Quen Nim (5 page)

The hutter strolled the few paces to where the cartjagger stood and asked, “What can I do to help?”

“Hold this here tight while I go around and pull. I'm not good at knots. I looped under instead of over, silly lackwit that I am sometimes. I can never remember. Over or under? Over or under? It's over! Over! Over!” gabbed the cartjagger, adjusting his char black apron and heading for the far side of the cart.

The smiling hutter was left clutching a strand rope which went over the tarp covering the bulge of the vedling cart's contents. He felt a tug and held tight.

“What do you think of all the prince and Princess kafuffle?” called the cartjagger, making conversation. The smiling hutter felt tug, tug, tug.

“What do you think of it?” the hutter tossed the question back.

“Oh, my, well, don't you know? I'm all ready to go, and then this. Well, a cartjagger's job is a cartjagger's job. Hurry up and wait, we always say. We always say that. Mind you, it turns out to be a fortune of luck for me, don't you know? I should have been properly shamed, buried in it, if the Queeeeeeeeeeeeeeen's root collection had gone a spilling all over the road because I can't remember whether it's over or under. There! Tightly drawn! Solid! That got it! Give it a good tug over there to make certain.”

The hutter tugged. The rope was snug. Around came the cartjagger, nodding his thanks.

“Well then, I'll be ready tomorrow when the snapjaw Princess arrives with the Blossom Prince. I wonder how many ‘e's she'll take in her Queen? What do you think?” commented the cartjagger.

“Couldn't say, couldn't know, couldn't care. I'm off. Luck with your blooms,” said the hutter in a disinterested manner, and he gave a careless salute and strode off.

“Strange sort of a hutter,” murmured the cartjagger, turning again to his vedling cart. “Not at all talkative. Luck with my blooms?”

The afternoon sun dipped low to the verge of sunk when the softly smiling hutter made his way across the drawbridge and out into the fields of oats. He peered up at Cloud Castle City and narrowed his eyes at the bright blush of the sinking sun's gold reflection. Such was so.

What fun, he thought. All this delay because of me, Mother's little weed. Oh, I would have loved to see it when Dral announced that I was gone. And the note. The first clue. I wonder how that went. So they think she'll find me, do they? We'll see how well she follows a blossom of obscure clues. We'll see whose snapjaw mind is the more perfect flower. Mine! Mine because no one save Dral and Riffle Sike knows that I have one. I hide mine. She flaunts hers. Advantage? Me! Ah, night, hurry. I itch like ivy to plant the second clue.

She can't have missed the first one. It of course led her astray to Clover, as I knew it would. She'll realize her mistake. And then she'll fly here, but I'll be gone, always one jump ahead. How can anyone know that I have Riffle Sike's Cap of Cloak? No one knew HE had it. Not even a snapjaw mind can know the unknown. Well, Princess, come and get me if you can. If you find me, I'll gladly be Kig Zootch of the Boad, All Fidd and Leee Combined.

The softly smiling hutter hurried through the oats to a small tricklestream. He sat himself beside it, dropping out of sight below the tall grassy grains. He removed the invisible Cap of Cloak. The softly smiling hutter became Blossom Royalty. Flash of battered silver garb. Sheen of pummeled gold boots. The Blossom Prince drank from the tricklestream. Soon he would plant the second clue.

Chapter Fourteen

A Night in Clover

Motty slept, seated, head slumped forward, tongue lolling, in a perfect grassy cup of a depression on the side of a Clover hill above Sadlar's Gardens. Delighted to find so such a spot, she'd performed what was to Nimble Missst a ridiculous gyrating dance of hollowite silliness. The moons, Jeth and Jith, both of ‘em fair nearly full, lit the landscape mysterious blue with black shadows. How many times had Nimble Missst floated as green wisps under so such similar moonslight? Multiples of many. Was it not truly one of her favorite joys to mist over mountains under full moons? It was. This night, howsoever, was different. She struggled to untangle a knot of a problem. Yes, she drifted as a green mist cloud over the hills of Clover. Yes, she twined over the Greenwilla River and seeped among Sadlar's blooms. And all during this long night's span of time, instead of enjoying the mystery of the moonslight, she struggled to untangle the knot of the missing Blossom Prince.

