The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (15 page)

“Woe is you,” I said, squeezing her wrist tighter. She was strong. I would need to do something quick. Her other hand was holding mine tightly against my body, keeping me from gaining any leverage.

“I will get my son back!” the mistress said. Her eyes widened, almost comically so, her irises as black as her pupils and big as the chunks of coal sitting on the pile beside us. “I can find the Juniper seed and get him back and then I will get my husband back! And if he doesn’t return to me,
then I’ll kill his son all over again
!
Right before his eyes
!”

Another grunt deeper in the cave. The mistress cocked her head, pushing her claws closer to my face.

“Revenge is a dish best not served,” I said through gritted teeth. I used my other hand to reach for the pen in my pocket, pulling it out with the tips of my fingers. I pressed it to the mistress’s bare wrist.

She screamed out, releasing her grip. It was all I needed—with the flick of my thumb, the cap popped off and I swung the nib, raking her across the face. The cut grew a fiery orange, then slowly began burning her away. She cried out, pulling away.

“No!” she screamed. “I’m too close! I can hear his song so clearly! I can hear the boy’s song!”

I got to my feet, stepping back and watching the mistress tumble over the nearest table, knocking over the carefully folded jeans as the orange flame consumed her. I needed to speed things up so I lunged forward, pushing her with all my might. She tumbled backward …

Right into the nearest furnace. The flames crackled and grew a bright orange, thoroughly satisfied by the Corrupted treat.

Another grunt. I turned. My heart began to race. I could see the terrifying lizard’s face creeping out of the darkness as it stepped closer. The fire from the furnaces danced over its thick, reptilian skin. A tongue darted out, tasting the air. It stopped for a moment, cocking its head so that one giant black orb could study me.

It was thinking.

Well, guess what? So was I.

I bent down and grabbed one of the metal coal shovels, sliding it across the ground and scooping up a pile of soft dirt and pulverized rock.

“I know you,” I said, stepping closer to the nearest furnace. “Well, I don’t know you personally, but I know about you.”

The lizard stepped closer. It was only a hundred yards away. It took a slow step, then another, then as more of its body emerged from the darkness, I could see its chest rising and falling more quickly. It was using the heat. It
needed
the heat.

I tossed the first shovelful of dirt into the furnace, turning away as the hot coals hissed and burned the dirt. I could feel the air next to the furnace cool a bit, but not enough. The lizard took a few more steps, faster now. I needed to hurry.

Another shovelful and the coals were completely smothered. I hurried to the next one, my entire body screaming
No! Don’t get closer to the lizard, for cryin’ out loud!
I scooped another shovelful of dirt into the furnace. A hissing sound echoed across the room, joined by a low growl from the lizard. It stepped closer to me, its tongue darting out almost close enough to touch me.

“Careful,” I said, stepping back. “If you
are
a gila monster, you’re poisonous. You don’t want to
kill
me, right?”

The lizard stopped, cocking its head. It took another step, slower this time as it moved away from the nearest lit furnace, closer to the ones that were already put out. We were so deep down that the heat had already begun dissipating,
replaced by a chill that cooled the sweat on my skin.

“Come on now,” I said, stepping back. The lizard stepped closer, its breathing slowing a bit as it approached the first extinguished furnace. I moved back quicker now, making my way around the wooden tables. My foot touched something. I risked a glance down, then did a double-take.

The boots. The boots the stepmother had been wearing.

I reached down and grabbed them, kicking off my shoes and stuffing my feet inside. They were a little big at first, but then a curious thing happened: I felt them tighten around my toes and heel!

The lizard growled, stepping closer to the tables. There was only one burning furnace on this side of the room, and it was off to my right. If I could just get over there and smother the coals, I could slow it down enough to make it a fair fight.

A massive shadow loomed over me, snapping me back to attention. I fell back and watched in terror as the lizard’s jaws snapped the nearby table in half. The wooden splinters flew into the air, followed by pairs of ripped jeans. The lizard spat out what remained, then stepped closer.

