Deep is the fen, p.10
Deep Is the Fen, page 10
“You’ve never tried to go farther?”
I shake my head. Why would I?
“I’ve never met anyone who could do that before.” The way he says it, I know that Caraway has met a lot of people who could do other things. Magical things.
“I’m not a witch,” I say quickly, because I’m not.
“You can turn witch-eyed.”
“Threadwise,” I say. “It’s…not the same thing. Witches manipulate mettle.”
“And I can only work with Toad mettle,” he says. “I’m not a proper witch.”
“What is it?” I ask him, my voice barely more than a whisper. “The Toad mettle? I see it on my da, sometimes. Is it some kind of curse?”
“Not exactly. But it’s nothing good.”
I want to press him further, but a little part of me whispers a warning as I remember what he said to Mr. Gray. I told you I’d handle it. Handle what? Handle me?
I can’t trust Caraway. Can’t trust any Toad.
We lapse into silence.
* * *
—
AS WE DRIVE ON into the afternoon, the countryside grows bleak and colorless. The neat fields and hedgerows are replaced by gray moors and rocky outcrops. There are fewer and fewer signs of human habitation, and even inside the car, the air feels chilly and damp.
Caraway is as pale as the sky above us, his eyes fixed on the road.
“Why Deeping Fen?” I say at last. “Is there something special about it, or does it just have a really cheap conference center?”
Caraway glances at me. “You really don’t know the story of the three toads?” he asks. “The one they perform at the harvest pantomime?”
“I have spent the last five years trying very hard not to learn anything about toads.”
“Well, buckle up, Morgan, because this weekend you are going to learn far more than you ever wanted to know.”
“How utterly marvelous.”
We’ve lapsed back into banter, which is a thousand times preferable to the awkward exchange of magical secrets.
“Are you sitting comfortably?” he asks.
“No.”
Caraway ignores this and begins his story. “Long ago, a Beast threatened the town of Deepdene, on the edge of Deeping Fen.”
“What kind of a beast?” I ask.
“Not important. Some kind of monster.”
“It seems important.”
“Stop interrupting. The Beast captured a beautiful maiden from the town and hid her away in the depths of Deeping Fen, a gloomy and dangerous bog.”
I make a disapproving noise. “Always capturing maidens. Let me guess, a knight arrived to rescue her?”
“The Green Knight.”
“Does the girl get a name? I bet she doesn’t. They never get a name in these stories.”
Caraway glances at me. “She’s known as the Fox Bride.”
“She’s the one getting married this weekend.”
“Indeed.”
“Is she a fox? Why doesn’t she get her own name?”
“No idea. That’s just what she’s called.”
“Maybe the Beast was a fox.”
“Seriously, Morgan. Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“I’m fifty-fifty each way, to be honest.”
I see a twitch at the corner of Caraway’s mouth, and feel absurdly pleased to have made him almost smile.
“The Green Knight came to slay the Beast and claim the hand of the Fox Bride—yes, Morgan, I understand how much this disgusts you, but just wait. It’s not like other stories. The Green Knight failed. The magic of the fen turned him all muddled; he became utterly lost.”
“You know what I like about this story?” I ask.
“What?”
“Literally nothing. Please continue.”
“After days of wandering aimlessly in the fen, the Green Knight grew very weak. He received a bite from a marsh fly that soured his blood, and found himself dying, alone and without hope or solace. A toad came along and the Green Knight told him his sorry tale, and with his last breath asked the toad to defeat the Beast and rescue the Fox Bride, as he had failed to do it himself.”
“Wait,” I say. “His last breath? The Green Knight dies?”
“Yes.”
“From a marsh fly bite?”
“Yes.”
“That’s…kind of pathetic.”
Caraway shrugs. “There are some pretty nasty insects in Deeping Fen.”
I shake my head. “A marsh fly.”
“So the toad took the Green Knight’s sword, gathered his two brothers, and found the Beast in his lair, preparing to eat the Fox Bride.”
“Gross. Did the Beast eat the toads?”
Caraway shakes his head. “Nobody wants to eat a toad.”
“Tell that to a barn owl.”
“Well, this beast didn’t want toads. All toads are toxic, did you know? They have glands that secrete poison when they get stressed.”
I make a face. “Just when I thought I couldn’t hate this any more.”
“Anyway, the toad told the Beast that if it could answer a riddle, the toad would give it his toadstone.”
“His what?”
“Toadstone. A magical jewel that lets you see through the eyes of any toad.”
“Sounds very useful. What was the riddle?”
“The king’s is blue, the farmer’s red. Mine is cold, and yours will be shed.”
I blink. “That sounds less like a riddle and more like a threat.”
“While the Beast was thinking it over, one of the toad’s brothers was sneaking around, looking closely at its thick hide, searching for a weak spot. This brother was known as the Ghost Toad, because he could move unseen by the keenest eyes. He found the weak point at the base of the Beast’s neck, and showed it to our hero toad—”
“No hero of mine.”
“—through the use of the toadstone.”
“The jewel that lets you see through the eyes of any toad.”
