King of the Woodlands

Chapter 11

What am I doing what am I doing

Lilibeth tiptoed across the cold marble floors on bare feet, silent as a wraith on the wind. She could still hear the wise old grandfather clock, pecking away at the time like a crow shattering the air with its harsh calls.

She made it to the empty dining hall, gobbled down a frosted blueberry cream cheese pastry, half a loaf of bread, and a bowl of sweet cream garnished with house-made honeycomb.

The grandfather clock kept on ticking, its hands tapping along to a beat only they could hear. Lilibeth couldn't stand it anymore, so she approached it.

It was beautiful, carved of lacquered spruce wood. Inside the glass casing lay the clock and a gleaming moon dial, the weights and pendulum wrought of darkest gold. The finial spun frantically like a loose top. Such ornate things could only be crafted in the Black Islands, home to the finest artists in the world.

"Time!" it cried in a prim voice. "Hours, minutes, seconds! People come and unfairly go; greed may bend and scrape at your feet, cruel master, but time serves no man!"

Lilibeth knelt down, her heart pounding. "What?" she whispered, her voice nothing more than a faint tendril of sound.

The ticking grew louder, faster. "Nightmares and daydreams, nightdreams and daymares, must things in this strange world align?"

"Does everyone in this place speak fluent riddle?" Lilibeth said huffily.

"Oh, no, my dear girl," the clock said in its posh, refined voice. Undoubtedly of Black Island make, then. "You must not look back, or time will end you. Another day comes, dawn tracing the horizon with bloody fingers."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, cruel fate," it mused. "If he gives up, won't he miss the little things like fresh laundry, or the smell of air after rain?"

Lilibeth still didn't have a clue what this strange old clock was rambling on about. He was probably more dramatic than she, his words swooping and diving like an eagle on an updraft. "He? You mean the Woodland King?" she breathed.

"The overlord of our realm," the grandfather clock cried. "With a heart blacker than a pirate's sails. This is his fault; all of it is. The stars quake and the world rattles."

"And what do you think you're doing?" a midnight voice chimed in.

Lilibeth froze. Her head emptied out as fear—pure, undiluted fear, slammed into her.

Fierce as a spring storm, the Woodland King appeared in the room, his bat-like wings spread wide. Moonlight stained his charcoal scales.

"Going somewhere?" 

"Midnight snack," Lilibeth said quickly.

The clock trembled and blurred, the minute and hour hands spiraling out of control and ticking like there was no tomorrow. Sparks danced in the glass casing, and Lilibeth heard a crow shriek and shriek and shriek—

In place of the grandfather clock there was a great scarecrow, its eyes glowing green. It wore the roughspun clothing and cobalt overalls of a farmer, tunic sleeves rolled up to reveal arms of twisted straw. The buckles on his dusty boots were bigger than Lilibeth's fists. It held a pitchfork in one hand, and around its head circled a group of cawing crows. Ironic.

The scarecrow bared its black, rotted teeth, which were nothing more than stumps—as if it had gnawed on too many bones. Click, click, click went its yellowed, cracked fingernails, scraping against each other like knives-

Lilibeth screamed as the scarecrow pointed its pitchfork at her head. A murder of crows swooped down in a black smudge, still cawing and shrieking harshly, flying over her.

Fast as a bolt of lightning, the Woodland King tore into the scarecrow. Brittle tufts of hay and straw snapped like twigs beneath those lethal claws, and the scarecrow fell apart. The black birds fled, taking to the skies through an open window.

For a moment, there was only silence. Lilibeth was wheezing as if she'd run a mile, her lungs burning. He'd saved her life, she thought, but her gratitude turned to shame. She'd been so stupid.

Blood, smooth and black as oil, dripped from a cut on the Woodland King's hind leg, shining in the moonlight. 

"Human fool," he snarled at Lilibeth. Her pride smarted, and she steamed at the ears, but he was right. What she'd done had been foolish, and he'd just saved her. She hadn't even thought he cared. "What were you doing out of your room?"

"You took my father!" she burst out before she could think, the words tearing from her without restraint. "You're the Woodland King, for gods' sakes. I can't be blamed for not being able to sleep easy knowing that you could—could eat me!"

"Eat a child? Like a tyrant? I would do no such thing."

"Liar!" Lilibeth shouted, stomping her foot. "You enslave humans! You deserve whatever end you meet at fate's hands!"

No—she'd gone too far. His eyes were like silver fire. She took a step back, ducking a fisted hand behind her.

With one last growl, he stalked off. She followed him with her eyes.

Lilibeth wasn't supposed to care, but he'd saved her life. It felt wrong to leave him like that, even though he was a monster. But he'd still rescued her, and she was beholden to him, even though she and her pride didn't like that.

So she followed him anyways.

✥

Rolls of gauze dressings, a pair of shears, and various cloth bandages were set on the floor of the Woodland King's trove. It was a spacious room, built like a cathedral with its domed ceiling of teal glass. The legendary treasure trove she'd heard about in stories was a large mound of gold coins and jewels, a sword's hilt peeking out.

Lilibeth approached cautiously, carefully. The Woodland King sat with his back to her, charcoal wings tucked tightly in. He turned his head slightly when he approached, and she caught a hint of silver.

"Come to gloat?" he said, and another thorn of guilt pricked her side.

"Thank you," she managed, swallowing her pride. The words hurt coming out.

He turned back around. To Lilibeth, he just looked like a knight wounded in battle, but hiding his hurt from everyone. In a way, he was like her, marching on, keeping his head high. It made her feel less alone, even though no pretty words would ever disguise the fact that he was a monster who had taken her father away from her.

But if she hadn't come for Father . . . she shuddered violently. She had come, and that was all that mattered. She had been brave.

She picked up the heavy metal shears, turning them around in her fingers. The Woodland King's fraying bandages were stained black and needed changing, and lucky for her, there were strips of rough cloth already laid out by a healer.

Helping him was the least she could do after he'd saved her life.

"Where do we start?" she said, the metal of the shears cold in her hand.