The Fork-Tongue Charmers (18 page)

Rye felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart raced with the realization that Slinister was from the Isle of Pest.

“An outcast on his own island, a change came over Slynn,” Waldron continued. “He began sneaking out after dark, sometimes disappearing for days. Once, when he'd been gone for over a week, the Varlets set out in search of him. They finally found him soaked and half-starved at the mouth of the Wailing Cave.” Waldron's jaw tightened. “Slynn wasn't chosen by the Luck Uglies—he'd gone there on his own.”

Waldron came to a stop when they'd reached the top of a ridge. He leaned on his staff.

“They brought him home, and the very next day, we discovered this.”

He pointed down the slope, where the blackened skeleton of a stone house sat in overgrown grass. There was no roof, and its floors and foundation had long since been reclaimed by the isle. Rye shivered. The wind was brisk here as clouds hurried across the sky.

“The Varlets' cottage was left smoldering,” Waldron said. “Burned to the ground . . . with the Varlets still inside.”

Rye's was stunned. “Where was Slinister—I mean, Slynn?”

Waldron shook his head. “The boy was never seen again.”

She stared at the grim remains.

“There was one more thing,” Waldron said. “When
a Belonger hurried through the ashes to search for him, he found something on the wall. A symbol scrawled in ash. I remember it clearly—because I was that Belonger.”

“What was it?” Rye asked breathlessly.

“A black four-leaf clover. The mark of the Luck Uglies.”

The Ragged Clover
, Rye thought.

The story chilled her into silence. Although she knew the Luck Uglies came from dark pasts, she'd never heard such details.

“It was only then that we recalled the curse that Annis had hurled on them the day they banished her,” Waldron continued. “She'd promised that one day her son would grow up and find her. And together they would make all the Belongers pay for their wrongs.”

Rye wanted to mention her encounters with Slinister. She wanted to confide in her grandfather about the troubles in Drowning and the growing rift between the Luck Uglies and Fork-Tongue Charmers. But that would mean talking about Harmless, and she pictured Waldron's clenched fist as he spoke of wringing the necks of serpents—and Luck Uglies.

“Did . . .
Slynn
ever come back to Pest?” she asked instead. In her pocket, her fingers grazed the cold stone she'd collected from the sill.

Waldron shook his head. “No, and none of his kind have ever returned since Bramble left High Isle.” He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You are old enough to make your own decisions about the Luck Uglies, Riley. But before you do, you need to hear the real stories. Not just the myths and legends.”

Rye averted her eyes from the scorched cottage.

“And what became of Black Annis?” she asked.

“It's said she's still out there on the most remote of the Lower Isles.” Waldron cast his own eyes toward the sea. “Woe betide the unlucky man who finds himself marooned on the Isle of Black Annis.”

The stone was icy in her palm. She thought of Slinister and Bramble, of other boys of Pest who'd joined the ranks of the Luck Uglies. Were they once so different from Hendry and Rooster?

“Waldron,” Rye asked in a near whisper, “you said Slynn Varlet wasn't chosen by the Luck Uglies. How were the sons of Pest selected?”

Waldron shook his head. “Nobody knows why some were picked over others. But late at night, when all was quiet, a black stone would be left where only the Luck Uglies' chosen boy could find it. On a doorstep, or in a shoe.”

Rye stiffened.
Or perhaps outside a window?

“That's how he knew it was time to say his
good-byes,” Waldron added.

Her hand clenched around the stone. This time, her heart pounded so hard she couldn't even hear the rest of Waldron's words.

“Y
ou really think Slinister could have followed you here?” Quinn asked Rye skeptically.

He hurried along with Rye and Folly toward a low-lying meadow not far from Wick Harbor.

“I don't know, Quinn. Did you and Folly put this on the sill?”

Rye held up the black stone for him to see again. She had already explained how she'd found identical stones on Silvermas and again in the Shambles, and told them everything Waldron had said about the Wailing Cave and Black Annis.

“Of course not,” Quinn replied.

“Does it seem like the type of trick my mother would play?”

Quinn pursed his lips. “She did throw my shoes in the bog after I tracked in the cowplop, but I don't think she was trying to be funny.”

“And yet it seems like
someone
on Pest wants me to go to the Wailing Cave.”

