All this occurred when Stars were plentiful (for more on the disappearance of the Stars, see The True Histories of Ulv, Vol. VI, “Stars and Other Celestial Objects Your Parents Told You Were Myths but Are, in Fact, Real”), and the wish-mining trade grew until it was the most profitable business in the land. Until the Stars vanished, of course.
Rumors persist that a small number of wishes remain, stored in glass jars and sold to the very, very rich, but this is likely—dare I say it—wishful thinking.
Chapter Two
Bo woke when he felt a boot digging into his stomach.
“Get up, you lazy lump,” grumbled Mads, the owner of the boot. “It’s market day. Wood’s not going to sell itself.”
Bo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d shivered half the night to the sounds of Shadow Creatures prowling outside, louder and closer than usual. Of course, Mads burned a candle throughout the night—without it, the hut would become Dark and the Shadow Creatures could find a way in. But it didn’t stop Bo’s fears: What if the Light blew out? What if the Shadow Creatures found a way in regardless?
When Bo had finally fallen asleep just before dawn he had dreamed of the tree, of the trunk bursting open and a horde of Shadow Creatures pouring out to eat him alive.
Bo sat up and looked blearily at the small, dank space around him: four wooden walls, an open fire, a cot where Mads slept, and a bucket for the kind of business it’s not polite to talk about. Bo slept on the floor.
A lick of morning Light teased the corner of Bo’s blanket. He wondered how early it was, if he had time to run to the center of the forest and tend to that beastly old tree before market. He glanced at Mads’s cot in the corner of the hut, where, underneath, there was a box containing the gold-red powder he needed. But how was he to get hold of it without Mads knowing?
“Up, up, up,” growled Mads as he plonked onto the edge of the cot to tie his boots.
Bo tried to stand but there was a dead weight on his feet where Nix slept. “Get up, you lazy lump,” he said. The fox opened one eye but did not move.
Mads stood, tossing a knob of bread and cheese into Bo’s lap. “Eat. Be quick about it.”
Mads was a tall man, tall and thick and knobby and gray. And grumpy. But Bo was thankful the woodcutter had taken him in when his mother had dumped him. He’d been a scrawny, bawling, stinking little mite in soiled sheets with a note pinned to his shift.
“What did the note say?” he’d asked Mads once.
“That your father’s dead and your mother never wanted you. Now don’t go asking more questions or it’ll be slop duty for a month,” the old man had replied.
As long as Bo completed his chores, Mads fed him and gave him shelter.
Bo wriggled out from under Nix. The fox stretched, shaking out his fur. Bo rolled his thin mattress tightly and stowed it away, then he halved his bread and cheese, sharing them with Nix. He chewed loudly, eyeing the shadowy space beneath the cot. He had nothing to fear from the shadows during the Light, when they were harmless once more. But if Bo couldn’t get his hands on the box hidden there, and Mads found out he didn’t take care of the tree yesterday . . .
Bo flinched as the old man snapped, “We’re late.” Mads shrugged on his coat and hid his wild tufts of silvery hair beneath a felt cap. It was morning and already the stench of lindberry beer clung to him. “No time for staring into space, you useless boy.”
Bo swallowed the last of his breakfast and followed Mads to the door.
The tree would have to wait.
* * *
The village of Squall’s End was a coil of pearly white huts nestled in the Valley of Stropp in the province of Irin. A narrow road led from a forest in the northwest, where Bo lived, down into the village.
Mads hauled a cart stacked high with wood along the gravel road. Bo hurried along behind, stumbling on the hem of his hooded cloak, three sizes too big.
The Light was pale as it peeked above the first quadrant. Bo yawned.
“Keep up,” said Mads.
Bo looked back at Nix, trotting behind him. “He means you.”
Nix barked.
“Does too.”
The road grew narrower as it entered the village. Whitewashed huts huddled in curved rows, crowding the edge of the road. Villagers were up and about, unlocking the heavy doors and window shutters that protected them against Shadow Creatures.
“How dare you step foot in this village,” sneered a hunched old lady. She was bashing a rolling pin against a rug slung over a washing line, the dust mushrooming into the air around her. Bo coughed, tugging at the edge of his hood, pulling it farther over his face. Maybe she isn’t talking to me, he thought. But the old lady spat at Bo’s feet as he passed, leaving him in no doubt. “The Shadow Creatures were in a state last night, thanks to you,” she said. “Howling and scratching and screeching. My best rosebushes wilted and died. It’s all your fault, Devil-child.” Bash, bash, bash. “You lead them into the village, don’t you? Looking for innocents to devour!”
A flush of bitter heat rushed through him. He turned away before the old lady could see the wetness in his eyes, but her words burrowed under his skin and pricked him all over like a thousand stikenbee stings.
“Pay her no mind,” said Mads, the wheels of the cart croaking and groaning as he ambled on. “Superstitious claptrap.”
Bo hurried to catch up, leaving the sneering woman and her cloud of dust behind. “It was bad last night, though, wasn’t it?” said Bo.
Mads sniffed.
“The Shadow Creatures, I mean,” continued Bo. “They were making a racket. I could hardly sleep. I thought they were going to break the walls down. It’s never been like that before.”
Mads looked skyward. “Some nights are worse than others,” he said before shaking his head and speeding up. “Come now,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re late.”
The road spiraled inward until it reached the village square, which wasn’t a square at all but a large paved circle in the center of town. Most stalls were already set up, laden with fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, breads, and sweets. Only Mads sold wood; no other villager dared set foot near the haunted forest, let alone inside it. That was why they were so terrified of him; that, and his hulking size and ready fists. Bo hoped to one day be as tall as Mads—perhaps then the villagers would leave him alone too.
“Here comes the Devil-man and his Devil-child,” muttered the baker as Bo passed, and a small child leaning against his mother’s legs looked up at Bo with wide eyes.
“It’s the Devil-child,” the young boy whispered to his mother. “He’s come to eat me!” The child’s bottom lip trembled as he gripped his mother’s skirt. Bo pressed his lips together, tugging the hood over his face as the mother hurried her child away. But the cloak felt as if it had shrunk, leaving Bo vulnerable to every jeer, every stare, every hiss. He did not think there was a cloak big enough to hide him from the villagers and their hate.
Bo dragged his feet after Mads, who had set the cart in their usual spot on the very edge of the market square.
Mads pulled out his sign—WOOD FOR SALE—and leaned it against the wheel of the cart. He pulled down a large stump for a seat, threw his hat on the ground to collect the money, and sat, arms folded, glowering at the villagers, as if daring them to come close.