Start over. Yes, start over, she thought deep in the night, fair true near the dawn. Line things up one at a time. The fleckrunner came out and said, ‘He ran off.' Two letters in ‘He'. Three in ‘ran'. Three in ‘off'. Two, three, three. Two and three make five plus three is eight. Eight. Ate? Posh! Nothing. Nothing there. Move on. It has to be the note. I thought the oat parchment itself. I sought complication, ignored simplicity. Ridiculous of me. The words, not the paper. The words were ‘I am afraid of her. Good-bye. Zootch. p.s. Sorry.' First letter of each word … I … a … a … o … h … g … z … p … s. Mmmmmmm … nothing. Last letters … y … s … h … e … r … f … d … m … i. Much more promising. What's the code? Hmmmmm … a bit of juggling. Let's see … my red fish? No. fred mishy? Ridiculous. Shy firmed? Odd, but meaningless. Dry fimshy? She my frid? Oh! Oh!

Oh, she felt she was close. She tattered and churned, writhed in wisps among Sadlar's flowers. Dawn crept into the sky. The mysterious light and shadows dissolved from the landscape, leaving it there as ever it was when ready to greet the morning. Motty lurched, thrown wide awake by a dream of falling. Nimble Missst stood at the crest of the hill looking down at her.

“It was too ridiculously simple,” said Nimble Missst. “I gave him too much credit by analyzing the note's oat parchment. The words were of course the key. He's not afraid of me. I knew that was ridiculous. He has simply challenged me to a contest of wits! Ridiculous! He thinks that he can outwit me. Ridiculous! Well, true, he almost did, but that was only because I jumped too deep. The answer is always on the surface. Oh, how I would like it if a puzzle some day could take me truly deep, really test me. Silly Prince. So simple. Get up. Let's go.”

“And a pleasant good morning to you, too, and did you sleep well, dream fondly, Nimby Nim Nim? You say he is simple. Then why are we here?” sang Motty, stretching her arms, then each of her six legs in turn.

“Because I gave him too much credit. I told ye! Probably deep down I hoped he was smart,” said Nimble Missst. “Come. Get up.”

“Where? Why? Am I to know or to simply fly?” sang Motty.

“I'll tell ye if ye must know,” snorted Nimble Missst, truly so such eager to share her snapjaw mind solution of the puzzle clue with ridiculous old Motty the hollowite. “Simple. The last letter of each word in the note when gathered together made a jumble. Ridiculously easy it was to unjumble and find revealed the prince's hiding place. I do wonder, though, how he learned so much about the oat fields surrounding the Castle of the Boad, All Fidd and Leee Combined if truly he has never been there. I still have a strange sense of suspicion that Riffle Sike somehow has his minty hands in this. Thrust that aside for later. So, true tell, the unjumble is ‘fid rhymes'. Do ye see how simple?”

Motty smiled and blinked to show she didn't see.

“Ridiculous,” said Nimble Missst. “'fid' means Fidd, the oat fields. ‘rhymes' means a hutter's conical cottage where they sing their ridiculous rhyming songs. We'll start at the cottage nearest the Castle. I suppose he'll be in some sort of disguise. Whatever it is, I'll see through it!”

“I've had good times with hutter rhymes,” sang Motty happily.

Nimble Missst waved Motty up impatiently, fairly flapping her wings in the hollowite's face. They took to the sky and sped north, leaving Clover and the Greenwilla River behind.

Chapter Fifteen

A Clue Left at Dawn

At the self and same time, Zootch descended the rungladder from the guest cone room at the top of a hutter's striped green and white conical cottage. He had overslept. What he meant to do was slip away shortly after his hutter hosts went to bed, but the nonstop sleepless excitement and planning of the previous two days tripped him into unexpected slumber. With the Cap of Cloak firmly invisible on his head, Zootch reached the bottom floor. He couldn't resist taking from the platter on the round oaken table a wedge of ladgecake left over from the feast the hutters served him the night before. He poured himself a bowl of mollywater and quietly sipped it as he thought.

Didn't know I was that tired. Didn't know ladgecake tasted that good. Riffle Sike was right about hutters. What hosts! Jolly songs. Recitations. Feats of nimbleness. Harmony rhymes. Rhymes … hmmmmm. Did she solve it yet? I'd best hurry and plant this next clue. No time to wait for surprise petals to open. Sun'll be up soon. Mmmmmm … ladgecake. If I was Kig, I'd have it every day.