“Slinister could have come back here any time. Why follow
you
?” Quinn asked.

“He thinks Harmless took something from him . . . and that I know where it is.”

“Well . . . ,” Quinn said. He and Folly flashed Rye dubious glances. They had both grown fond of Harmless, but they'd heard enough about him to know that Slinister's accusation wasn't out of the question.

“No,” Rye said, guessing their thoughts. “If he stole something, I know nothing about it.”

The meadow came into view around a bend.

“I still think the wind could have blown that stone onto the sill,” Folly suggested.

“It's just like the ones I found in Drowning,” Rye countered. “Did the wind blow them across the ocean?”

“Stones are stones,” Quinn said, still unconvinced. “If you've seen one, you've seen them all.”

He had a point. Rye had skipped her share of rocks across puddles, even off the helmets of some particularly
rude soldiers one or twice. She hardly ever took much notice of them, but that was exactly what made these stones so unusual.

“If you're so concerned,” Quinn said, “shouldn't we tell your mother?”

Rye had already thought about that. “Not just yet,” she replied. “She needs to spend her time with Waldron now. You might be right, this could all be nonsense. But you know her—if she catches even a whiff of trouble we'll spend the rest of our time here locked up at the farm.”

They had already spent most of the day helping Abby and Knockmany patch the farmhouse's tattered roof and chase mice from its walls. It was late afternoon and only now were they able to go find their new friends in Wick.

Rye repocketed the stone. “There's only one way to find out for sure.”

“Uh-oh,” Quinn said. “And what is that?”

“We go find out what—or who—is in the cave.”

“We don't even know how to get there,” he pointed out.

“No, but I bet some Belongers do . . .”

They arrived at the edge of the grassy field, where they were greeted by a raucous chorus of squawks and grunts. Rye blinked her eyes in disbelief. The grassland
was filled with hundreds of the strangest birds she had ever seen. The black-and-white feathered creatures were smaller than chickens, and waddled about calling madly with their oversize orange-and-blue beaks. A large group of talkative Belonger children marched away from the flock, making their way back to Wick. Rye spotted Hendry, Rooster, and Padge among them.

“I almost had it,” Rooster was saying, with a shake of his head.

Hendry consoled him. “There's always next year.”

“More practice,” Rooster sighed.

“Rye!” Hendry called, catching sight of them. “You missed the Puffin Hunt!”

A bird scurried between Rye's legs and looked up at her expectantly.

“They're so cute,” Folly said, reaching down to pet it before it bobbled away on its bright, webbed feet.

Rye looked at the innocent-looking creatures, none of whom appeared the slightest bit fearsome. “You hunt these little things?” Rye asked. “I don't think I'd want any part of that.”

“Not exactly,” Hendry said.

Rye noticed a fishing line strung with the well-picked bones of several large fish. Inexplicably, it was tucked down the back of Rooster's trousers.

“Every spring, while the adults are at the Pull, we
have a Puffin Hunt,” Hendry explained. “Contestants stuff fish in their britches . . . then run. The last one to keep his fish wins.” Hendry gave Rooster a slap on the back. “Don't worry about it, Rooster. That little Fisher girl came out of nowhere. Who'd have guessed she was so fast?”

“
I
did, you just didn't listen to me,” Padge said.

Rye and her friends joined the Belonger children on their way back to Wick. Her hand dipped into her pocket again, fumbling with the stone.

“Hendry,” Rye called ahead. “Do you think you could show us around the island?”

“Sure,” he replied over his shoulder. “It's getting late, but tomorrow we could hike up to the north shore—it's got a great view of the Lower Isles. Or maybe the cliffs where the seabirds nest . . .”

“I could show you how we clean the gears of the waterwheel,” Rooster chimed in enthusiastically.

“Nobody's interested in that, Rooster,” Hendry said.

“That would be great,” Rye said, “but I thought, first, maybe we could go see . . . the Wailing Cave?”

Hendry and Rooster both stopped abruptly.

“I don't know about that,” Hendry said. Rye thought she heard a touch of nerves in his normally confident voice.

“It could be fun,” she added, trying to sound convincing.

Quinn and Folly glanced at Rye, then each other. They knew she was interested in more than just sightseeing.

