4: Trundle-Wraith

Fistlock quickly surveyed his clothing, even opening his black silky travel cloak to look underneath. Wide-eyed, Panderflip watched. When Fistlock was satisfied the journey didn’t include rearranged clothes, he studied the surroundings. “Horrid place,” he said as he looked at the trees. “A world to stay away from. Too many insects and fuzzy creatures from the look of it.”

“This is where the book was, Master.” Panderflip held a forked stick shaped like the letter Y. The single branch stretched down from the V of the twigs. It pointed at the hole left by the missing hearthstone.

“Magic. Fresh magic. But not when the book was here,” Fistlock said as he walked a small circle. “And what is that smell?”

“I believe it’s butter and cinnamon, your Shadowness. That means--”

“Forge-Twiddlers,” Fistlock said, finishing the sentence for his chamberlain. “Forge-Twiddlers,” he said a second time, emphasizing the sound of each word. He swept his wand around the clearing. The meadow grass withered, turning from fresh green to coarse brown as each blade toppled flat to the ground. Small flames flared and died, leaving a trail of soot blackened footprints marking where the wizards had stepped. “The book’s still on this world and the Forge-Twiddlers aren’t.”

“Maybe I could track it with my delving rod,” Panderflip said as he walked across the clearing, checking each footprint with his stick.

Fistlock ignored him and used the chimney stones as a seat. He tucked his wand under his arm and took a thin, round, pewter container from a pocket inside his cloak. Silently he read the words of magic etched into the lid before he opened it. Inside were many short needles. Very carefully he picked one up, barely able to grasp it between his thumb and finger. Closing one eye, he focused on a tiny hole in the tip of his wand where he inserted the blunt end of the stinger. “You didn’t think to bring a trundle-wraith along, did you?” he called to Panderflip. “No, I didn’t think so,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “Come here, Panderflip. I have a mission for you.”

***

A long line of cars and trailers inched ahead and stopped. The last weekend before school was always a busy time and it seemed everyone planned to leave the park at the same time. The Summerfield family used to travel in a cramped two-door car until Windslow had his accident. That’s when they got the van with a wheel-chair lift. The van was big enough to haul the camper trailer, too. Windslow had argued with his father about that. Both his father and Trish, his step-mom, decided on the trailer because they didn’t want Windslow to sleep on the ground. He insisted, and soon found they gave in easily whenever he said doing something he wanted would make him feel more normal.

He didn’t like using his paralysis that way. He only used it when he was sure they were just trying to baby him. He didn’t like using it with Hillary. She was fun, and even though she was a month older, he had enjoyed acting like her big brother. It had been a great way to get her girlfriends to come around. Or maybe it had just been stupid. He’d put her teddy bear up on the roof on purpose; just so he could show off to her friends. He was the one responsible and now she had to stay with him like a personal servant. That’s what made him so grumpy lately--thinking about it. He was so glad they had the adventure last night. It was almost like the time before the chair.

“Psst…”

Windslow tried to turn his head far enough to look at his sister, but could only see her out of one eye.

“Psst…”

“Hey, mom. Sounds like one of the tires is leaking.”

“What?” Trish asked from up front.

Hillary kicked the back of his seat.

“Nothing. Hillary is just making strange sounds to get my attention. I think she deflated.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said from behind him.

Trish adjusted the rearview mirror to look at them. Windslow waved. Trish gave a small chuckle and twisted the mirror back. Bill gave it another twist, put the van in gear and drove forward another ten feet.

“This thing is blank,” Hillary whispered, her breath close to the back of his neck.

Windslow twisted his head again and spoke softly. “I know, and what about the pages? Do you think they got all stuck together from being buried?”

“I don’t know. This book is weird. The whole thing still scares me. Maybe we should turn it in at the Ranger Station when we check out.”

“No,” Windslow said, twisting his head so hard that it hurt his neck. “Not until we have time to look at it more. It was magic, Hillary. I know it. You know it.”

“But you’re not supposed to remove archeological artifacts or plants or anything from a park. It said so in the brochure.”

“You think this book belonged to a dinosaur or something? Name one time you’ve ever heard or read about, where the things that happened to us happened to someone else.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“All right. Compromise. We take it to school tomorrow. I’ll show it to Mr. Nick. He’s the coolest science teacher I ever had. He might be able to tell us something.”

“Ms. Christensen, too. You’ll have her this year. She’s really smart and easy to talk with.”

“I know her. She helped me when my mom died. Okay, double-dust-dish deal.” He reached behind his head.

Hillary hooked her little finger with his and squeezed. “Double-dust-dish.”

Windslow let out a quiet sigh, knowing the book would stay secret from his parents. He knew they wouldn’t understand. Hillary hated dusting and doing the dishes. So did he. It was one of the things his dad wouldn’t let him out of. If Hillary broke her promise she’d have to wash and dust for two weeks. Maybe not two weeks. Just a day, he told himself. He knew that any longer would add to the press of guilt already crushing him.

