The Sword of the Wormling (5 page)

Reaching the islands of Mirantha would not have been easy at any time of the year, but this being the rainy season in the Lowlands made it especially difficult. Rivers were swollen and difficult to cross. Owen could hardly believe that, even this far from Mountain Lake, many villages had been destroyed by the flood, scattering families to higher ground.

His lungs now free of water, Owen was rejuvenated. He and Watcher discovered a cave where they rested, carefully venturing out occasionally to hear the voices of Connor and the others echo through the valley.

At nightfall they set out again through the muddy tangle of trees and plants. As they walked, Owen tried to explain his world, and he could tell Watcher was mystified.

She seemed most astounded that the animals there couldn't talk. “Was it a big change getting used to—me?”

Owen nodded. “But I don't think of you as an animal. You're more of a person to me. You remind me of someone from home, but I can't think who it is.”

“I remind you how?”

“You know, your sense of humor, the way you talk. The things that make you
you
.”

“Is it someone you like?”

“Well, I like you. How could I not like someone who saved my life?”

Watcher, leading him through the wilds, turned and walked backward, her stubby tail wagging. “There was something about that, which I didn't tell you. Something strange.”

Owen stopped. “A voice?”

“No, but I heard one at the lake, earlier in the day, telling me to warn everyone of the flood. Then, when you couldn't breathe, I felt hands on mine, pressing your chest. It had to be an invisible.”

Though Owen had told only his father about the voice, he now told Watcher about the arm in the night and that voice—strange yet comforting.

“Exactly,” she said. “Every other invisible I've encountered has scared me. They either attack or they're stalking, planning an attack. But this one helped, as if he was on our side.”

They slept in hiding during the day and continued their trek each night, speaking in hushed tones, Watcher pointing out landmarks by the moonlight.

On the third night Owen could still see the outline of Mountain Lake looming behind them. “What lies beyond what's left of the lake?” he said.

“Wilderness as far as you can imagine. And a place known as Perolys Gulch.”

“Who lives there?”

“A race of cursed people. Outcasts. Diseased. If you ever speak of going there, you will go alone. I've known no one to return from there alive.”

Owen pondered her fear, and they walked a little farther. He could tell Watcher was upset just talking about such a place.

“In some places in my world we have mountains you can see for miles while driving.”

“Driving?”

Owen had to explain the concept of cars, which made Watcher gasp. That led to his telling her of all the differences between their worlds. When he mentioned school and every child learning to read, Watcher stopped and stared. “I can't imagine owning a book, let alone reading one.”

“I can teach you,” Owen said.

“It is forbidden.”

“By whom? Surely not the King.”

“The Dragon. The King is in hiding. We live under all kinds of rules.”

“And how does he make known these rules?”

“Each village is part of a township, the townships divided into regions. Representatives from each region receive the rules from a member of the Dragon's council.”

“And the citizens have no say?”

“Anyone who has ever argued or even questioned a rule has been killed. Bardig was our representative, but Connor will probably take his place.”

“Is he not afraid the Dragon knows he is a rebel?”

“He fears nothing and no one. Bardig tried to persuade Connor not to mount an attack until the time was right. Until the Wormling came.”

So there it was again: the responsibility that made Owen shiver. He was having a hard enough time taking care of himself. Now others depended on him for their very lives.

“Anyway, you can't teach me to read,” Watcher said.

“Don't be so sure. The Dragon is not my sovereign. He has no authority over me. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, he has no right to rule this kingdom. He appointed himself. He destroys. He kills. He's done nothing but keep the land under his thumb, if he has one.”

Owen grabbed a stick and wrote the first few letters of the alphabet in the sand. “We'll begin with the basics.”

“And someday I'll be able to read that big book?”

Owen smiled. “Maybe one day you'll write one.”

* * *

When Owen and Watcher seemed to have distanced themselves from the voices, they settled into a comfortable pace. Now they walked by day and rested at night. Every day at first light they set off, moving steadily until they couldn't see the path in the darkness. They slept under trees or in burrows or caves. Watcher was able to determine which dens were vacant merely by her keen sense of smell.

Owen had worried about what they would eat when Bardig's wife's treats and the few soggy provisions in his backpack ran out. But they found berries and other fruit along the way, and they occasionally stocked up from the vegetable gardens and fruit trees of villagers. Watcher assured him it was understood among the Lowlanders that any traveler was welcome to the bounty at the edges of each property.

Just when Owen believed he had had enough fruits and vegetables to turn him into a salad, Watcher—quick footed and able to pounce—would catch a pheasant or a turkey or a rabbit and they would roast it. Owen had never enjoyed food that . . . well . . . fresh, but he learned quickly that hunger is always the best seasoning. He also discovered he had a natural talent for cooking the meat to perfection.

As they walked and talked all day, Owen told Watcher stories from his many hours of reading.
Treasure Island
was one of his favorites, as were the Harry Potter series, the Hardy Boys, and countless fairy tales. He took her into the world of
Robinson Crusoe
, shipwrecked and alone—or so he thought—on a deserted island.

Watcher could hardly stand it when Owen stopped a story in the middle and told her he would tell the rest the next day, but he knew that would keep her interest and make her even more eager to learn to read.