“Exactly. But at that moment, the Beast solved the riddle. The answer, in case you haven’t guessed already, Morgan, is blood.”
“I’m shocked. So did the toad give in and hand over the toadstone?”
“Of course not. The Beast decided it would just kill the toad and take the stone. But a horrible noise sounded at that moment, behind the Beast. A howling scream, enough to make fear creep into the heart of the very bravest soul.”
“The Howling Toad, right?” I say.
“You have been paying attention after all, Morgan. Well done.”
I poke my tongue out at him. “So the Howling Toad made a scary noise…”
“And the Beast turned its head, to see what terrible monster had made it.”
“Ah. I see where this is going.”
“The vulnerable spot exposed, the toad drove the Green Knight’s sword into the Beast’s neck, killing it instantly. It then returned to Deepdene with the Fox Bride, and the Beast’s head. The people were overjoyed, and bestowed riches and honors upon the toad, making him their king. He married the Fox Bride and ruled the land with a firm, just hand until the end of his days.”
Caraway leans back in his seat.
“Is that it?” I ask.
He nods. “That’s it.”
“It’s kind of a terrible story.”
“It is what it is.”
“But none of it’s real. It’s just a story—the toad, the magical jewel. It’s just pantomime stuff.”
Caraway shrugs. “There’s power in stories.”
Unconsciously, his fingers drift to his left bicep and trace the edges of the glamour patch under his T-shirt, as if reassuring himself it’s still there.
“Why do you wear it?” I ask him.
“Wear what?” he responds, as if he doesn’t already know exactly what I’m talking about.
“The glamour. Rumor is you never take it off, not even to sleep.”
“Don’t believe every rumor you hear.”
“I believe this one. Come on, tell me. Are you horribly disfigured?”
“Yes.”
For a moment I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Really?”
“Car accident. I was just a little kid. I’m lucky to be alive. My parents took me to every skin specialist in Anglyon, even to a Thulian bonesetter. But there was only so much they could do.”
He says it all so matter-of-factly, and I feel like a total pillock.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “When I was little, people used to stare at me all the time. Other kids would ask their parents why I was so ugly, only to get shhh’d and hurried away. I get noticed enough being…a Boswell. The glamour…well, people don’t stare anymore.”
Of course. The haughtiness, the ice-cold beauty. It makes you look away. Makes you afraid of him.
I glance around at the faded upholstery and brittle plastic of the Purple Menace and think that maybe I understand Caraway a little better now.
It starts to rain.
The land on either side of the car has sunk, or the road has risen up, I’m not sure. But it feels like we’re flying over a sea of wet, peaty marshland that stretches out in all directions, gray and brown and flat. It feels so empty. I see no birds. No animals. No trees. Nothing except waterlogged grasses and heather.
“Is this the fen?” I ask.
“Not yet,” Caraway replies. “But we’re getting close.”
The sky darkens as evening approaches, and Caraway switches the headlights on. All I can see now is the rushing road disappearing beneath us, illuminated in yellow light. Everything else is dark gray and wet.
Caraway turns off the main road, onto something bumpy and squelching. My stomach churns in anticipation. I’m not sure what I’m getting myself into, but I’ve felt relatively safe inside this ridiculous purple car. I clear my throat and taste muddy water.
“I think this was a bad idea,” I say.
“No shit,” Caraway responds.
“Let’s go, then,” I say, turning to look at the outline of his face in the dark. “Turn the car around and let’s go home.”
He sighs heavily. “If only.”
“Then let me out here,” I say, seized with a sudden urgency. “I’ll hitchhike home. You can blame everything on me, I don’t care.”
“And what about Evans?” Caraway asks softly.
I let out a long, shaking breath. I feel like I’m about to cry. “I don’t know if I can help him,” I say. “So far I’ve just made everything worse.”
Caraway watches the road for a long while. “The string he gave at that first initiation,” he says at last. “It gets turned into a stone. A toadstone. The stone will be placed in a sacred chamber at that final ceremony—the wedding with the Fox Bride. If you can find the stone before that happens, then there’s a chance you can get him out.”
I feel a sudden flare of hope. “Where is it?” I ask. “This stone?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Caraway says. “But I can make an educated guess. I’ll help you.”
I gaze out at the blackness beyond the car. “Why do I get the feeling that we’re about to do something really foolish?” I ask.
“Because we are,” Caraway replies.
6.
It’s properly dark by the time we pull into a gravel parking lot. It’s hard to find a spot for the Purple Menace, so I guess we must be some of the last ones to arrive. We crawl past a long line of sleek, expensive-looking cars, and one battered white van with a little cardboard blacksmith’s hammer hanging from the rear-vision mirror.
Teddy’s van.
We pull up next to the sleek car that belongs to Mr. Gray, and I suddenly taste pond water again.
I climb out of the car and my sneakers sink into several inches of water lying on top of the gravel. I shudder as cold water seeps into my socks. Moisture hangs heavy in the cold air. Everything smells damp and rotten, overlaid with the thick greasy scent of burning fat.