“Hide that thing someplace,” he whispered to Hillary.

“I will. As soon as we stop and mom and dad are in the Ranger Shack.”

***

Panderflip was staring at the ground, searching with his divining rod, and not paying attention while he walked back to Fistlock. With a quick flick of his wrist, Fistlock touched his wand to Panderflip’s neck.

“Something bit me,” Panderflip said and slapped the back of his neck. He jerked up straight, his shoulders no longer slouched, his back arched. The divining stick clattered to the stones, released from limp fingers that were already swelling. He teetered and collapsed.

“Well, that was careless of me,” Fistlock said and grabbed Panderflip’s legs. “I should have stuck him over by the trees and saved myself some work.”

Sweat beaded on Fistlock’s forehead and glistened on his thick black eyebrows from the effort of dragging his stout ex-chamberlain to the closest tree. Before casting his spell, Fistlock braced his hands on his knees and rested to catch his breath. Still stooped over, he waved his wand across Panderflip’s feet and pointed at the tree branch over his head.

A rope appeared. One end crawled down the trunk and across the bed of pine needles to Panderflip’s boots. Two twists around, a simple knot and the rope snake stilled. Fistlock stepped back. Panderflip’s body slid across the needles, rubbing away the top brown layer to expose a trail of dirt underneath. The rope dragged its captive only a short distance before lifting it off the ground. Panderflip swung gently upside down, his head even with Fistlock’s shoulders.

“Too much green,” Fistlock said. He mumbled something and pine branches around him lurched. Like the sound of crinkling cellophane, green needles crackled, turned brown, and dropped from their branches. Fistlock cursed and brushed the needles off his shoulders. He walked back to the ruins where he watched and waited.

Fistlock’s wait was short. Panderflip’s mouth turned black and puffed outward, his lips hard like the beak of some large creature. His head twitched and shoulders hunched as he twisted upward to form a hideous letter J. Saliva dripped syrupy at first, quickly thinning into a long thin strand. The creature he had turned into began spinning.

“This part always fascinates me,” Fistlock said. He folded his arms and watched as the cocoon formed. He didn’t bother to wait the required time, and used magic to speed up the transformation. The wraith wouldn’t survive long. Fistlock had to take the risk. Too much time had already slipped past and his chance to catch the book thief could be lost if he didn’t hurry.

He whistled an off key tune while he walked back to the tree. Without a pause he pulled his dagger and slashed the bottom of the hanging form. Three black globs dripped and pooled on the ground. “Hm…” he said and gave a kick. “Four.” The last drop splashed into the others.

Like thick ink they flowed together and changed shape, first an oval pool, then round-ended fingers stretching outward. One finger touched the tree’s shadow and the whole pool moved into it.

Fistlock opened his pewter container while he watched the pool blend until only the tree’s shadow remained visible. “I have work for you.” He sprinkled a pinch of silvery powder on the pin.

“Yes, Master,” the trundle-wraith answered from its hiding place in the tree’s shadow.

“Someone stole my book. Track the thief and stick him with this.” Fistlock dropped the pinpoint into the shadow. “Go.”

Part of the tree’s shadow separated and flowed to another shadow cast by a branch. From there the trundle-wraith moved quickly, uncomfortable away from its normal home in the shadows under a bed. Branch, to grass, to stone, to a moving shadow from a cloud, it ran. Fistlock tried to keep it in his sight, but couldn’t. Even knowing what it was and what to look for didn’t help. He buttoned up his travel cloak and summoned a journey-wind.

***

Shadows from the big rectangular shapes gave the trundle-wraith some comfort. The forms reminded it of beds, but higher off the ground. They stretched out in a long row that made the traveling easier than in the woods. But something didn’t feel right. Thinning and changing to match the darker, then lighter shadows, took too much effort. Thinning was easier. Dark was hard, like matching these shadows. They moved slowly, stopped and then moved again, spaced evenly along a narrow strip of hard black ground. Not far up ahead it could sense the thief. The trundle-wraith felt itself thinning. Would it make it there before wasting away? Would the thief be sleeping and let an arm dangle from the bed?

***

“Okay, hide it now. They’re both inside,” Windslow said. “Stick it inside my saddlebag.

“I can’t. It’s too close to the door.”

“Then open it. Quick,” he said and twisted the door handle.

Hillary squeezed past him and shoved the door open.

“Come on. Hurry,” he urged as she jumped out. He held the bag open while she shoved the book inside.

They both let out a long breath when Hillary slammed the door and jumped back into her seat.

Windslow laughed and drummed his hands against the van’s roof. “You did it. Now we can just sit back and enjoy the ride home. Nothing can go wrong from here.”

“Shoot,” Hillary said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Something bit my ankle.”