Close enough to smell its disgusting breath. Close enough to feel its breath on my cheeks. Warm, but not hot. Every movement was spent energy. It was cold-blooded. It needed the heat. But I wasn’t going to survive another quick attack like that. I looked up at it, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead.

“Man, I hope these boots work,” I said quietly.

The lizard’s head lifted up again. Its tongue darted out, testing the air between us. And then its mouth was open, coming toward me. I shifted my feet sideways, feeling myself float before my foot finally touched the ground again.

The lizard’s mouth closed around empty air. Its nostrils blew up clouds of dirt. I was nearly five feet away, an impossible distance to have covered without the boots.

There was no time to marvel at it. I reached down and grabbed another of the metal shovels, running toward the last furnace and feeling my body propelled forward with each step. I closed the gap so quickly that I had time to turn over my shoulder, time to stick out my tongue at the lizard who was still spitting out splinters of wood, and enough time left over to scoop dirt onto the burning coals.

They began to hiss. The lizard growled. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure it wasn’t sneaking up on me—it wasn’t. In fact, it was barely moving now, its legs picking up and hitting the floor as if it were on the verge of falling asleep.

I shoveled more dirt onto the hot coals, wrinkling my nose at the bitter stench of burnt dirt. With that finished, I hurried back to the nearest table, aware that the lizard was on the other side, trudging slowly around it, grunting loudly. I drew a new saber, pulling it from the table and stepping away just as the lizard’s mouth came down again, crashing through the wood, chomping at the splinters and spitting them out along with a healthy amount of poison drool.

“OK,” I said, taking another step back and feeling myself float for a moment before landing on the ground a good five feet from where I’d just been. “So you’re not slowing down
that
much.”

The lizard smacked it
s black lips. There were only two furnaces burning farther down the cavern, and their coals were already beginning to burn low, casting the giant creature in menacing shadows. The tan spots on its skin were the only thing letting my eyes get a good idea of the creature’s true size. Maybe if I could reach around its mouth and stab it with all my might …

“Yeah, and maybe it won’t snap me in half, too,” I murmured, clutching my saber hilt tighter in one sweaty hand. The creature moved closer. Slowly. Whatever energy it had left, it was saving for one final bite. It wouldn’t have to chew me up, either. If it really was a Gila monster, then its poison would do the trick.

The lizard took another step. Its tongue darted out, running across my leg before my saber could stab it. I could run around it. But if it got closer to the furnaces, it would regain its strength. It was my only hope, though. Fighting this thing face-to-face was a losing proposition. I needed to—

Something flew past my line of vision. The lizard’s head lifted up and its wide mouth opened, letting out a loud groan. I clutched my saber, half-expecting the mouth to snap at me once again. But instead, the lizard’s head simply dropped. Its legs followed, folding up so that its belly landed on the ground. Its big eyes blinked in surprise, watching me cautiously step to my left.

Then I saw it: an arrow, planted firmly in one of the tan spots near the creature’s tail.

“Holy crap.”

I turned toward the entrance. Seth was standing in the tunnel, staring at the little bow in his hand. He had the quiver sitting by his feet.

“Seth! You did it! The bow works!”

He laughed nervously. “Yeah. Except I was aiming for the thing’s head.”

I turned back to the lizard. The arrow, a good fifteen feet from its intended mark, was doing its job: the lizard couldn’t move. Its right leg was stretched out under its belly and I could see its tan foot: there was a chunk missing from the heel.

Cinderella’s stepsisters. They’d cut their feet to make the glass slipper fit. Was this one of them, changed by the Corruption?

“Holy crud!” Seth said. “That was the coolest thing ever. I’m a hero too! Kind of. OK. Not really. But I’m totally stoked about this. I should have a nickname. How about The Dark Archer? That sounds pretty sweet. Like, not too goofy, but also terrifying.”

