area in order to plunder and steal from other realms. We will not go into detail here, although we will mention that The Boy’s confrontation with the
Flying Dutchman
was particularly memorable and deserves a book unto itself.