Every day at sunset they found a place to spend the night, gathered wood for their fire, ate, and then Owen read from
The Book of the King
. Often he read the prophecy of the Wormling, then a story from another part of the book. There were so many to choose from. Some told the exploits of daring knights and kings, others of sojourners like him and Watcher, and still others were simple fables.

“Read the smiling story,” Watcher said one night as they finished their rabbit. She looked exhausted.

“You sure it won't put you to sleep? You've heard it so many times.”

She shook her head and her ears twitched.

Owen opened the book and began to read.

“Gretchen was a young girl with only one smile left in a land where no one smiled. Not even at birthday parties. People were glum. Serious. They didn't have time for childish things like fun or laughing.

“It had been Gretchen's practice in the evenings to lock the door of her room, sit in front of the mirror, and smile. It made her feel so warm and good that she couldn't wait to do it again. But something told her—and she had every reason to believe it—that she had but one smile left. She was saving it for just the right moment when she needed to feel wonderful.

“Walking home from her village one day, her last smile tucked away so she could enjoy it when she chose, she came upon a lad sitting by the roadside, tears streaking his dirty cheeks. He had somehow twisted his ankle, leaving it swollen and puffy. He wouldn't let Gretchen even touch it.

“She tried to help him up, but still he cried.

“From her basket she pulled a piece of candy, a sucker that made his tongue turn blue, but still he cried.

“Gretchen knew one thing that would make the boy feel better, one thing she could give him that could change his life. But she had only one left, and she wanted to save it for herself.

“Gretchen had to make a choice. Save her last smile or give it away.

“As she gazed upon the weeping child, she made her decision. She took the boy by the shoulders, looked deep into his eyes, and smiled.

“Of course he had never seen such a thing in the land of no smiles. And so the change in him was instantaneous and dramatic. He couldn't help but respond, and instead of taking the smile and running away with it, he gave it right back.

“So Gretchen had one more smile to enjoy for herself . . . or to give away again. She learned that you can never lose what you freely give.”

Watcher sighed and brought her forelegs up under her, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “I love that story. I know it's about learning to give, but it also makes me want to smile more often. That sure makes life more enjoyable.”

Owen scooted closer to the fire and curled up. He was teaching Watcher to read, but she was also teaching him. And the next day they were to learn even more.

Ahint of salt blew on the wind, and Watcher told Owen the islands of Mirantha were still at least a day away.

As they slowly picked their way through the wilderness, Watcher kept reminding Owen to be quiet.

He whispered, “Why?”

She nodded toward a barren region of rolling hills filled with tumbleweeds and upturned earth. “The Badlands,” she mouthed.

It appeared to Owen as if the bad part stretched a thousand miles. The land before them had turned from forests and glens to rocky crags, desolate save for scrub oak and the occasional cactus. On either side of the path sheer rock walls created a narrow passage. It was the only way in or out, and they had to move in single file.

Dark clouds foamed and roiled as if a storm was about to explode. It made the passage look like a black tunnel of death.

“This must be Forbidden Canyon,” Watcher whispered. “It is said that the Dragon lived here for a time after his fall from the King's court.”

“The Dragon used to serve the King?”

Watcher lowered her voice even more. “Something terrible happened between him and the King. I know only what Bardig told me.”

“How did Bardig know?”

Watcher stopped suddenly, and her ears twitched. She looked up. “Demon flyers. Come!”

She pushed Owen inside the canyon as a blast of wind swept over them and a giant wing flapped, reminding Owen of the terror of the Dragon pursuing them at the B and B. Owen ducked a jutting rock and fell into the sand. Watcher joined him as the flyer passed.

“Are they looking for us?” Owen whispered.

Watcher shook her head and closed her eyes. “Demon flyers herd and gather their prey.”

Owen studied the rock walls. Something drew him, but he couldn't place it.

“You're not thinking of going up there, are you?” Watcher said.

“Perhaps the King's Son is there. If we follow those flying things back to—”

Watcher pulled him down. “Another!”

The air swirled violently, and an unearthly cry echoed off the walls, penetrating Owen's heart. It sounded like the screech of some demonic beast.

Watcher said, “Come, hurry, before it's totally dark in the canyon.”

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance as Owen squinted to try to see. Stones skittered down the walls, forcing Owen and Watcher to take cover. Floating through the chasm came an eerie, mournful lament, as if someone was rehearsing deep regrets and sorrows.

“That's an enchantment,” Watcher said, raising her shoulders to cover her ears. “Hurry. Don't listen.”

But Owen was already caught in the grasp of the music. He looked up as it swirled around him like smoke from a campfire. He noticed movement—eyes peering down. He quickly caught up to Watcher.

“If you get trapped in this, Wormling, I will have to leave you! There's no hope for you if you become enchanted.”

The music followed them, and Owen thought he heard movement above, perhaps voices. Was this part of the enchantment? Something stirred deep within him. “How can there be music,” he whispered, “when it's been outlawed for so long?”

They could see only a thin strip of the dark sky from this deep in the canyon, and Owen noticed mist descending. Thunder cracked closer, and the music became even more somber, sounding like a funeral dirge. Owen had been to only one funeral in his life, for an old man whose workshop had been next to the bookstore. The music had been played soft and slow, as if the room couldn't handle the people's silence. It was the one thing Owen remembered, other than the strange symbol on the dead man's ring.

Suddenly drums joined the music, and it grew so loud that the ground shook.

Owen glanced up to see Watcher's mouth form an O as she stared at something behind him.