“Welcome to Deepdene,” Caraway says flatly. “It’s pretty awful.”
An insect buzzes past my ear and I bat at it, unsuccessfully.
The village before us is dimly lit by yellow light spilling from windows, and from torches that spit and gutter in the gentle rain. The torches let off a foul-smelling greasy smoke that stains the timber around each one.
“It’s on stilts,” I observe as I take in wooden boardwalks and squat raised buildings, each with low, overhanging eaves to keep the rain from the windows.
“The only way to stop the whole place from sinking into the fen,” Caraway says, and starts off toward the lights.
“Don’t we need to get our bags?” I say.
Caraway waves an airy hand. “Someone will deal with them.”
Of course they will. In Caraway Boswell’s life, someone always deals with the bags. I remember the same haughty tone in his voice on the steps of school, that first day we met, and I remember that I hate him. Somehow this weird, creepy day made me forget. But I’m back now. Caraway Boswell, arrogant git.
He leads me up a few slimy wooden steps and along a boardwalk. The whole town seems to be built this way, branching boardwalks with dwellings leading off each one, all raised about six feet or so above the marshy ground. The houses are small and shabby. In one grimy window, I see two pale-faced children staring out at me, their dark eyes sharp with curiosity.
It’s like we’ve stepped back in time, or into the scary part of a fairy tale, long before the happily ever afters.
“I can’t believe this place exists,” I comment. “It’s like the worst theme park I’ve ever been to. Do people ever come here? Tourists?”
“Of course not,” Caraway replies. “Why would anyone volunteer to come here?”
It’s a fair point.
We approach a larger building—two stories, and spreading out on either side. I can hear raucous voices coming from within, and the whine of a badly played fiddle.
“Pub?” I guess.
Caraway nods and pushes the door open.
The pub smells like sour ale and stale pipe smoke. Fenlanders cluster in groups around grimy tables, clutching tankards and talking with raised voices to be heard over the fiddle player, a sallow-faced woman who approaches her craft with little joy.
The Fenlanders are pale and rather fishy-looking. They all have large, dark eyes and thin stringy hair that hangs limply around their shoulders. Their clothes are made from rough-spun cloth—the women in long skirts and aprons, the men in rough trousers and open-collared shirts. Everything looks old and grimy and spotted with mildew.
I look around for Teddy, but he isn’t here.
Caraway doesn’t even seem to notice the Fenlanders. Of course he doesn’t—his world has no room for people like this. He approaches the bar like he owns the place, and instantly gets the attention of an older man with a grizzled beard, who I assume to be the innkeeper.
“I believe there are rooms booked for me,” Caraway says.
The man pulls out a ledger. “Name,” he says shortly.
“Caraway Boswell.”
The change in the innkeeper is instantaneous. He swallows heavily and puts down his pen. His shoulders curl inward over his chest, like he’s trying to make himself look smaller. He doesn’t look up at us; instead he blinks furiously down at his ledger.
“O’ course, young master. Got the best rooms prepared. Right this way.”
He even bows at Caraway before leading us out of the taproom and down a long, narrow corridor, then up a flight of stairs and out into what passes for fresh air in this place. We follow him across a rather slippery boardwalk and up another flight of stairs to a building with two doors facing us.
“Someone’ll be up with yer bags,” the innkeeper says. “An’ some vittles for ye both.”
He bows again and disappears into the night.
“What now?” I ask as we pause outside the doors. I feel bone-weary, like I’ve been walking all day, instead of sitting on my bum in an admittedly fairly rubbish car. “Is there some kind of ToadCon mixer we have to attend?”
“Not tonight,” says Caraway. “No socializing until we get there tomorrow.”
“Get where, exactly?” I ask, looking out into the darkness. “Is there…a conference center or something nearby? Or are we going to be dancing in our knickers under a full moon, up to our knees in bog water?”
“Something in between,” Caraway says enigmatically, and opens his door. “Just eat your dinner and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is another long day.”
I open my own door and hesitate on the threshold. “Are we safe here?” I ask.
Caraway nods. “Sure. Just don’t leave your room until I come and get you in the morning. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Everything in the room is in muddy shades of brown and green. A reed mat covers the floor. Electric lights flicker weakly in sconces on the walls, and everything smells musty and damp.
A simple single bed sits against one wall, and a small desk against the other. I can see a bathroom with a shower and toilet behind a mossy curtain.
If these are the best rooms in Deepdene, I’d hate to see their budget offerings.
I perch on the edge of the bed. I can hear chirping insects outside, and the drip and slap of water. Muffled voices coming from the pub.
I wonder if Teddy’s nearby.
There’s a knock at my door—a Fenlander with my rucksack, followed by a slight girl carrying a heavy tray, which she places on the desk.
“D’you come alonga we?” she asks, and I blink.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Far?” The girl tries again. “D’you come from far?”
“Oh!” I reply, understanding. “Um, yes, I suppose so.”
Candlecott feels like it’s on the other side of the world. I suddenly miss home, miss Da. I wish he were here, but I’m glad he isn’t.