I walked around the lizard, staring at its filed-down claws. Tunneling. Searching for a seed from a magical tree. What did it all mean? Hopefully, Briar would be able to find answers.

“Well?” Seth asked. “Aren’t you going to kill it?”

“No,” I said, grinning. “I’ve got a better idea.”

June 1, 1864

Never thought I’d keep a journal. Boy oh boy, just seeing my handwriting gives me chills! Five years ago, I was fifteen. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t do much of anything except serve the master drinks while he sat in his fat red chair and sweated something fierce.

Wasn’t my choice, of course. I was bought and paid for. Separated from my parents at the age of 12, sent to a farm in Georgia where I spent three years as a fetcher. I fetched everything. I fetched farming equipment, I fetched slaves from different parts of the cotton plantation, I fetched food from the storerooms for the cooks.

My parents told me that our family once belonged to the Oyo Empire in Africa. My grandparents were merchants who deplored the slave trade and refused to sell human beings to the European traders. Wasn’t long before they caused too much trouble and were sold themselves. When my mother was born, she was shipped down to Georgia. Arranged to marry my father, and boy if he wasn’t the happiest son of a gun on the whole plantation. She was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen, or so he told me. I believed him. I remember my ma being pretty. Proud, too. Proud that her grandparents had refused to treat their brothers and sisters like animals.

Could have been worse. But that doesn’t mean much, now does it? No sir, no it absolutely does
not
. It was a horrible way to live. Horrible way to treat someone.

So why didn’t you run away sooner, Eugene? I’ll tell you why: 20 lashings from the whip, that’s why. I saw it happen. A man named Jebediah ran off, got caught not two hours later by the master and his men on horses.

20 lashings with a whip. You don’t need to know what it looks like, seeing a human being’s skin after something like that. No one in this beautiful world should ever have to know that.

June 5, 1864

Didn’t plan on making a big fuss about my life and all, but I might as well finish my story while the beans are cooking over the fire. I escaped, all right. I escaped but good, and now I’m risking my life to save more people.

My escape wasn’t quite an adventure by any means. And I nearly slept through it! The night in question, I was sleeping on the ground in a small wooden home I shared with six other kids, all of em much younger than me. Tough to sleep. My legs were sore from work. I heard a noise outside. It was chilly out and I took my blanket with me as I went out to investigate. Expected to see one of the adults, maybe a servant heading back from the mansion.

Instead, there at the edge of the cotton field are two of the adults—a man and woman—standing with a Negro man with short hair, wearing a beautiful dark suit. Not the kind of suit you’d want to wear through a cotton field after a good rain.

Don’t know why I walked over, but I did. And the moment they saw me, they went nearly as white as our master. I saw it plain as day thanks to the full moon. They debated what to do. The well-dressed man introduced himself as Mr. Still and said all of us was going to follow the old drinkin’ gourd.

Otherwise known as the Big Dipper.

“You’ll get caught,” said I. “You can’t run all the way north.”

Mr. Still just shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re right. That’s why we’re taking a train.”

Turns out, it wasn’t a real train. Not a choo-choo train. It was all in our heads, really, and the “stops” were homes. White people’s homes. They hid us away in the basement during the day, gave us a little meal, then the next night we traveled farther north. I can’t even begin to describe what it felt like to cross the border into Ohio. A feeling came over me, and it had nothing to do with the frigid temperature, either. Can’t explain it. Won’t try to explain it.

And now?

Now I’m a conductor for the underground railroad. I help slaves escape, take em north into free territory. Across enemy lines, so to speak. Sad, isn’t it? Parts of America being “enemy territory” and all? The Civil War’s been dragging on for years now. People are dying by the thousands. Family and friends torn apart, and all of it because a bunch of slave owners want to keep their property.

But you can’t
own
a human being.