The Blossom Prince in the guise of hutter, tell true thanks to the Cap of Cloak, dropped to one knee, shoved a shoulder under the oaken table and pushed up, lifting one side of the table atilt. He carefully placed a folded slip of oat parchment beneath the nearest elevated table leg and slowly lowered his shoulder until the table once more stood solidly on the floor. The clue was hidden completely, not even a speck of corner or edge protruding from under the table leg.

“What's the trouble, young hutter? Did you lose something?” a concerned kindly voice called down from the rungladder hole in the ceiling which was so such also in fact the rungladder hole in the floor of the kitchen.

“Oh, no, no concern, didn't want to wake you after all that fine harvest of feast and that splendid crop of entertainment you and your family grafted onto my mind's stem of fond memories,” said Zootch in a voice just that much above a whisper. “I have a long road to travel. I'm eager to be home.”

“At the veriest least take a jar of palmpear compote and a flask of mollywater,” insisted the hutter Mother, for indeed it was she descending the rungladder with hutter agility and balance, using legs alone, her hands occupied one with a flask, one with a jar.

These she handed to Zootch, who accepted ‘em with a smile and a bow. Inside, he praised himself for the snapjaw decision he'd made to wear the Cap of Cloak whenever there appeared even the slightest chance he might be seen. This was one of those times. Slightest chance occurred. He might have been seen.

“Many thanks to you and your husband hutter and daughter hutter and son hutters, Mother hutter,” he said. “If ever one or any of you wander near the Outerest Orchards close to Danken Wood, we would blossom to entertain you. My brother hutter makes the cleverest gadapple pie.”

Zootch bowed again and backed to the door. The Mother hutter stood in a pose of farewell. Opening the door, the prince bowed out. He turned and marched east through the oats. East through the oats was where he wasn't going, but he wanted the hutters to think it so such. He marched until the sun threw long shadows on the new morning. He looked back over his shoulder and saw in the distance only the tip of the green and white conical cottage. Satisfied, he stepped from the path and into the tall grassy oats. He took the Cap of Cloak from his head. His hair took on a curl. His nose widened and flattened noticeably. His chin squared. His cheeks filled out with a perceivable slightness. His fingers lengthened. His battered silver tunic and leggers glistened in the sun. He kicked a circle flat with his pummeled gold boots and sat at its center, cross-legged. He closed his eyes, raised the Cap of Cloak high over his head, and murmured the words he had been taught by Riffle Sike. Flash. Puff. There in the oat fields was an empty flattened circle.

Chapter Sixteen

Nimby Mists

Nimble Missst and Motty soared above the fields of oats. Nimby darted left, right, indecisive.

“Make up your mind, little Nim. I don't swerve as well as I did ago, ago, ago,” sang Motty, skidding with a flutter of flapping, throwing her legs this way and that.

“I can't think clearly and wing fly. I need to seep. Follow me down. I'll drift low in the oat grass,” said Nimble Missst, and straightaway she shimmered to green cloud and sank to the fields.

Motty, thankful for a span of time to rest her stubby yellow wings, dropped heavily plomp by a meandering tricklestream and sent out her tongue to loll in the water. Nimble Missst fair crept along the ground, slicing in wisps through the thickly growing grain. Her snapjaw mind worked best when seeping low through moist undergrowth.

Ah, better, she thought. A crystal sheet of shining clarity. Analysis. Organization. Which of the conical cottages holds the clue? Disguised as a hutter he was, of course. An overnight stay hosted by Fidd hutters, but where? Hundreds of cottages to choose from. Which would a Blossom Prince select? This Blossom Prince, this Zootch, was born and raised by ridiculous parents in a land of summer green and winter white. Amazing changeover, that. A thing to see. A wonder. One moment, green the leaves, glorious the blossoms, and the next moment, white leaves, white blossoms, white of white. Truly, a wonder. Summer to winter. Winter to summer. Ever has it been thus and so. Simple. He chose a green and white hutter cottage. He was compelled to do so. He did so. Now, which of the green and white? There might be a dozen or more. Near the Castle? Or far? I think … near. I … ah, Motty!”

Nimble Missst twined her way to Motty and curled up to jell standing beside the relaxing hollowite. Motty, her tongue still lolling in the tricklestream, tilted her head and winked merrily at Nimby.

“Ridiculous. Put your tongue away! Why are ye winking? Don't answer! Just listen!” lectured the impatient Princess. “Green and white striped hutter cottage. Ye know one near the Castle, don't ye?”