Bookweirder

I
t could have been a forest back home. There was nothing different about the trees or the flowers or the animal paths worn into the mud. He recognized several prints: bank voles, red squirrels, foxes. Only the sounds of the forest were foreign. It wasn’t just a different dialect. Malcolm couldn’t make out a single word.

For three days now he had been wandering these woods. The abbot had told him that Norman would be nearby, but Malcolm had seen no sign of him—and Norman was hard to miss. He was more and more sure that the abbot had made a mistake. There was something wrong with this forest.

His few meetings with the forest dwellers reinforced this feeling that this was entirely the wrong forest. They seemed so shocked to see him—terrified, even. They scurried away down their holes or up their trees the moment they saw him. It wasn’t just the voles and the mice. It was the larger animals, too. The badger Malcolm had met along the path yesterday morning had no reason to fear him. Malcolm had just opened his mouth to say hello, but the big thing went berserk. He bared his teeth, let out that horrible warning growl that badgers have when cornered and backed away down the trail. Malcolm had called after it, telling the poor brute that he meant no harm. He’d even taken a few steps after him, but
Malcolm was too smart to chase an angry badger on his home turf.

“Mad creature, like the rest of them,” Malcolm had mumbled to himself as he watched the badger disappear.

So when Malcolm spotted the hare in the clearing as he prepared to make his camp for the third night, he was more cautious. His family had always gotten along with the hares. There was hardly a smarter animal in the woods. Surely this fellow would be more reasonable than the terrified mice and the befuddled old badger. Only, like the mice and the badger and every other creature he’d spied in this strange forest, the hare wore no clothes. Was this forest inhabited entirely by primitive tribes that spoke strange languages and did not have the decency to cover themselves up?

“ ‘Scuse me,” Malcolm said finally. He spoke in his calmest voice, not wanting to startle the hare. “My name is Malcolm of Lochwarren. I’m a stranger here in these lands, and I seek the home of Norman Strong Arm.”

The hare just froze on its hind legs and stared glassily at Malcolm as if it had never heard a stoat speak before.

“There’s no need to fear. Look, I’ll put down my weapons.” Malcolm slipped the bow and quiver from his shoulders and laid them down on the ground. He held his paws out wide and tried to smile without showing a fang. “Could you spare a stranger some directions?”

The hare didn’t move. It just stood there, its muscles tense, ready to bolt. What did you have to do to make a creature trust you in this place?

“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.” The voice was too big to have come from the hare and was from entirely the wrong direction.

Malcolm turned towards the voice. There, at the opposite side of the clearing, stood a man. He was much, much bigger than Norman, but unmistakably a man. You could not miss one, their skin so pale and their fur so patchy. This one’s head was as bare as a newborn squirrel’s.

Malcolm glanced back towards the hare, but the creature had fled. Never mind, Malcolm thought, surely this man-creature would be more useful. He introduced himself again.

“Good even’, good sir. I am Malcolm. I have come from the highlands in search of my friend, one of your kind. We call him Strong Arm, but he is Norman of the family Jespers and Vilnius.”

“I’ve freakin’ lost my mind now,” the big man mumbled. He ran one of his gigantic paws across his bald head. “Freakin’ talkin’ weasels.” He shook his head back and forth in disbelief.

“I’ve no desire to trouble you, sir,” Malcolm continued in a calm voice. Clearly this was a simple peasant, perhaps some village idiot. “Are the Jespers-Vilniuses known to you? Is their castle nearby?”

“Castle?” the big brute repeated. “Can’t believe I’m giving directions to a talkin’ weasel, but yea, there’s some sorta big castle thing over near Kestleton.”

“Excellent news. Excellent.” This was Malcolm’s first bit of luck since he’d arrived. He picked up his bow and arrow and stepped lightly towards the hulking man. “Can you tell me how to get there? In what direction ought I to go?”

A glint appeared in the big man’s eye, as if he had just realized or understood something.

“Sure, sure.” The brute spoke more softly now. “I can take you there myself.”

Malcolm put the man’s change in tone down to the mention of the Jespers-Vilniuses. They must be an important family in these parts. The big lout likely expected a reward for guiding their lost visitor.

It was too far for them to reach before nightfall. Malcolm, who had spent enough nights in this weird forest, was all for pushing on, but the big man insisted they camp for the night. As Malcolm followed him through the woods, he saw why. The man’s night vision was terrible. He stumbled over every root and struck every low-hanging branch with his battering-ram-like forehead. Malcolm was glad that he wasn’t riding on his shoulder, as he would have with his friend Norman. He would have had to duck for every branch. Instead the stoat bounced from tree to tree, easily keeping up with the man’s slow, stumbling progress through the woods.

The camp was just a single green tent and a strung-up tarpaulin, but it still made Malcolm dizzy to look at. The tent was about
as large as the chapel back at Lochwarren. The tarpaulin could have covered half the town square of Edgeweir.

The vegetable soup that he was offered was watery and burnt, but it was the only warm food he’d had in days, and Malcolm didn’t want to complain. He sat on a crate across from the big peasant’s cot under the green canvas of the tent and tried to learn more about this forest, but the man was no help.

“I’m from the city,” the big creature said, explaining his ignorance. Malcolm imagined some gigantic version of Cuaderno or one of the other Great Cites of Undergrowth.

After soup, the man poured himself a cup of some clear liquid from a blue bottle and took a swig before offering some to Malcolm. The drink was powerful. Malcolm could tell that from just sniffing it, but it would have been churlish to refuse the man’s hospitality now. The first sip made his eyes water. It was much stronger than any ale served in the taverns of Edgeweir. The big man saw it and chuckled to himself as he took another swig. Malcolm nodded politely and took another gulp of the fiery liquid. It was even worse than the grog that the river pirates favoured, but he smiled politely and drank.

Malcolm had once been knocked unconscious by a raven’s battle torpedo, but his head had never hurt as much as it did when he woke up the next morning. He didn’t remember saying his goodnights or being offered a bed. By the feel of his back and the hard surface beneath him, he’d fallen asleep right there on the crate. Perhaps it hadn’t been so smart to drink the peasant’s firewater on a nearly empty stomach. The stoat groaned as he drew himself up to his feet. He head throbbed and he needed a drink of water. He squinted into the morning light and cursed at what he saw.

He was a fool. How could he have let himself be tricked like this? It was embarrassing. The big man was a peasant, a dumb, stumbling oaf. Malcolm leaned himself against the bars of his cage. They were strong all right. It would take more than a few nights to chew his way out of this. He cast around the cage to see what he could use to get himself out of here. It was empty except for a
cup, mercifully full of water. Out on the crate beside the sleeping peasant were his hunting bow and quiver of arrows.

The blankets on the cot moved now, like a rock formation slowly shaking and coming to life. The giant man turned and opened his eyes, staring greedily at Malcolm.