June 15, 1864

Passed the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. Been traveling under the cover of night, but as of right now the North is firmly in control around here. The general of the Union army, Mr. David Hunter, he came through here and burned the Institute to the ground. All that’s left now is a blackened skeleton of a structure. Haunts the eyes, looking at it for too long.

Ground’s all chopped up from soldier’s boots and artillery. I’m traveling alone, trying to get a little deeper south to the plantations in South Carolina. Trying to save a few more slaves. Talk among the abolitionists say all slaves are goin to be free once the Union prevails in the war but a lot of us aren’t putting our faith in promises.

We’re putting our faith in the North Star.

June 21, 1864

Boy howdy, what I wouldn’t give for a real meal right about now.

Long’s I’m dreamin, I wouldn’t mind a new pair of shoes. Maybe some sugary drink to tickle my tongue.

Going’s slow. I almost bumped right into a Confederate army marching north—imagine what they’d have thought seeing a black man marching south! Heh. Got to keep moving. Sick of moving at night. Can’t really spend any time reading during the day unless I’m inside of a safe house.

Mr. Hill, he was the one who taught me how to read. Was real patient with me, too, making sure I got a good hour in every day. Said it was important to read. It exercises your brain, he’d always tell me. And some day, it’s gonna save your life. I never forgot those words.

I got three books with me. They belong to an abolitionist in Virginia. He loaned em to me for my journey. One of them’s a play by William Shakespeare, called
Othello
. Another’s called
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
. I’ve read it six times already. The third is the published tales of Br’er Rabbit, that rascally trickster. They’re not bad, but they’re not nearly as good as the ones my parents told me as a boy. My parents could spin a yarn, I’ll tell you what. They knew every Br’er Rabbit story by heart. My pa, sometimes he would even act out the parts.

Don’t want to write no more today.

June 23, 1864

Sorry.

Now look at me, apologizing to my own journal! Well, suppose Mr. Hill is right and suppose someone does decide this here journal is worth reading some day. Suppose I came off a little too strong in the last entry.

Supposing all that, I guess “sorry” is important.

But thinking about my parents is tough. I’ve missed em every day since I was separated and sold off.

Every day.

June 25, 1864

(Entry missing.)

June 30, 1864

Needed some time to straighten out my head. Lots happened. Lots. Where to begin? Well, I guess the beginning’s as good a place as any.

I passed another Confederate army at sunset, just when I was striking out. Making my way through a thin patch of sweet birch trees, the perfect place for an army to pass through because there’s not too much shrubbery on the forest floor. Usually, I’m pretty good at night. Heck, I’ve been doing this for three years now, after all! But they were marching something fierce, too tired to even send some cavalry ahead to scout. Had to double back and find a good hiding place on higher ground where I’d be out of sight.

They were beat up. Beat down. Ragged and rusted and rambling and downright bedraggled. I’d have felt sorry for them if they weren’t fighting to keep people like me in chains. Still, they’re human beings … my ma once said to me, “Eugene, you let your heart freeze through, it can be tough to thaw it out.”

It’s exactly that type of thinking that had me giving away the last of my food—two loaves of bread and some dried jerky—to the six men left behind. Now, I know just how foolish it was, and I bet if any of the soldiers was a little healthier, he wouldn’t hesitate to slap me in chains and sell me to the first plantation owner he could find.

But for all their faults, at the end of the day they were still human beings. Two of them were just boys. Probably couldn’t find D.C. on a map, much less know what in the heck they were really fighting over. Heck, I know I could be wrong. Eugene Washington’s an optimistic son of a gun and darn right knows it. Someday, maybe my compassion will catch up to me.

But it wasn’t going to be this day. I gave out the food, helping what I could to get them comfortable, thought it was obvious they were wounded something fierce. “Help is coming,” I told em. I knew once I got to my safehouse in the town three miles south, they could get some folks from town to pick those boys up. Maybe, just maybe, one of them might decide getting saved by a freed slave is enough to change their minds.