Hendry furrowed his brow. “It's a bit far. And with the Pull, I've got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow,” he said unconvincingly.

Rye frowned. “I understand. Maybe we'll try to find it ourselves.”

“No, don't go alone,” Hendry said quickly. “I mean, it's too easy to get lost.” He seemed to weigh a decision, then sighed. “We'll take you. Come find us in the morning. But please don't be too late. We'll want to be back well before dark.”

Rooster gave him a wary look, and the two boys resumed walking. They all followed.

Rye smiled to herself. After a few paces, she was stopped by a tug on her sleeve.

“What are you looking for in the Wailing Cave?” Padge whispered.

Rye hesitated. “I'm not sure,” she answered honestly.

“Come on, Rye,” Padge said. “You can tell me. After all, my grandmother was your mother's mother's cousin.”

Rye just shook her head, stumped again by the muddled reference. “I really don't know. It's just—”

“I had a dream,” Padge interrupted excitedly. Rye paused to indulge her. Having a discussion with the little girl was like trying to paint a live dragonfly.

“About you,” Padge added.

Rye raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded. “You were alone. On a rock in the middle of the sea. The tide was rising . . .”

That doesn't sound promising
, Rye thought. “What happened?”

Padge pinched her lips and studied Rye closely with her round eyes.

“I like you, Rye, even if you're not the sharpest hook in the tackle box,” she said finally. “So try to stay away from rocks in the middle of the sea.”

The little girl gave Rye a smile before heading after the others, her long hair flowing behind her bare feet like a cape.

Rye looked out at the endless waves stretching off into the distance. It seemed that just one arbitrary roar of the ocean could make them all disappear in an instant. Padge might as well have told her to eat with her mouth shut, or paint with her toes.

Rye collapsed on her straw pallet after their busy day. Tomorrow's trek would be a long one. Quinn moved to the window.

“Just in case,” he said, latching it firmly shut. “So we don't end up with another stone.”

“Not a bad idea,” Rye agreed.

Folly hurried into their shared room.

“Take off your boots,” she said eagerly.

“What?” Rye asked.

“Your boots,” Folly repeated. “Take them off. I have something for your feet.”

Rye pulled off a boot and shook out the straw. The leather soles had grown even more ragged. Folly held out a bowl filled with a grayish-white paste.

“What is that?” Rye said.

Folly's blue eyes shone. “Fungus for your fungus.”

Rye crinkled her nose as Folly slathered it between her toes. “It stinks.”

“No worse than your skunk foot,” Folly said, working some into Rye's heels. “I made it from the mushrooms we found in the fields. They're popping up everywhere—the island's littered with them. Of course, I didn't have all of my potion-making supplies. I wish I had my Alchemist's Bone . . .”

Folly paused to examine her work.

“There,” she said. “How do they feel?”

“Like I stepped in sap.”

“Do they still itch?” Folly asked.

Rye paused. “No . . .” She grimaced. “Now they burn. Ow! Folly, get it off!”

“That means it's working.”

“No it doesn't . . . Quinn, get some water, quick!”

Rye waved her feet in the air trying to cool them.

Quinn hurried off and returned with a ceramic jug.

“Rye, you're being a bit dramatic,” Folly said.

Quinn splashed the water on her feet.

“Did that help?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Give it a chance,” Folly said, frowning. “Sleep on it. Maybe they'll feel better in the morning.”

They all settled into their bedding, Rye leaving her feet dangling out of the blankets to cool them in the air. Quinn extinguished the lantern.

“Rye,” he called from the dark. “You're glowing!”

“What?”

She opened her eyes and her hands immediately went to her choker. But it wasn't her runestones. A greenish glow came from her feet, lighting the room.

“Folly,” she fumed. “What did you do to me?”

Quinn laughed.

“It must be the mushrooms,” Folly said, laughing too. “I'll have to remember that for my potions.”

“Not funny.”

Folly and Quinn stifled their giggles. Rye turned over and shut her eyes, trying to fall asleep.

“Rye,” Quinn whispered.

“Yes?”

“I can't sleep with the lights on. Can you please put out your feet?”

Folly and Quinn both giggled. Rye grumbled and put her pillow over her head. But she found herself smiling too, and, for the moment, pushed her concerns about the black stone out of her mind.