I ain’t holding my breath. But like I said, I’m an optimistic son of a gun.

Gotta stop writing for now. Candle is almost burnt out. Sun’s coming up. I’m tucked away in a little crawl space underneath the living room floor of two of the nicest white folks I’ve ever met. It’s a cramped little storage room, but I like sleeping all curled up so I don’t mind. When I wake up, it’ll be evening. Time enough for a little meal with my “station masters,” and then back on the road.

July 1, 1864

Well now! Time to finish my story. I got to be honest, I’m not relishing this. First thing you’re going to say is, “Boy, this Eugene has gone right off the deep end. His brain went skinny dipping in the Mississippi and it didn’t ever come back.” I tell you, I’ve got my brain sure enough. And I swear what I’m about to tell you is the honest-to-God truth …

None of the Confederate boys I fed was in much of a talking mood. I guess seeing a freed slave behave all civilized and compassionate is a bit of a shock if you’re raised thinking Negros don’t have such qualities.

But the last soldier I fed, he was different. I knew it right away when I saw him. He was watching me, see. Squinting in the darkness, watching me slip between the birch trees.

“You’re a danged fool to turn your back on those other men,” he whispered to me once I’d crept closer. He was leaning against a tree, clutching his stomach.

“You could see me way on down there?” I asked, pointing over my shoulder.

“I can see you pointing, too,” he said. “Come closer, Eugene.”

I swear on everything that I’m not making this up. He knew my name. Spoke it like we were good friends in another life. So I stepped out from behind my tree and walked over to him, kneeling beside him and digging through my satchel. I had a little bread left. My stomach growled, arguing against giving any more away. There was still a good six hours of walking or so.

I plucked a branch from the nearest cedar, plucking the little oblong leaves. They had double-toothed edges. Felt comfortable between my fingers. I gently lifted the man’s hand from his stomach, and set the leaves over his wound. “These leaves will do a heckuva lot more than that meaty paw you call a hand,” I said with a smile.

“You know these woods,” the man said, pushing away the bread. Had a northern accent, which was curious.

“I been through here once or twice,” I answered.

“You shouldn’t have turned your back on those other men,” he said. “Even the boys. This little army has done …” he licked his thin lips. “Bad things.”

“They’re in no position to do any more shooting,” said I. “You sure you don’t want a little food?” He tried taking his hand away from his stomach but I kept it there. “You want to keep pressure on that.”

The man smiled. He was young, probably no older than me. He’d let his hair grow long. His face was dirty, and he had a thin beard. His clothes were ragtag, his shoes worn down pretty good. Lots of Confederate soldiers’ clothing was coming apart. At least, the ones I’d snuck a look at in the past month. They were all hungry and tired and running out of food.

“Eugene,” he whispered. “I’ve dreamed of this moment. I knew it was coming. Look at this.” He pulled a little leather bag from his torn belt and handed it over. “Minie balls,” he said. “For my gun. Never used a single one. Not once.”

The bag was heavy. I believed him. “So why not?” I asked.

“This isn’t my war,” he said. “My war is far more dangerous.” He reached into the pocket of his tattered pants, pulling out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to me. “Unwrap it.”

I shook my head. “How … how do you know my name?”

“Unwrap it, Eugene.”

I carefully unspooled the cloth. A beautiful fountain pen landed in the palm of my hand. The moonlight caught it, giving it just a little shine. It was heavy, metallic, the kind of thing that belonged on the desk of a New York lawyer. Not a soldier dying out in the woods.

“Now listen to me very carefully …” the man said, licking his lips.

July 5, 1864

Well! I’ve been stewing over it for a few days now, and I do believe I’ve come to a decision.

Eugene Washington has officially gone crazy. Yup, I expected it at some point. Just not so soon. Thought I’d get married and have a few kids before my mind packed up and headed out, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards.